tag:deeblair.com,2005:/blogs/weekly-column?p=36Weekly column2019-08-31T23:37:21-04:00Dee Blairfalsetag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/58768062019-08-31T23:37:21-04:002023-12-10T11:57:35-05:009/01/19: Dear Readers<p><span class="font_large">Dear readers, </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe, Bryn and I are hosting another week-long gathering of family from various parts of this great country. As I am deeply involved in the lives of Bryn, toddlers, a 3-day family wedding, horses, hikes, bike trips, my secret garden, my next book, music, big, creative meals seasoned with lots of laughter, I find myself too spent to pen coherent columns, or even republish older ones (which take nearly as long to prepare as an original). </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So, I’m going to stop writing for a while. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It’s my first <i>total</i> pen pause in nearly 15 years. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I hope you’ll keep me on your list: one Sunday down the road I’ll pop up again to offer another adventure starring fascinating animals and their delightful people. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">You are so appreciated! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Cheers, </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dee</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/58691772019-08-25T00:07:56-04:002021-09-01T04:36:25-04:008/26/19: An Iron Stunner<p><span class="font_large">Many people touring Sunnybank’s secret garden this year have commented on the decorative cast iron fence that frames the front garden and house, so I thought I’d relate again how it came to be here. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> <br>A crisp autumn day over a quarter-century ago found me driving to a farmhouse estate sale in the mid-Michigan’s Saginaw Valley area. I’m a scrounger; most of the architectural decorations I cherish were salvaged from various yard and estate sales, or rescued from junk piles in the U.S. and in England, an adventure that has spanned 50 years.) <br> <br>What an extraordinary place it was! The entire farmhouse leaned evenly, as though all its. support beams had given up on the same day. Sun and wind <br>had scoured off every scrap of exterior paint years ago, but I thought it retained a certain glum dignity. <br> <br>The sale was in the weedy, parched back yard, which changed to untilled fields. After a quick inspection of the farm’s big, tired equipment and the house’s dusty interior, I realized I’d traveled a long way for nothing. The meager furniture was long past exhaustion; dishes and vases were faded and chipped...There was no point in staying for the auctioneer’s patter. <br>Reluctant to face the long drive home just yet, though, I decided to explore the rest of the property. <br> <br>There were two decrepit outbuildings. Peering through each one’s dirty windows I saw that both structures had been emptied. Despondent, I wandered toward the farm’s small forest. <br>Hmmm... Something long and skinny was chained to the thick trunk of an ancient oak tree. A closer inspection revealed it to be multiple disconnected sections of a cast iron fence, boasting elegant iron fancywork! It dated from the mid-Victorian era, and had probably been chained to this tree for far longer than I had lived. In another year or two the oak and fence would be one. Copious iron rust had attacked the thick chain and was patiently eating away parts of the fence’s intricate design. Nevertheless, I felt the thrill of discovery! Here was a nineteenth century work of art, forgotten by everyone for several lifetimes. I was determined to own it, and so camped out on that parched meadow with grasshoppers and ants the whole afternoon, watching overalled farmers bid for bits of this and that. <br>It was nerve-wracking: some curious soul might wander into that forest and discover my treasure... <br> <br>Finally, the last scavenger departed. As two strong men tossed rejected machine remains into the back of an old Chevy truck bed I approached a grizzled, suspendered fellow who looked to be in charge. He was surprised to learn of the fence, and I kept my voice carefully casual as I asked if he’d sell… <br> <br>Rubbing his hairy chin he walked with me into the forest’s cool shade to look it over. He found a bolt cutter and, with some struggling, freed the rusting iron sections. I itched to see the whole thing properly so we laid each length of fence on the ground: it measured 75.5 feet. I muttered something about confining my old dog, cheap, and he nodded, snapping his fat suspenders, but there was a gleam in his eye that told me this man wasn’t born yesterday. However, I was the only potential buyer left, and a bird in hand... <br>After doing the time-honored haggle dance we agreed on a modest price, and he cheerfully loaded each rusted, flaking piece into my long-suffering old GMC van. <br> <br>After making sure no iron scrap had been overlooked I trundled off, my grin threatening to displace my ears. I took that fence to Wheelock Welding on Long Lake, near Traverse City. They sandblasted every inch, re-attached broken parts, and then powder-painted it a lovely forest green. <br> <br>My research revealed that this graceful beauty was around 150 years old. It frames venerable Sunnybank House to perfection, hosting climbing red roses and bright red and gold daylilies that weave through its fine design. Lovely fans, instead of sharp points, set off the tops of each rod, and ‘G clefs’ serve as repeated motifs that connect the long length of each panel. And best of all, three magnificent matching gates now open into and out of the secret garden. <br> <br>Its art looks wonderful in all seasons, but especially when blanketed in winter’s white mantle. <br> <br>I’m still gleeful these many decades later that I have given this ‘Iron Span’ a new life.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/58615572019-08-18T01:53:39-04:002022-04-13T08:02:02-04:008/18/19: Weeding Amid Fun Memories<p><span class="font_large">I’m on a nearly constant weed hunt in the secret garden, which necessitates crawling around under shrubs and large flower groups. Sometimes silly, funny memories pop up. Savoring them, it’s easy to forget my irritation... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One November day a few years ago I poured a fresh cup of coffee and plopped down on the front porch stairs after brooming away the night’s skimpy snowfall. Just then, a black squirrel bounced onto the snow-dusted lawn carrying a wrapped candy bar. Making pleased squirrelly noises he settled down nearby to enjoy his treasure. My laughter didn’t bother him one bit. Efficiently nibbling a scissor-straight cut along the sealed top edge he eased out pieces and crunched away on big Brazil nuts immersed in a caramel glaze. That squirrel had encountered candy bars before, probably on Halloween night: he knew how to tackle this find. <br>The crumpled wrap was discarded. Tsk! <br>After licking his paws, he bounced off. It was, I thought, a Disney moment! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Another memory: Just for fun I’d received a silly present from my sister’s husband one late summer day: a chicken. <br>Not an ordinary one, mind you, but a weirdly sticky chicky, a smaller, more pliable version of the quintessentially American rubber ducky. Kath’s husband knew it would be the perfect prezzie. They owned a full-sized, plucked, head-still-on rubber chicken that hung discreetly by its feet behind their kitchen door. When squeezed, it emitted a lengthy squawk-sigh. I loved it. So naturally, when he came upon <i>this</i> find, I came to mind. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Directions were included. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><i>*INDOOR water-filled toy <br>*Toss onto any CLEAN, FLAT surface <br>*Don’t toss onto concrete <br>*Don’t throw too hard. (Toss flat out, no spin) <br>*Don’t pull it up from its hard, smooth landing place too fast: wait until it’s reformed <br>*If necessary, wash chicken with soap and water </i></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Intrigued, I hurled the little pullet onto my sister’s kitchen tile floor. SPLAT! It mimicked that 60 mph runner, an alien fake cop in ‘The Terminator,’ who’d morphed to mercury-jiggleblobs when shotgun-blasted by another alien, Schwarzenegger, during an LA car-cop chase. Anyway, it quivered for a few poisonous seconds in jellied indecision on the highway before each blob joined up again to reform the same implacable cop. <br>This chick was almost as slick! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">With practice, my skill grew. It was fascinating to watch those marble-bright, black eyes re-sorting themselves. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Later on, just for fun, I plunked on my purple-and-white striped Cat-In-The-Hat hat and meandered down our shady September street. (Occasionally I’d bump into children who recognized that hat, and we’d chat about favorite Dr. Seuss books.) Hmmm…Impulsively, just before I closed the front door, I popped Chicken Little into my jeans pocket. <br>You never know... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A guy cruising by on a big Harley motorcycle pointed at my Seuss-topped noggin and yelled, “Nice headgear!” Laughing, he pulled over to the curb to lift his heavy helmet’s visor. “Now <i>there’s</i> a hat that’d be a lot more fun to wear. Wanna trade?” <br>Grinning, I declined but offered to splat a chicken onto his helmet, which would be a nice change from the bugs his protective headgear must constantly put up with. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He stared at me, and said, nervously, “Ahhh, what?” <br> <br>“Trust me,” I replied. “Gimme the helmet.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Baffled, he did. I set it safely down on the grass, then whipped out Chicken Little and flung him onto its dome. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">SPLAT! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Confused, the puddle-y rubber reassembled itself with some difficulty, unaccustomed to the helmet’s curve. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Amazed, the guy stared at the transformation, then began laughing so hard he practically fell off his bike. Naturally, <i>he</i> had to try it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Solemnly I whipped out the pullet’s little piece of paper and read him the directions. Thus educated, he aimed for his helmet: Splat! The chicken went egg-flat but reformed more quickly the second time. (Had it adapted to the smoothly alien helmet’s terrain?) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Pullet-splatting <i>is</i> addictive. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Chatting, we took turns flinging it. Eventually, he motored off, laughing and saluting. I sauntered home, hung up the Cat’s hat and patted the pullet in my pocket, grinning. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What a ridiculous, fun afternoon! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two cheerful things of note: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-My weeding had become painless, </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-and- I remembered that that chick’s wandering black eyes had captivated him, too...)</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/58542192019-08-10T23:45:54-04:002021-10-08T14:05:39-04:008/11/19: New Bodies For Old Swingers <p><span class="font_large">Doors, like the gazillion phone and electric wires that lace the space over our heads, have become invisible. But they can elicit admiration. <br>People who tour my secret garden always exclaim over the five big, curved ancient-looking doors that introduce various areas. Doors inside our Queen Anne Victorian home are truly different, too. <br>Here are some suggestions, if you’d like to create your own. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Most doors are bores. But with imagination and time any door can be transformed, from <em>just</em> a room separator, to a unique expression of the room it announces. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Count them. It’s amazing how many we own. Why not tweak one? Antique shops and builders’ stores are crammed with fascinating stuff to lure you into making mischief. You don’t need big bucks, just big ideas. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Start with the basement bore. Do you ever really look at it? See how easy it is to make it ‘reappear’ again. If you mess it up, no one will notice, but doing it up in a charming way will boost your creative confidence and tickle your imagination- and maybe even charm visitors. Soon, other bare doors will make your fingers itch. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So, indulge me here. <br>Design intriguing old-world ‘hinges’ on a big roll of newsprint. Computer sites featuring wonderful ‘Old World’ cottages, churches and libraries portray doors that boast wonderful little iron windows or/and world-class ironwork. But who can afford that sort of extravagant decoration? <br>Here’s how. Transfer the newsprint design to plywood, and cut it out with a jigsaw( stationary) or sabre saw (handheld). Sand away snags, round the edges with sandpaper (to age it), paint your ‘iron’ a flat black, and apply right next to the existing, regular hinges. They’ll look exactly like iron. <br>I put an ancient Victorian heat register into my workshop’s alley-facing door; it’s splendid as a window! Les fitted the inside with Plexiglas to keep the room decently warm. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hunt computer sites featuring European architecture. Wonderful ancient doors can inspire your creative side. Or, simply design something woodily wacky or whimsical. <br> Troll antique shops for interesting doorknobs. Keeping their patina, install them, substituting your own imaginative wooden back plate. Where is it written that these must be plastic, tiny, and rectangular? A Florida man who loved snakes used his sabre saw to cut out a startling, two-foot-wide snake-y back plate from an old piece of plywood to announce a live, writhing collection of brightly colored snakes in a special room on the other side; it was a big hit. <br>A friend applied a medium-sized black chalkboard. People write all manner of stuff on it. Erase when messages or drawings get old... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Or, just re-face the whole door! I’ve dubbed this woody retread ‘cladding’. My formerly boring bathroom door, for example, features my mother’s hand-painted flowers-on-wood, set against a slim, warm oak sheet screwed to the existing door and framed out. It’s a really attractive façade. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Or, Find realistic wallpaper that pictures shelves full of variously sized classical books. After snipping out each ‘book spine,’ re-arrange and glue them onto the newly dressed door. (Discarded real book-spines would work, too.) Create ‘shelves’ from ready-cut doweling. Wow! That door will develop depth! Stain, or paint. What an interesting way to announce libraries and dens! No one could mistake it for a bathroom or kitchen door. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I inherited my mother’s designed and crewel-embroidered bedspread. T.J. Maxx offered a large resin panel for ten dollars, featuring eerily similar birds and flowers. (Intriguing goodies of every sort are displayed on this store’s back shelves). Now our ‘clad’ bedroom door announces Mom’s art. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Or, what the heck- PARTIALLY clad it. Then, paint something onto just that part. <br>The point is, anything goes. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A garden door could host an old mirror, with wood panes added, to reflect what’s growing. Your garden will appear larger, as well as intriguing. <br>When constructing outside doors, poke through lumberyards for exhausted, warped wood that’s experienced every kind of weather. Or visit architectural salvage shops to hunt for old planks, which add thickness, age and character to a door. Rummage sale bunk bed slats, bolted together, form the garden door leading into my garage. It’s heavy, and curved at the top, with a homemade latch and Old World hinges. Visitors marvel at the expense of “getting it to the U.S. from Europe.” (I always smile.) Australian Timber Oil, obtained from any paint store, turned the wood a rich, deep brown... <br>A bit weather-beaten now, it still radiates character. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I bolted the alley door together with tired lumberyard wood, curved it, and then painted butterflies on a vine. A big, gleaming spiderweb emanated from a knothole, because I used silver car bumper paint. (Alas, it finally died of old age after a quarter-century of faithful service. Never mind: We created another one!) <br>We curved all of my garden (and basement) doors. It’s easy. Simply re-attach the corner pieces that were cut away when altering a rectangular door, to that door’s frame. Presto! An arched doorway appears. <br>Cost? Some time. One saw. A few nails. Patience. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">If you’re tired of tea and TV, or winter-weary, plunk down two sawhorses, one plain Jane door, and give your old, practically invisible swinger a new body!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/58467382019-08-03T21:17:42-04:002022-05-29T11:05:49-04:008/04/19: The Lesson<p><span class="font_large"> After Bryn’s surgery to remove a cancerous neck tumor I was given meds to administer for potential infection and to control her pain. She mended well, and quickly these drugs became unnecessary. But they’d taken their toll. Her carefully managed internal flora and fauna had been disrupted. Now she was having trouble keeping food down. Her stomach was in active rebellion. We stopped the antibiotic, which was a prophylactic anyway, and that kept her from tumbling into bowel collapse. But she still had regurgitation troubles, and was rapidly losing weight and energy. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After Dr. Jossens removed the stitches she prescribed tablets that would act as a stomach coating. I was to emulsify one fat pink oval tablet into a syringe of water, shake for about ten minutes to entirely dissolve it, then administer the liquid orally each evening. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But Bryn interpreted this oral syringe as another needle, and she’d clearly had enough of those. So she fought me. It was quite a struggle to get the meds into her mouth. I was as scared as Bryn about this reaction. She was emotionally and physically worn out. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><i>ENOUGH, Boss. No More of all this! </i></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was awful to see her- to see us- so unraveled. Bryn is always so calm, and accepting, and gentle. So am I. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">HOW could I fix us? How could I get this stuff into her without both of us panicking? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, as I was vacuuming, I ‘saw the Light.’ MY fault! I hadn’t done <i>anything</i> right. I hadn’t thought it out, hadn’t realized she’d resist with such fear-borne strength! I‘d blundered on, forcing it down! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She had to have this stomach soother. It <i>had</i> made a big difference the day before. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So, how could I get it into her without more trauma? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’d been very tired and emotionally spent, but that was no excuse for such a dumb approach. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I <i>knew</i> better. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I remembered how she’d fearful exited the room whenever the vacuum was brought out to clean it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">That wouldn’t do, thought I. Fear is a good thing if I, her Alpha, declare that a thing or person <i>should</i> be feared. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Vacuums and other noisy machines are to be ignored. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So, that day I’d placed her in her living room bed and looked right at her. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Stay!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I held her gaze. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The order would be obeyed, but cause extreme anxiety. So I’d vacuumed around her with my back toward her as I massaged the carpet with the scary thing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s the hard part of the ‘cure.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I vacuumed the same places over and over until my peripheral vision confirmed that her body had begun to relax. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I vacuumed until she folded into a nesting-for-sleep position. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I continued to vacuum until her vigilant body went into ‘ignore’ and her eyes shut. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">THEN I’d turned it off, patted it and said, “Good vacuum. Thank you.” She watched this performance with keen interest. I wound up and secured the cord, and rolled the machine to its storage area. I knew she was watching, but didn’t look directly at her. But when finished I glanced down at her and smiled proudly. “GOOD dog!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Happy to have done well, she collapsed into sleep. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Half an hour later, though, I brought the thing out again, and vacuumed much closer, all the while ignoring Bryn and humming quietly. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She didn’t move. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She didn’t tense up. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She simply ignored it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’d left no doubt in her mind: Vacuums are noisy, but <i>harmless</i> servants. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She has never worried about it again. Not even a little. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here, then, was the key. I would address her fright directly- TALK to her. Bryn is a bright dog, having the comprehension of a three-year-old. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Evening came. I prepared the medicine, and with the syringe in plain view, went to her bed and sat on the rug in front of her. She sat stiffly, prepared to resist. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She was scared. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Stroking her I spoke softly, calmly, slowly. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Bryn, you <i>need</i> this medicine. I’m so sorry I frightened you before. Will you allow me to do this? It won’t hurt. I promise. Sniff it.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She did, very thoroughly. And looked at me, still rigid. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I spoke again quietly, gently, apologetically. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“This is a <i>good</i> thing. It will help you. Will you please trust me?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now came the Wonderful part. I’ll try to convey it exactly. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She held my gaze for a long, long time. I had the good sense to keep quiet and wait. She looked, and looked--- and then, her whole body went limp and soft. That ‘letting go’ of fear and mistrust just blew me away. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I nodded and smiled. She closed her eyes and waited. I raised her lip a little, inserted the fat syringe into her cheek pouch and pushed the injector. She sat there, eyes still shut, taking in the medicine, swallowing it, licking her lips rapidly. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hmmm...It actually didn’t taste too bad. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She found my eyes again when the vial was empty. The tip of her tail twitched. </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">OK, Boss. We done, here? </span></em><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Stunned, and not a little awed by what had just happened- and not happened- I warmly thanked her, told her she was a very good dog, and left the room to recover my poise. She settled into her bed, pleased. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It’s been easy ever since that night. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We’re ‘good’ again as a team. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">May I NEVER underestimate my best friend again.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/58391322019-07-28T02:12:40-04:002022-02-06T09:40:37-05:007/28/19: The Only Constant is Change... <p><span class="font_large">This has been a difficult 14 days for Joe and me. In the past few months I’d begun to notice too many micro-signals that something was ‘off’ with Bryn- the set of her tail, her walk, a slight energy decline...signs not obvious to anyone else were, for me, potential red flags. Maybe that little ‘thing’ on her neck needed more careful scrutiny, too. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">On Monday, July 15, Dr. Jossens, a surgeon at Grand Traverse Veterinary Hospital, examined a nickel-sized, minimally inflated pink ‘balloon’ on her neck, about to go flat and become tricky to find again. (The little oddity had been shown to another doc in a Saginaw clinic some months ago, but he’d decided it was probably an injury from rough play at the dog park...And I’d agreed.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dr. Jossens was suspicious, though, and immediately did a biopsy; twenty minutes later she told me Bryn has Mast Cell tumor, a blood cancer. We scheduled its surgical removal for early the next morning. <br>She excised a large area – a long incision showed the extent of her work- and also removed deeper dermal layers in the area around and under the tumor. Sleepy Bryn came home that evening to begin her recovery, and the big specimen was immediately sent off to a canine pathology lab for micro-examination. My husband, a physician, reviewed the pathology report a few days later; it showed a low-grade tumor with a good prognosis (Kiupel system) and indicates we can hope for a normal lifespan. In addition, the far edges of the tissue excision showed only healthy tissue. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn’s not in pain now, and is managing her wound intelligently. Put simply, I told her that touching/scratching that long surgical scar was forbidden: She was <em>never</em> to scratch it. She looked at me, cocked her head, thought it out, and never has. <br>Not once since the surgery. <br>There is no bandage, no cone, due to the location and length of the wound. <br>Fresh air is a great healer. <br>That long stitch line has remained infection-free. Which means the hidden, dissolvable stitch line layers <em>underneath</em> the skin are mending well, too. I clean the visible one four times a day. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two days ago Joe and Dr. Jossens chatted by phone about Bryn’s situation in greater depth, and he subsequently explained, in great detail, the printed out lab results he’d received from her. I’m able to absorb data more fully, now that the first terrible shock has worn off. I can think again, and take a deep breath. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn has coping skills. She uses her left paw to scratch the <em>left</em> side of her neck, which seems to relieve stitch-itch on the right side. She looks at me as she does this, letting me know that she knows what she’s doing. At night, though, I put one of my socks on her right hind paw to cover her claws there, in case she wakes and sleepily tries to scratch the wound. <br>But she never has. (I’d know immediately, just by looking at it.) <br>Some might think this sort of communication represents a fantasy on my part. I can only say this: she understands what is necessary to protect the wound. Bryn has a huge vocabulary. I watch how she copes; those intelligent eyes, which meet mine directly, reassure me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>No problem, Boss. I’ve got this. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When I grab a sofa pillow and lie next to her for an afternoon nap she’ll rest her paw on my arm for comfort as we snooze together. <br>I sleep on the couch every night; she is inches away. We are each other’s support. If she needs anything she’ll nudge me gently and explain with her eyes. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We have hopes now that she can enjoy a good quality of life. My expectations are not high, or low. I <em>expect</em> nothing. We three are together now. We live for and in the moment, loving our walks, our quiet hours in favorite beauty spots during this splendid summer. She quietly asks for what she needs, and loves us overtly. We are so lucky. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Grooming Bryn has always been part of her daily life. She stands, sits or lies quietly, as per my requests. This familiar routine makes it easy for me to hunt for new lethal ‘bubbles’. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The doctor may decide to biopsy some lymph nodes down the road, to more deeply check the lie of the land... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Some additional info: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- Should you encounter us in the garden, please don’t touch Bryn. She is polite, but her body is sensitive these days. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- We slowly walk the shady parts of our neighborhood, as well as Grand Traverse Bay, with an adapted leash arrangement: her expanded collar is belted around her <em>hips</em>. The attached lead is never pulled. Rather, I guide with my voice (“Turn right, straight ahead, turn left, slow down, wait...”). The collar-leash set-up serves only as a safety line. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It looks a bit peculiar, though. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- At her favorite beach yesterday she chased her rubber bone a few times, tiring quickly, but looking relaxed and happy. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We’ve won this first battle, but I won’t relax until we’ve won the war.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/58311442019-07-20T23:51:17-04:002021-09-03T04:33:14-04:007/21/19: Santa Barbara Stars, Fleas, and Laughter<p><span class="font_large">These last ten days have been truly challenging, and to cope better I’ve pulled up some stored memories to relish. This one dates back to 2011, when Joe, Lisa, our younger daughter, and I visited California for a wedding. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We’d lived in Santa Barbara from 1975-77, and it didn’t rain once during our stay of nearly two-and-a-half years. If you needed a bathroom anywhere in most of California, you had to buy something. Glasses of water and cloth napkins vanished from restaurant tables. Lawn police heavily fined desperate homeowners who’d sneak out to water their expensive landscapes in deep night. <br>Finally, anything green died: lawns became stone. Literally. <br>That awesome drought lasted more than four long years. There were rarely clouds: just perfect blue sky, day after month after year. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was a town where I’d shop for groceries alongside Cary Grant, or Fess Parker, of Davy Crocket TV fame; where fish, barely out of the ocean, were delivered to the shop around the corner from my sister’s home; where I could pick avocados right off the tree in her garden; and where I’d perambulated our infant daughter, Jenny, to Cliff Drive Park next to the wharf, there to watch the occasional large shark idly eyeing people strolling the long boardwalk. <br>I’ve never cared to swim in that ocean. No sir. In there be monsters. <br>(Recently, we read that a surfer had been eaten north of town.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I have mixed feelings about Santa Barbara. The karma there was never- quite right. Two examples: <br>- Our dog Fred was ticketed <em>fifteen</em> <em>minutes</em> <em>after</em> <em>we</em> <em>hit</em> <em>town</em>. Though licensed and at heel in my sister’s front yard, he wasn’t leashed. Money was scarce; every dollar counted, and the fine was steep. I was so angry! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-After living with Kath for a while we’d finally managed to rent a tiny, inexpensive cinderblock home on Cliff Drive (100 feet away from the famous 1000 Steps, which descend to one of the world’s most spectacular beaches). That place was not only a long-time garbage receptacle but also <i>infested</i> with fleas. The guy and his frowsy wife owned three large, bug-ridden dogs and two Siamese cats. After we signed a year’s lease they’d moved out the next day, leaving us with a colossal mess. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">As we walked into our home my white jeans were quickly covered with moving black specks. <br>arghhh!!!! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We’d faced some filthy rental houses over the years (during his four years of medical school and then his residency, we’d moved twelve times in eleven years to different states, and even to London, England for a three-month surgical stint at St. Mary’s hospital.) Most of our rentals were in pretty sad condition. <i>This</i> tiny house, though, took First Prize for filth. For three awful weeks we released potent flea bombs, vacuumed and scrubbed everything from the ceiling down (the stove had to be tossed; it was too far gone) till our hands ached, and applied gallons of paint to grubby, fly-specked walls. <br>Then came the test. Wearing those same white jeans, I lay on the carpet and waited. Five anxious minutes later, not. one. flea. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We moved in and made it shabby chic-charming. I was seven months pregnant. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now, thirty-six years later we were back again. Lisa, our younger daughter, could see where her parents and baby Jen had once lived. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One pretty afternoon we parked in front of the same boxy, one-story cinderblock residence we’d occupied for over two years, which still has no yard, garage or ocean view, because one other teeny house stands between it and the cliffs. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Nevertheless, it was up for sale for well over one <i>million</i> dollars! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We trekked down the 1000 Steps to that wide, glorious, empty beach, and walked for a long time on golden sand beneath towering cliffs. I collected seashells for my Traverse City garden fountain, and we recalled nine-month-old Jenny, our older daughter, holding Joe’s forefinger as she navigated the damp sand, taking multiple steps to her daddy’s one… <br>It was a marvelous, reminiscent hour. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, a fun, weird thing happened. Climbing up to the street again, huffing and puffing, we three were greeted by – odd, musical chuckles. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There were no people about, and few cars. So, who…? The sounds were strangely infectious: we found ourselves chuckling, too. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There! A chocolate lab hung out a barely moving truck’s window. His dark eyes were glued to the 1000 Steps’ entrance. <br>No…it couldn’t be that dog! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Could it? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Yes. Anticipating the Steps and beach, he was- chuckling! These sounds were indescribable. Unique in all the world. <br>But then, when the driver picked up speed again and they left, his ethereal chuckles changed to an anguished “Oo,o,eeo,o,aho…” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Our hair rose. We stood there, staring down the empty street, open-mouthed. <br>“This whole thing is unreal!” Lisa exclaimed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Exactly so. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The truck shrank with distance and finally disappeared around a corner...We continued to stare. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Thirty seconds later the same vehicle popped into view again! They were coming back! His uncannily beautiful libretto had switched from despair to tonal joy! The dog (maybe as talented as the world-famous opera singer, Pavarotti) had convinced his master to reconsider! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The thirty-something guy parked and issued a soft “heel” command. He was smiling to himself and shaking his head as he passed us to approach the Steps; the delighted animal practically bounced on his toenails next to him. ‘Chuckles’ shot us one triumphant glance before the two of them began the long descent down to the ocean, that haunting laughter echoing down the stone stairs before finally fading, incorporated into the Pacific’s rhythmic, beach-lapping sighs. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Never, even all these years later, have we (and, I suspect, his owner) heard anything remotely like this dog’s vocal prowess, or witnessed a happier, more demonstrative canine. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Santa Barbara’s irritating memories are more palatable too, when filtered through this surreal experience.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/58239862019-07-14T00:42:57-04:002021-08-22T14:59:30-04:007/14/19: A Battle of Wits <p><span class="font_large">My daughter and I were chatting in my kitchen when my friend Les, who was working outside, climbed the porch stairs, opened the screen door and said, quietly, “We’ve got a serious situation developing.” He glanced toward the North Gate’s eight-foot-high fence. We rushed to the window. There, sitting under the three-inch overhang on the twelve-foot-long plank that ran between each fence pillar, a chipmunk was munching a pumpkin seed in the warm sun. His snug home and its larder were just inside a gnawed opening in that high fence corner. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Just</em> above him, gazing down from the pillar’s narrow, flat shelf, barely out of sight, Cat sat. <br>Not a whisker moved. His long, fluffy tail hung down, but did not twitch. He was stone. <br>The oblivious chipmunk was just six inches lower than Death. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was stunning to watch the little guy happily nipping away the edges of his seed while savoring the last of the day’s warmth. He was so close, so close to perpetual winter. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“What should we do?” I gasped. Lisa rocked and watched, then said, quietly, “Oh, nothing, I think. My money’s on the chippie, Mom.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I stared at the tableau. Chipmunks <em>are</em> incredibly quick. They always have a Plan. This little one was dining right next to his door. <em>One</em> chipmunk-sized stride <em>away</em> from it would bring oblivion. <br>He finished, wiped his whiskers, fluffed his fur, and closed his eyes. And somehow, perhaps from delicate shifts in the air, Cat’s ears and nose transmitted precisely what was happening. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Chippie sighed, savoring the seed’s lingering taste. He sunbathed for perhaps three awful minutes. Cat sat, yellow eyes locked onto where he knew the chipmunk was- so near, so incredibly near. <br>Nobody breathed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Teeny brown eyes popped open. Thoughtfully, Chippie looked around. Something- <em>some</em>thing didn’t feel quite right… (“Look UP!” I whispered.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hmmm. Should he shift away from the overhang and onto the fence’s high, wide boardwalk for even more warmth? It might be nice. His eyes searched for danger. His fur prickled slightly… <br>A careful survey…Nothing. <br>He closed his eyes again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We tensed as Cat inched forward one millimeter. This was an astounding demonstration of the feline’s ability to ‘read’ his prey, without actually seeing him. <br>It was a curiously intimate moment. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Chippie’s eyes opened. <em>Zip</em>! He vanished into his house. Cat, still unable to actually see this, knew instantly. He rose slightly, but waited…waited… Pop! Out came the chipmunk again. Under his porch roof, in precisely the same place, he sunbathed while holding a seed in his cheek pouch to soften it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Cat moved not one muscle. His control and concentration were absolute. <br>One minute later Chippie leisurely brought the softened seed forward toward his tiny incisors, trimmed the edges, and ate it. <br>Death’s laser-eyes bored into the wood, measuring. The Pounce had to be precise. One misstep and he’d probably forfeit the last of his nine lives. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Suddenly, Chippie skipped away from his sheltered porch. We gasped! But in that millisecond, his well-placed eyes saw the monster, and- too quickly for us to register- he reversed course and skittered into his home. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Cat sagged. Rats! He’d been made! On the faint chance he might be wrong he remained immobile a bit longer, hoping, but eventually conceded. Blinking eyes and twitching tail betrayed his immense frustration and disappointment. The exultant chip-chip of the triumphant, ‘munk,’ who’d exited his home from a ground-level door, mocked him. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Humiliated, Cat slowly turned his head to glare down at the laughing rodent in the Fairy Garden before carefully descending, his old body trembling with rage. <br><em>Next time, munk-dung. Next time. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We mopped our brows and cheered! <br>No showdown today…</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/58160652019-07-06T23:55:00-04:002021-10-05T04:32:43-04:007/7/19: Chella’s Story<p>Chella, a gorgeous 21-year-old black Friesian gelding now living at Casalae Farms’ superb stable, has a story that is at once awful and hopeful. <br>Here’s how I came to know him, and his very nice, deeply caring owner, Laurie. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A month or so ago I was cleaning a stall in early morning, a few stalls down from a formerly empty one, now occupied by a horse that had only just arrived here from Florida. I paused to watch as Laurie snapped on his lead rope and led the very large, tall animal down the long main aisle to just outside the big barn doors, where the veterinarian waited. In the stable’s dim morning light I glanced at his jet-black profile, very long, thick mane and tail, and arched neck as he slowly walked to the vet’s open van, lined with cabinets housing various instruments and medicines. There he stood, in profile, calmly awaiting events. He was so still! His beautiful tail hung almost to the ground. <br>The vet began an extensive examination, so I got back to work. Soon I was ready for another stall. Why not do his? There was quite a mess in there, so I got right to it. </p>
<p>Suddenly, his owner peered into the stall’s semi-darkness and asked if I could hand her one of his fresh poop balls. The doctor needed to check it for anomalies. I quickly obliged, and thought nothing more of it. Thirty minutes later, though, Chella was led back to his new home. He towered over me. I was still working; our two bodies and the big poop bucket gobbled up space, but he didn’t seem to mind. I had the strong sense that he appreciated my efforts. </p>
<p>He began eagerly eating his hay. <br>Just a few minutes after I left the dark stall, though, he very carefully lowered himself to the soft ground. Hearing him go down, I peeked in through his window, wanting a better view in the stronger morning light. <br>Oh, My GOD. <br>This beautiful creature was stick-thin! I hadn’t noticed before, as the light was feeble and I was usually bent over, working, and because Chella was so tall. Now, lying there, his hip and rib bones protruded obscenely. He looked dreadful. </p>
<p>There he was, on his belly, hooves sticking straight out, neck still arched, the picture of utter exhaustion. I realized with a jolt that it had been a great effort to support his weight during the exam, as he was so emaciated. <br>I stared, stunned and tearful, and he looked up at me, his soft eyes showing how tired and weak he was. <br>They drooped. He slept, nose pointing at the ground. <br>I cried, making no sound. <br>HOW had this horror happened?? </p>
<p>Laurie joined me at the window and anxiously asked how long he’d been down. I assured her he’d managed to eat some hay, and had just begun to nap. <br>“Good...That’s good.” She sighed and began carefully mixing powdered medicines into plastic baggies- antibiotics, vitamins, minerals and soothing meds- for his huge leg ulcers, now coated with special ointments, and for general malnutrition. These powders would be added to his grain bucket twice daily. She told me he had also been diagnosed with stomach and throat ulcers, which had developed due to extreme stress and anxiety. <br>Medicine to keep him less anxious was also included. <br>God only knew the extent of his stomach and esophageal ulcers... </p>
<p>It was tricky to eat; his feet hurt; his teeth were wobbly from food deprivation, and bright light bothered his eyes, so he’d need to gain strength in this snug, gently dark stall for some time. Food would be available day and night. Fresh hay, stuffed into a very large, soft hanging hay bag, would force him to tease out small mouthfuls. (Eating too much too fast would cause considerable gastric distress.) </p>
<p>This sort of criminal neglect occurs more than we like to think. </p>
<p>Laurie told me they’d migrated to Florida to avoid Michigan’s winter. In early spring she’d found a boarding stable there with good recommendations, boarded Chella there and then drove to Traverse City to find a good stable, and settle into living here during northern Michigan’s six months of nice weather. She rang the Florida stable nearly every day to check on him, and was assured he was doing just fine. But when she asked for <em>specifics</em> regarding hay servings, different stable hands, every day, were evasive. Their reluctance to simply answer the question made her nervous... <br>then suspicious... <br>then alarmed! <br>She drove back there with dread. And found that Chella was starving! Other boarded horses there were thin, too! (The owner’s animals were fine.) <br>“How many flakes of hay per day has he been given?” she demanded, angrily. (Each flake constitutes a small portion of a bale. Normal rations are two to three flakes or so, depending on seasonal conditions.) <br>The hired help looked away. Or walked away. <br>One shrugged and ignored her. <br>A second man muttered, “one.” <br>But he wouldn’t look at her. <br>A third man just sighed. “Look, Mam. We feed these horses what we <i>are told</i> to feed them- one flake daily, sometimes. The Boss wants to save money. As you know, decent hay is scarce and very expensive; it has to be shipped down here from the north.” <br>Horrified by the boarded horses’ appalling condition Laurie immediately phoned Casalae Farms, described what she’d discovered, and told them she was removing Chella immediately, and, after reporting the abuse to the Florida authorities, would drive straight to the Farm. Karen, Casalae Farms’ owner, assured her that Chella would have a stall, and that the vet would be waiting when she arrived. </p>
<p>Finally, after three months of agony, he was safe. He found it hard to relax, though. Maybe today there wouldn’t be food. <br>Chella was a bag of bones wrapped in a bundle of nerves. </p>
<p>I stopped at his stall the next morning, and, after making sure it was okay to offer him a Red Delicious apple, I bit off a piece and offered it. Chella came out of the soft darkness and sniffed it, incredulous. I spoke softly and kept my hand extended. After a long time, he delicately scooped it off my palm and ate it with enormous pleasure. That poor horse groaned as he gulped it down. <em>Copious</em> saliva poured out of his mouth. Oh, it was so delicious! <br>I bit off another nice chunk. He took it from me very gently, and ate it feverishly. More saliva poured out. He simply couldn’t devour it fast enough. Keeping each bite a reasonable size, I spoke to him. <br>“Hey, slow down, boy. You’re safe here. There is an endless amount of food and water, and this apple is yours. <em>Only</em> yours.” <br>He stopped chewing and stared at me. <br>I couldn’t stop my tears. <br>Chella understood. <br>But honestly, though he tried not to eat at rocket speed, he just couldn’t help it. <br><br>He was so very hungry. </p>
<p>I went in and cleaned his home, noting that he’d relieve himself in just one area so he could lie down. I cleaned everything and staff added lots of fresh sawdust while he watched. When I left he immediately lowered himself into the soft bedding and fell into a deep sleep. </p>
<p>He was, I thought, on the way toward finding a small measure of peace. </p>
<p>The next day he immediately came to the window when I called his name, and looked hopefully at me. A fat apple sat in my palm. He was joyful! <br>Today I allowed <em>him</em> to bite off a chunk. He did this very carefully, and chewed it deliberately, and (I noticed happily,) a bit more slowly. Less saliva flowed. He savored every bite, and never once looked away from me. <br>I told him again that he was safe in this place. There would always be good food, fresh water and clean bedding. <br>I know this totally silent horse understood me. </p>
<p>It was hard to look at his huge sores when I cleaned, but every day there was improvement. He ate every scrap of his grain mixed with warm mash, vitamins and anti-anxiety medicine. Laurie came in frequently to check on him. The farrier and vet monitored his feet and teeth, and small adjustments to his meds were made as needed. </p>
<p>One gently warm, sunny June morning, Chella was led outside to a spacious paddock that housed a couple of flakes of hay and unlimited fresh water. <br>Sunlight and fresh air would aid in healing; he was strong enough now to spend some time outside soaking it in. <br>His hipbones and ribs still jutted out, but those horrid leg sores were healing fast. He walked slowly to me and bit into his apple with great pleasure and a deep sigh. <br>The <em>next</em> day Bud, an elderly, beautiful Arabian gelding, was led into the same paddock and introduced as a possible companion. Instead of rejecting him with teeth and hoof as others had, Bud sniffed a nervous, shy Chella -and immediately accepted him. The two new friends soaked up the sun, ate hay and swatted flies together. </p>
<p>I will always love Bud for that gesture. </p>
<p><em>Tune in for next week’s update!</em></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/58089582019-06-30T02:52:30-04:002021-10-27T12:23:57-04:006/30/19: A Spring Unveiling<p><span class="font_large">Last Sunday two fine things happened. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Connie, my first teacher, invited me to ride the Farm’s Arabian stud stallion, Menesson, outside in the big, grassy, white fenced paddock. I’d ridden only in their big indoor arena for the past year, where there is more complete control, and where weather isn’t a factor. (We’d tried to go outside two other times this spring, only to be thwarted by rain and thunderstorms.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Today was lovely. The sky, a robin’s egg blue, hosted a light, intermittent breeze that riffled the emerald leaves of newly greened trees, and gently nudged fluffy clouds across the endless ceiling above. <br>There were few passing cars, now, in late morning. <br><br>The second fine thing: Menesson’s long tail would be revealed at last. I’d never seen it unbound. Tails as long as his are expertly braided just below the dock (a horse’s tailbone), then covered with a special wrap, akin to an Ace bandage, and, finally, covered with a long pouch to keep the hair clean and dry and aid the horse in swatting flies. <br>But there’s another reason: he wouldn’t step on it when backing up, or snag it on fences or trees, or have it trodden on by other horses’ hooves. Ouch! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We saddled him and walked out to the big paddock. Chris, the man who knew all about this art, undid it and combed it out. I was agog! It had to be eight feet long! Chris smiled and commented that he’d trimmed at least a foot away just a week ago! <br>I hopped aboard. Menesson was happy to stretch his legs, but he soon began to signal some apprehension. His ears perked as he stared toward a possible predator. <br>I looked that way. Aha! Someone renting the home next door had hung a slim, bright red hammock between two large trees just a little way from the fence. The breeze caught it intermittently, billowing the light nylon, and a potential horse ‘monster’ was born. <br>This sort of thing is why a rider always needs to be alert. A horse will react instantly to a perceived threat, as it is a prey animal. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I reassured him, and felt a slight lessening of tension, but one good windy blow to <i>fully</i> <i>inflate</i> and swing that hammock could send me flying. Menesson <i>is</i> highly trained and was certainly showing discipline and trust in his rider, but still, it would be stupid to ride too near that thing. I hate flying unless I choose to. <br>(Joe wryly commented that statistically, horseback riding is more dangerous than motorcycling, which we enjoy, too.) <br>I kept to a large circle on the far side of the paddock, but his attention was still divided. <br>Joe took some pictures so I could see how we looked together. Two more nervous shies from my horse, though, signaled the end of outside riding. (The next door resident would be asked to relocate the hammock, or let Farm staff slip it off its moorings while students practice outside.) <br>I hopped off and led him back into the barn’s arena, where I would have much more control of the environment. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Note the special vest I wear. Made especially for horseback riders, it has a CO2 air canister that, when the vest’s cord, attached to a saddle ring, is abruptly separated from it as the rider is flying off, triggering the canister to fire, instantaneously inflating the vest to protect the entire neck, spine and rib cage. It’s a wise precaution, often adopted by many professional event riders. <br>The vest, by the way, is very light, indeed. And the sound it makes when activated is negligible. <br>It is, by the way, the sensible policy of Casalae Farms that riders must don helmets. <br>Joe and I visited more of the Farm’s horses afterward. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I hope you get a kick out of the photos!</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/d5d767ae66819e44a70dcafdfdfe2d763468e291/original/70ec7f07-5486-439a-8289-269774d74039.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/c85b0f9dac44c97223187bbddd34add2577449c6/original/50afb817-7e80-4f63-ac66-647ddda87ce3.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/245e92f97b8fafb918e770bca977a9edb7024bfb/original/80bff32a-4982-44cb-8734-d0768c7c21df.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/56f93aa100c0179e4254e22c7e104445e9a7f67c/original/3c738191-826a-43ac-9568-45f64af482b9.jpeg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/00af8b2342beb9fc069054920a7c8f071b41db72/original/b36770b9-366e-4961-a836-73910284916c.jpeg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsImxhcmdlIl1d.jpeg" class="size_xl justify_center border_" /></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/58009242019-06-23T01:00:33-04:002019-06-23T01:00:33-04:006/23/19: Flower Gifts<p><span class="font_large">Sometimes the scent of chocolate evokes sweet memories; when I use Cocoa Shell Mulch in my secret garden’s flowerbeds, they surface, summoning a smile. <br>This most intriguing ‘earth blanket’ adds an ordered, smart look to flowerbeds while emitting, for a brief time, the most wonderful scent of chocolate. <br>A natural by-product of the cocoa bean, it’s a renewable resource that can be found at most garden centers. <br>But- one caution- a pet might sample some, and come away with an upset stomach, necessitating a trip to the vet. However, this problem lasts <u>only</u> as long as the scent does. In about a week formerly interested animals will ignore it. <br>Most, though, ignore it anyway. <br>O.K. let's get down and dirty. First, remove all the weeds from the bed you’ll be mulching. Water the earth deeply, or wait until a decent rain happens. Loosen the soil a bit with a hoe, THEN add the cocoa shells an inch or so thick, but NOT right up against the plants’ stems. (Take care not to bury a plant’s lower foliage.) <br>Don’t apply on a windy day, as the light little shells will blow everywhere, and not even chocolate-for-real will cheer you up then. <br>Now, after you’ve hand-smoothed them evenly, water in with a <em>soft</em> spray. This is important, because the moistening releases natural gums that bind these shells into a porous, rich brown mat that repels weeds, and holds the moisture you’ve already added. <br>It’s there to stay. <br>Weeds will happen anyway, but it’s blissfully easy to pull them. <br>Two other pluses: slugs and cats avoid it. <br>Gradually it becomes part of the soil, improving its texture and fertility. Each spring simply hoe it in, or just leave it there, and then, after weeding and watering, ‘top up’ any bare spots. <br>In time- maybe a month or so after application- it will go deep black, an elegant topping, indeed. <br>When working in your beds, around two weeks after its installation- you may notice a white mold on top of some of the mulch. <u>Don’t</u> worry about it. This is simply a sign of normal decomposition and absolutely won’t affect plants. If the white coating irritates you, gently stir that bit of mulch with your hand or a little stick to keep it aerated. It will, in any case, disappear quickly. <br>I rarely bother to mess with the mold. <br>The whole neighborhood will know what you’re doing for about 5-7 days: then that delicious odor dissipates, and it’s just cocoa shells minus the ‘Ummm.’ <br>Have you ever watered the earth, only to notice it just rolls off, not penetrating at all? Cocoa shell mulch allows your beds to drink in every drop. <br>Another huge plus; previously wormless beds are soon thick with them. I was astounded to see the huge population in there when brushing aside the mulch to plant something. Wow. We’re not talking one or two here, but many fat, happy worms. (One worm eats -(brace yourself)- over a ton of earth every year! One Worm. Next time you see one washed up on a wet sidewalk, rescue it, and think respectful thoughts.) <br>The bad news? It’s expensive- about $6 or so for a 40-pound bag. If you have a lot of territory to cover, this sort of money could prove a problem. But if your flowerbed is small, you won’t regret using it. <br>If you order more than 5 bags the price often drops. <br>For those who dislike chocolate, or balk at the cost, consider another product- twice-ground bark. These are the usual bark chips we all know, but run through the grinder twice, making a finer, more quickly re-absorbed product. Often, one can choose between two colors; slightly more red, or brownish. (If you have lots of sun, though, the shredded bark could bleach out...) <br>Gasping flowers really appreciate your consideration, no matter which blanket you choose. I love sticking my finger into my flowerbeds on a roasting day to feel dampness an inch deep. (Left bare, that earth would have been dust-dry.) <br>Remember! WATER FIRST, then apply. As with the shells, lay the twice-ground bark an inch thick in some places; skip it altogether in others. Certain succulent plants want to be dry; mulch will likely rot their roots. <u>Know where NOT to add any blanket</u>. <br>Mulching always enhances. <br>Flowerbeds, especially if you give them a crisp edge, will look really good, and so will you.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/57932052019-06-15T23:11:23-04:002019-06-15T23:11:23-04:006/16/19: The Greeting <p><span class="font_large">Casalae Farms’ stable usually has a ‘present’ for me to discover and unwrap. Whether small or big, each one gives me a more complete picture of The Way of Horses. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s last Tuesday’s bright gift. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn-dog and I had spent the morning at home in the garden, weeding, spreading manure, cutting the grass, and generally sprucing it up. Then, after she and I ran up and down Grand Traverse Bay getting g out the kinks I cooked us both a simple meal, settled her for a nap and drove to the Farm for my 1:00 lesson, the first one in a while, as working in the Secret garden has consumed almost every waking hour. <br>It was about 12:40 p.m. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I drove past the lovely winding fences to the parking area, noting with some surprise that nobody was about. Everyone had popped down the road for pizza. The sun bathed the Farm in light and warmth. There was very little wind. Swallows flew busily back and forth from their nests in the barn’s roof rafters, to the great outdoors, hunting tasty morsels for their chicks. (I’ve learned that barn swallows no sooner finish raising one brood than they often begin a <em>second</em> family. Though surely exhausted, they whizzed over my head, snatching insects on the wing, and still managing to gossip, and cheep the same cheerful songs as they stuffed their catches into their gaping chicks' beaks.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Lots of horses were outside in their paddocks in small groups, standing or lying quietly, munching hay, or simply dozing in the spring’s gentle sun. I grabbed a large Red Delicious apple from the car seat, stuffed it into my coat pocket and trotted into the barn and straight down the long corridor to Menesson’s roomy stall. I’d offer it, then take him to the crosstie area to brush clean and saddle before my lesson- - But he wasn’t there. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">For heaven’s sake, I’d driven right past him! His paddock, close to the long driveway, is lush and large, with a mature tree at its far corner under which he can stand and doze. He wasn’t that easy to pick out amid the white fence and white-bright sunlight. I ran outside, then paused near my car to search for him. <br>There! <br>Under the tree, and on the other side of it, he dozed in its leafy shade. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The next thing that happened was strange- a sort of mental linkup? <br>One second after my eye found him he snapped awake and did a classic double take. His head jerked up; he lightning-scanned the area before suddenly returning to the spot where I stood, close to my car, easy to miss at first glance. <br><em>Aha! There she is! </em><br>He bolted toward me, neighing. (Had my scent wafted all that way?) Reaching the paddock gate (I was still rooted to the driveway 60 feet away, lost in admiration) he whinnied loudly again and galloped back and forth along the fence’s entire length, tail streaming, neck stretched high, or arching, mane flying...the very picture of power, speed and beauty. He’d stop on a dime, wheel around and take off again, neighing, snorting, dancer-light on his feet, perfectly balanced... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was the most enchanting greeting I’ve ever had. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We reached the gate at the same time, and he pranced in place while nickering deep and low. Oh, God, he was stunning! I’d never seen Menesson move like that, had never heard him neigh, or make those gentler sounds, until then. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Anyone who has a beloved dog, or cherished children or grandchildren, knows all about joyfully effusive hellos. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I steadied the apple as he carefully bit into its polished perfection and unhurriedly munched each chunk. Not a single bit was dropped. (It was obvious that he’d rolled happily in damp earth at some point; I wouldn’t get him totally clean today, but hay, neither of us would mind.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Six bites later he’d eaten it all. He foraged through my hair with his flexible lips, then nosed my nose, nibbled my ears and breathed deeply onto my face, smelling sweetly of apple. I stood there, eyes closed, grinning as he playfully rumpled my eyebrows. <br>Finally, reluctantly, I snapped on his lead rope. Together we walked back to the barn, his shod hooves rhythmically clip-clopping over its cement floor as we strode down the long aisle past the stalls to the crosstie area at the other end. We were a bit lesson-late, but unruffled by the barn clock’s stoic admonishment as it ticked off the time. <br>A very special box holds my special horse-related memories. <br>That Greeting is there.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/57851552019-06-09T01:52:39-04:002020-02-04T04:55:05-05:006/09/19: Some Garden Wisdom <p><span class="font_large">I’m buried in secret garden work now, and so haven’t had the time this week to write about my horse adventures. I would, however, like to offer a few suggestions- and warnings- that will help growing things cope as the warm season develops. <br>The first two things on this list are the most important. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><strong>Never</strong> use a <em>string trimmer</em> closer than one foot from tree trunks. Its incredibly powerful lash will be the death of the small one you’ve just planted, and any larger trees, too. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Mowers must <strong>never</strong> bump bark. It may take a few years, but a tree so wounded will find itself too weak to pump all its sap higher and so will sprout branches near the soil, where the bark was compromised. Insects and alien microbes will also find the break- the gash- and strike. <br>Doom. <br>Just one attack can condemn a young tree to a long, lingering death. <br>The huge elderly maples, oaks and sycamores up and down the older parts of towns and cities were never faced with this insidious enemy until the latter part of the last century, when push lawnmowers were replaced with gas-powered or electric riding mowers and strimmers. <br>One famous gardener in England, watching as a man on a riding mower nudged a stately tree, and a young man with a string trimmer followed close behind to ‘clean up’ the high grass around the trunks, looked sadly at me and commented, “This jet-fast whiplash is killing both saplings and giants. People don’t appreciate the wounds they cause to trees, reasoning that the bark prevents injury. It's happening at many great estates and parklands.” <br>I mourn young and old, towering beauties along streets, in parks-- everywhere. <br>One only has to look. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I try not to use chemicals in my garden, as they affect hummingbirds, ladybugs, worms and birds. This isn’t an ironclad rule, though. I’ve turned to Bayer spray a few times to kill the plague of Japanese beetles that multiply frantically and decimate an entire garden in just a week or two. <br>The treatment worked. I saved lots of otherwise doomed flowers and shrubs at my home and around the neighborhood. These voracious, tenacious insects fly or ride on the wind, often long distances to decimate gardens blocks away. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here are some ideas to consider for pest eradication. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ll begin with two simple recipes. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-Add two teaspoons of liquid soap (non-perfumed and not antibacterial), and a few drops of vegetable oil to a gallon of unfiltered water. Shake well and spray over and <u>under</u>leaves of threatened plants. Choose a cool morning to do this. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-In a blender mix a half-cup of hot chili peppers with 2 cups of water: toss in a few drops of vegetable oil. Blend, strain, and spray on plants prone to being eaten. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Whenever you spot an errant bit of grass, or a weed, coming up through a sidewalk seam, whether it’s the public walk fronting your home or your personal one, eliminate it immediately. (Don’t forget the curb along the street!) At my home, weed rogues find themselves in hot water. Literally. I put the kettle on, then take the hot water straight out and tip a cup or two directly onto the soil around them. It’s non-poisonous and always available. Undesirables will shrivel after one or two doses. <br>That delicate, feeble-looking little green thing has the power to crack, split and heave up big slabs of cement. Replacement of the unsightly hardscape is the only option. But often, the city balks. An upheaved, crumbled public sidewalk in front of your home could remain like that for a long time. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dandelions are notorious for this rampant behavior. Snap off their bright heads as you pass by, and then do the water cure. Push in little markers (golf tees are good) as you make your rounds, and later, treat each marked area all at once. <br>About the only thing that might suffer is the worm that chose that bit of ground to snuffle around in. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Empty cardboard toilet paper and paper towel cylinders can be cut shorter and pushed into the ground around emerging infant plants to protect them when light frosts surprise us in June. Just bend in the top to close it off. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The following kitchen leftovers can be valuable for banishing the pests that munch in the night, and they’ll inject new life into most garden plants. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Take cooled coffee grounds outside to spread around the bases of rose bushes, or heuchera (coral bells) or hydrangea shrubs- anything that enjoys an acid jolt occasionally. Loose tea leaves are appreciated, too. I use my fingers to work it into the soil, so as not to break tender plant roots lying inches under the surface. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After breakfast, pop eggshells into a zip-lock bag, expel the air and crush them into tiny pieces to add to the soil. Almost every plant out there appreciates calcium-rich eggshells. Slugs avoid eggshells, which cut and slice their slimy bodies. <br>Brown shells blend better; birds spot and snatch the white ones away...which isn’t a bad thing... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Take your salt shaker outside to banish slugs, who will devour a small hosta overnight. A quick shake and they’ll dissolve into the great scheme of things. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Don’t discard ammoniated water when cleaning freshwater aquariums; plants <em>love</em> this treat. Dilute with unfiltered tap water and add it to the earth around hostas, roses- any flowering perennial. (Never add to edible plants, like thyme or basil, though.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When preparing vegetables, save the nutrient-rich water they were cooked in. When it’s cool, offer to annuals, perennials and indoor plants. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Toss the hard ends of banana peels, dice the skins and add the bits to the soil under plants. Peels are rich in potassium. Toss a chopped handful into your potting soil to feed your plants. Chop them up and pop them into the freezer in baggies even in the offseason. In spring, add a handful to any plant’s soil, right out of the bag. Roses love bananas. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Our plants, the general landscape, and Mother Earth can only benefit. </span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/57767762019-06-02T02:13:23-04:002019-06-02T02:13:23-04:006/02/19: I SO Want It, But... <p><span class="font_large">Horses. <br>I love to study the minds of these beautiful creatures, to begin to figure out how they think and respond to the world, and especially to humans. I’ll never master their complicated language and code of behavior, but every journey begins with the first step. I’ve started down that road, now, happy to begin this last great adventure. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s the latest fascinating observation: <br>I brought an apple for Chella, a gorgeous jet-black Friesian gelding who has recently come to Casalae Farms. (Friesians are really huge horses, always deep black, with feathered hooves and thick, incredibly long manes and tails.) When I entered his stall for the first time to clean it I offered my hands, containing two cinnamon horse treats, and then the rake and empty bucket for him to sniff. <br>He met me at his stall door the next day, hoping for another treat. This time, half a huge apple served in three manageable bites started his day well, I think. I made Chella’s stall fresh and tidy and he moved over almost soundlessly when asked, while looking me over, his perfect ears straight up, indicating interest. <br>He is a gentle giant, and so quiet. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">New horses must be sorted into the correct pecking order. Chella was initially shunned by the other geldings, and so was settled into a separate paddock to enjoy the sun’s weak warmth. The next day the staff decided to introduce him to Bud, a gentle, beautiful white Arabian gelding who is easy to handle, and very kind. The two sniffed each other, separated by a fence just to make sure no problems would rear up. When nothing bad happened they were united. It’s working well. The two graze quietly and companionably on hay laid out in their paddock’s center. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After chores I went outside with a fat apple, and called to Chella. Bud looked my way, too, and, much closer, he walked over to me, curious. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>What’s up, Boss? </em>he inquired, ears pointed straight at me, nose nudging my hand. Bud kept looking behind him, knowing I’d come for Chella. But, no. Black Beauty was shy, preferring to watch us from a good distance away to see what might unfold. He didn’t want to ‘horn in.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I bit off a good-sized bite of apple and extended my arm and palm between the fence slats, happy to switch my focus to Bud. (Every horse always gets my full attention.) <br>“Hey, there. We haven’t met formally yet. Here’s a treat...” <br>(Just before this meeting I’d popped back into the barn to check with Karen, the Farm’s owner and Boss, that I could do this. (Chris, Bud’s owner, wasn’t there yet.) I ALWAYS ask before feeding a horse I haven’t officially met, as some animals have special needs. Karen grinned, though, and declared he’d be happy to receive the gift.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now comes the fascinating part. <br>Instead of taking it, Bud stared at it, then me, and wheeled around to trot to the other end of the big paddock! I was truly surprised, but didn’t move. Noting this, he finally decided to trot back to me, but stopped just short of taking the prize. Even stretching his neck, he wouldn’t be able to reach my gift-bearing hand. <em>Why</em> was he so reticent? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He stood there, legs firmly planted, head lowered, eyes fixed on me. His nostrils expanded as he took in the apple’s fresh, juicy promise. His ears pointed at my palm’s generous chunk. Oh, he WANTED it! He <em>yearned</em> for it. But Bud moved not one step closer. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Horses sense the changing emotional states of other animals, including humans. If I’d projected irritation or frustration at this queer behavior, he would have turned around and left. I knew this, somehow. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So, imperceptibly relaxing my whole body inch by inch, limb by limb while holding out my arm and apple-filled palm, which rested on the second rail, I waited. And spoke not a word. My face registered only contentment. <br>He studied me for a while, then turned to check on Chella, who remained in the distant background. So again, Bud refocused on me. Even his tail was still. But his nose wasn’t. It told him I was no threat. Nevertheless, he didn’t know me. I wasn’t owner-approved. Furthermore, my behavior was novel. Horses, like all animals, prefer routine. The expected thing. This visit was –confusing and <em>Unexpected</em>. What did I <em>want</em>? Humans always ‘want’ something- usually to catch them and put them to work. The bigger question- <br>Would his Special Human want me here? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">How do I know this? Well, he kept looking hopefully toward the distant stable door. Was she here yet? What should he do? He missed her. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now, let’s pause a bit. <br>Horses and apples go together. They love its sweet, juicy fruit. I’d never <em>heard</em> of a horse not immediately accepting such a gift and happily scooping up the lot. <br>But before me stood an Arabian, a horse who forms a deep bond with his human, looking to him/her for everything that makes life good: enough food, fresh water, safety, shelter, and above all, their Person’s unstinting love, which Arabians return in full measure. <br>Not to say that most horses don’t do this- they DO. <br>Arabians, though, are justly famous for this trait. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So. Here I was, standing there with arm and palm outstretched, motionless. I decided to speak to him in a low murmur. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Bud, humans always come out here to take you somewhere- inside for the farrier, or for a bath, or for the vet to look at and perhaps vaccinate or worm, but they rarely come for no reason. I’m here just to say ‘hi,’ and to offer an apple to you and Chella. <br>That about sums me up.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bud looked back once more at Chella, who continued to stay well away, watching. He looked again at me, sighed and stretched his neck toward me- strrrretched it- <br>Nope. He was still 6 inches too far away. <br>One hind hoof moved forward a scant 3 inches. I didn’t move. After a long, long pause his front hooves crept- and I mean <em>crept</em>—forward. But he still stood a tiny bit too far, so I moved my arm <em>very</em>, very slowly to meet his snail-slow motion- and, for just an instant, we touched. His tongue gently scooped that first yummy chunk into his mouth. <br>It had taken 22 minutes. <br>He stood there, enjoying it, but then stepped back a full pace and anchored his hooves, annoyed with himself for weakening. <br>It would not happen again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I bit off another substantial bite, and as before, extended my loaded palm. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">No way. He was done, and that was that. He stood facing me, neck hung low, still as a stone. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Minutes passed. He did not move. <br>He didn’t leave, though. <br>I didn’t either. I just held to my offer, my mind quiet. I was witnessing, first hand, a stunning demonstration of his allegiance to Chris. He would wait until she came. Then he would know what to do. <br>But oh, it was hard not to take that apple ... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Suddenly, the air around me was charged! Bud raised his elegant head and began to prance in place and nicker, eyes and ears directed straight toward the distant barn. SHE was coming out to play with him! Chris, a tall, slim, jeaned older woman came to the fence and greeted me cheerfully. I quickly explained that I’d gotten Karen’s permission to offer Bud an apple, but that her horse was very unsure... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Chris met his inquiring eyes and said, with a smile, </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Oh, Dee’s fine, Bud. Munch away!” And she laughed, realizing the truth; her horse had waited for her approval. Because now, he ate that apple with gusto and zero hesitation, waiting like a gentleman for each proffered piece. Chris was fascinated when I related, blow by blow, how he’d behaved before she’d come outside. We both marveled; she hadn’t actually experienced this form of allegiance to her before, but she wasn’t particularly surprised. She’d heard stories... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After a bit, she snapped on his lead and they went into the barn together. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Alone now, with another apple in my pocket, I called out again to Chella. <br>He came straight to me. He hadn’t wanted to interfere before, but since his new ‘bud’ was elsewhere... <br>He happily scarfed down every fat chunk I offered. We hung out for a while, and then I bade him goodbye. Chella watched as I strolled back to the barn. I heard a very soft nicker. <br>Goodbye? <br>I think so. <br>I remain deeply affected by the entire incident. <br>He’s settling in well, and, I think, considers himself lucky to be part of this happy, caring place. <br>I, on the other hand, am distinctly <strong>un</strong>settled, undone by these animals’ enormous complexity and sensitivity. <br>This journey is going to be revelatory! </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">P.S: The next day I found the two horses together outside. Bud came to me without hesitation and happily split an apple with Chella. There was no hesitation. I’ll bet there never will be again. </span></em></p>
<p> </p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/57684702019-05-26T00:16:40-04:002019-05-26T00:16:40-04:005/26/19: Country Music<p><span class="font_large">Beautiful Casalae Farms, nestled in the gently hilled countryside outside Traverse City, is a large property framed by clean white fences that accommodate over thirty happy horses who enjoy soaking up mid-spring’s mild-mannered sun. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The natural music that surrounds this place, though, is really something special. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Right now, large numbers of busy barn swallows are industriously building nests and raising their young in the big stable’s high rafters. These sparrow-sized beauties- aerial artists who masterfully snatch insects on the wing- create constant, crisply rapid songs and gossipy chirps that echo throughout the big structure, while the horses rhythmically munch their hay down below. The combination is delightful! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The horses contribute their own calls and comments. Their deep, low nickers are reminiscent of muted kettledrums; their quizzical whinnies rise and then descend two or three octaves from these bass <em>drum</em>bles in shimmery glissandos, just right for Nature’s natural symphony. Toss in the low growl of small tractors, the clatter of buckets, the exclamatory bang of a breeze-slammed door the staff’s laughter and cheerful chatter as they work, and you have the best of country music. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There are more subtle sounds, too; the rustle of hay as the horses nudge and shift their piles; the soft roll of thick wooden stall doors opening and closing; the clip-clop of hooves as the animals are led out or inside; the stable cat’s ‘notice me’ meows- <br>Sometimes I find myself ‘stalled’ in mid-rake, marveling at how it all comes together! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn-dog and I hear birdcalls and songs as we explore the thick, mature forest that lines Silver Lake, a very long, curving body of water very near the Farm. And these are intermingled with the adult robins’ distinctive challenge calls that alert potential trespassers:<em> this territory is taken! </em>Invisible woodpeckers incessantly drill for grubs, and duck parents raucously quack ‘stay together’ reminders as they cruise through the lake’s benign waters trailed by multiple silent babies bobbing behind in long, fluffy lines. The breeze ruffles the long grass and rumples the water, causing it to lick the shore... <br>I usually hum favorite tunes as Bryn scrambles over brambles, downed trees and tenaciously winding English ivy, heading toward some sun-defined spot that wants checking out. A master of stealth, she makes no sound while moving through the jumbled greenery. She’ll not blend with the foliage in Michigan’s warm season, though; her snow-white coat always betrays her, except around high noon, when she disappears into the sun’s intense white light. <br>The way she carries her banner tail speaks volumes about her happy state of mind as we explore exciting scents and sounds. <br>This dear soul is the apple of my eye. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">For over seven decades I’ve longed to be part of stable life in a country setting, and now, here I am, loving the little things- like smoothing Menesson’s mane or flicking bits of sawdust off his big body as I work- or feeding him a honey crisp apple, whose sweet juices he loves. He’ll bite into it carefully so as not to include my fingers. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In warm, sun-washed mornings like this one he frequently stops eating hay- literally pauses in mid-chew- and turns slowly to face me. He looks straight into my eyes, unblinking, thinking horse thoughts. I stand absolutely still so as not to disturb the moment, and look back at him... <br>Within one minute, his sleep-heavy lids droop to exactly half closed. (Prey animals never shut down completely. There is always a measure of vigilance.) <br>He sleeps, as the birds chatter on, filling the air with their soothing sounds. <br>I’ve related this behavior before, I know, but every time it happens I’m thrilled all over again, and perfectly, perfectly happy to simply relax into this spot, with this horse, savoring the sunlight, and surrounded by the barn’s unique country music. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Life can be so rich, and right now, so full of peace.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/57598212019-05-18T21:12:30-04:002019-05-18T21:12:47-04:005/19/19: More Animal Antics...<p><span class="font_large">Bryn loves mornings. She rises at about 6, stretches slowly and luxuriously and, after her morning scratch and a grooming session, I often let her decide where we’ll walk, weather permitting. (She references me regularly regarding street crossings, though, even though she’s ‘on line.’) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We may walk/trot four miles. She’ll lead, setting the pace, and I’ll trot to keep up. A favorite route is often along the great U-scoop of land that defines Grand Traverse Bay, and then through the tunnel under the Grand View Parkway into the neighborhoods near the semi-wild area around Oryana Health Food Co-op at Boardman Lake. Its delectable cooking aromas remind her that her own meal would be prepared as soon as we arrived home. No fool, I’ll remind her of this fact. She’ll cock her head and lick her lips, and off we trot, straight back to my kitchen. <br>By then, I’m always glad. I get quite a lot of exercise from these outings and am ready to roost. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s the thing: I’m in much better physical shape. The improvement is obvious when I find myself able to lift Menesson’s heavy western saddle off the rack and onto the chest-high saddle rack in the crosstie area. <br>I’d struggled to bring it out of the tack room two months ago. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She loves to go with Joe by car to Sunset Park, with its fine picnic area and sandy beach, when I’m at the stable. She’d run like a crazy thing after Joe’s tossed ball, bring it back and drop it at his feet. Her enthusiasm always lasted for <em>precisely two tosses</em>. The third time was typically a different story. She’d dump the ball far away and absolutely wouldn’t retrieve it. In fact, she actually pretended not to know what Joe was talking about. <br>So, he’d have to get up from his bench and find it. It made him really grumpy. <br>Grrrr. <br>Result? Joe, an excellent doggie trainer, popped her into the car and drove her right back home. He’d grown weary of hunting down the toy. If she refused to ‘find’ it, so be it! He could read at home. <br>Bryn was not pleased about leaving her cool park immediately. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> So she thought, hard--- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The next time they went she’d formed a training plan, probably not grasping that <em>his</em> training plan was to leave immediately if she wouldn’t play ball. (Joe likes to toss them.) On this day, he threw and she retrieved. He read his book awhile and then threw another- at her invitation. And another. And another! She brought them all straight back to him. This behavior certainly got his attention. So many home runs! <br>What was happening? <br>It went on for maybe twenty-five flings and fetches, until both parties were satisfied. Joe was impressed! He enjoyed seeing her exercise, and she bought lots of extra time to sniff around the area and chase gulls, and then keep Joe happy by running run fast and happily after every long toss <em>she'd</em> requested. Best of all, she hadn’t abandoned her ball far away- not even <em>once</em>. <br>Just <strong>who</strong> is training <strong>whom</strong>, hmmm? <br>Such delicious speculation! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One more really fun, stunning thing: <br>I was cleaning Menesson’s big stall the other day when he came over to me and gave my knuckles a lick or two. <br>--And then, he looked at my rake’s vaguely pointed red plastic tines, which I happened to be holding over the big poo-filled bucket- <br> --And <u>then</u>, after sniffing them carefully, he began to rub his muzzle and cheeks back and forth along their tips, at first very gently and tentatively, then with more confidence and vigor! Those big, dark eyes caught mine. Amazed, I realized what my job was--to steady that rake so he could indulge in a satisfying scratch that <em>he</em> controlled. <br>It wasn’t easy. Menesson is a powerful horse. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ahhh-! Half-lidded, he tested different pressures and angles of approach. Scratch, scrrrratch scratch! <br>His obvious pleasure was my reward. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Maybe he gets a kick out of using familiar things in different ways, just for fun. (Remember when he’d flung a big mouthful of hay at me the other day? He has two fat rubber horse balls in there to fling around, but instead, he’d wisely chosen to hurl hay my way...and I’d cheerfully tossed some right back...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Had Menesson actually pondered that familiar rake’s usefulness as a <em>face</em>-scratching muckraker? <br>Jeez! <br>Do you think??</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/57517432019-05-12T10:41:15-04:002019-05-12T10:41:15-04:005/12/19: Power, Leashed and Unleashed <p><span class="font_large">Joe, Bryn and I enjoy long hikes through lovely forested areas in and near Traverse City. Two weeks ago we hitched her to my bike using the BTL (Bike Tow Leash, a marvelous invention) to traverse the trail that winds part way around Boardman Lake. As the temperature remained firmly in the 50s, with smatterings of rain, not many folks had ventured out, so she was released from the BTL and allowed to run free near us. We generally move at a trot’s pace so she can pause to sniff and still catch up easily. <br>Somewhere along the way, though, she put a front paw down wrong, resulting in a sprain. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Noticing that she was lagging behind, we stopped. She trotted over to offer the sore paw to Joe, who found no tenderness or obvious injury. Nevertheless, we took our time going home, allowing Bryn to set the pace. She trotted the pretty path, frequently stopping to inspect a spot, showing only her cheerful aspect. <br>But there was that small limp. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Arriving home we agreed that rest was best; we’d walk everywhere for a week or three to allow her foot to recover. Our sojourns since then have been mostly along Grand View Parkway, following paths that border Grand Traverse Bay and its spectacular views. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Yesterday, though, discovering that no dogs were in the Garfield Recreational Area’s dog park we hiked along a small portion of Silver Lake’s meandering, wild shoreline, then popped up again to walk the .7 mile long paved trail. <br>But Bryn saw, in the distance, that three dogs <em>were</em> in the dog park now. She bumped my leg to catch my attention, and I followed her gaze. <br>Ha! Time to socialize! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I was fine with the long walk across the meadow to that place, and she entered the park to gleeful barks from three other canines. They dashed about while I chatted with their owners, laughing when two Australian shepherds and Bryn tried to outrun each other. <br>It was a draw. <br>A few minutes later, though, I noticed Bryn sitting by my side watching the fray, but not joining in. <br>“Hey, girl; why sit it out? Are you tired so soon?’ <br>She looked up at me, raised her paw, held it in a protective position, and kept her eyes locked on mine. <br>“Oh... it’s bothering you again? Poor Brynnie...Let me look.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I moved it around and pressed her pads; she gave no sign of distress. But still... <br>I suggested that we leave and she wagged her tail once. “<em>Yes, Boss; it still hurts a little...” </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The other owners were quiet. Bryn had just ‘talked’ with me. One woman said, “THAT was pretty clear! Wow. Did she hurt her paw recently?” <br>I explained, and we four decided that Bryn’s supercharged rush around the area had probably re-irritated her recent injury. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Let’s head for the car,” I suggested. Your paw needs more rest, so we’ll take it easy for a few more days...” <br>Bryn wagged once and followed me toward the gate. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Another owner commented, “I wish my dog was as easy as yours to work with; I took Pirate to a trainer because he’s so boisterous, and the guy worked hard on him for months, but he still doesn’t listen to me.” She shrugged and sighed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ahh- I linked her now to the very large, beautiful adolescent golden doodle who had rushed up behind me at the far gate where I was slowly walking to search for and collect Bryn’s poo. <br>How can I describe this... He’d slammed into my back and completely encircled me from behind, <em>using his front legs like arms.</em> He weighed at least 85-90 pounds. I would have been flattened had he not clasped me tightly. It was shocking, and weird! <br>After a struggle, I’d managed to dislodge his paw ‘arms’ and steady myself. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This sort of misbehavior is a most serious breach of protocol. That big dog had literally tackled (some would say ‘mounted’) me, not respecting my space, or <em>his</em> place in the hierarchy. (The first rule Bryn learned was <em>never</em> to jump up on any human.) This dog had looked surprised when I’d peeled him off (which wasn’t easy) and firmly reprimanded him. Unaware of his ‘trespass’ he’d cheerfully bounded away, leaving me unnerved and angry. I’d nearly been brought down. I could have been seriously injured. His forever leader hadn’t reinforced the FIRST RULE: </span></p>
<p><strong><span class="font_large">Never overwhelm (jump on, slam into) humans, whether little or large. </span></strong></p>
<p><span class="font_large">All humans are Alphas for dogs. One special human, though, is a dog’s pack <u>leader</u>, as well. <br>A dog trainer can’t successfully teach important behavioral rules when a dog owner doesn’t consistently enforce them. Trainers are temporary Alphas. Dogs understand this. But. Their personal human, the essential soul who provides a home, regular food and water, and a bed, and lots of affection, is with them forever. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But he/she often doesn’t lead. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Off lead, a dog gets lost. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s the thing: Pirate has <em>quite reasonably</em> decided that <em>He</em> is Alpha. Here we have a two-to-three-year-old (in human intelligence terms) who’s found himself ‘in charge,’ in a largely incomprehensible world. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Pirate, at sea now, innocently thinks: <br><em>Cool! I’m the leader! </em><br>But he’s barely three years old- a toddler. <br>Forever. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Most dogs are at once unnerved and intrigued by the realization that because their Alpha has abdicated, they rule the roost. Loved, secure, but ignorant of, or unimpressed with, rules that have no teeth, they become too bold. Too confident. Often aggressive when their position is challenged. <br>Without knowledge of, or respect for, normal social ‘fences,’ or of the larger world’s complicated operating manual, they bump into Trouble with a capital T. <br>The results are predictable. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">On a brighter note: <br>I was cleaning Menesson’s roomy stall yesterday when he quietly came up behind me to nuzzle my hair and neck. We canoodled for a minute before I resumed gathering up some hay that had been scattered by his hooves as he’d walked from his hay pile to his water bucket to dunk a big mouthful into it. (Menesson likes to moisten hay before eating it. Hay is expensive, so I try to retrieve what he drops or inadvertently drags along.) <br>He watched as I reunited these yummy dribs and drabs with the rest of his hay pile. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, another bit of magic happened. <br>He carefully collected a big, loose mouthful, turned toward me and – I kid you not- flung those dry sheaves straight at me with a firm toss of his beautiful head! <br>He was playing! <br>I stood there, openmouthed, dripping hay. <em>Oh, Lord, here’s another mental photograph to treasure forever... </em><br>I snatched away some bits clinging crazily to my unruly thatch and tossed them back at him, laughing. Menesson shook out his mane and resumed eating while keeping one eye on me. I saw amusement there. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This wonderful horse lowers his head when I ask, tries to keep his shod feet where they belong, and is so very gentle when little children are placed on his back. He always strives to please. Most stallions, full of testosterone, have to be handled with great care, skill and total attention. They can be unpredictable, and even dangerous, in inattentive hands. Menesson, though, is truly exceptional, the soul of propriety. Aware of his own immense power, he always keeps it in check. He knows the rules, and loves, trusts and respects his human Alphas, who love, trust and respect him, their Alpha horse, right back. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Having consistent, responsible leaders to depend on in a confusing world is immensely reassuring. <br>It’s a Fine thing when he, and we, measure up. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> ***** </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">P.S. There are many ways to stop jumping-on-people behavior. I offer a few inexpensive suggestions: </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">Buy a $3 hand-held vibrating buzzer, sold at jokester shops or on the web, used to rattle/startle people one shakes hands with (a very popular practical joke item in the ‘50s.) Wind it up, put the looped cord over your middle finger, palm it, and then press it against the dog’s nose or any part of his face while shouting “NO!” when he jumps on you. The gadget’s utterly harmless <u>vibration</u>, along with the sound it makes, is quite disconcerting. Doggie’s horrified. Then, cautious. Once or twice is usually enough. I recommend buying 3 or 4 to pass around to friends, so he doesn’t think it’s only you that he must avoid leaping on. Set up the situation, then solve the problem. (Oh- don’t purchase the one-buck ones. They’ll fall apart almost immediately.) </span></em><em><span class="font_large"> </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">Or, buy super-cheap teeny-tiny balloons (at party stores); fill with a bit of cold water; hold between your fingers, <u>untied</u>. Make it ‘pee’ on the dog’s nose and face when he jumps on you, or on friends. (Do this trick outside.) The objectionable behavior will quickly extinguish, saving potentially huge lawsuit ‘bites’ to your wallet when your dog eventually knocks down and inadvertently injures a child (or old duffer, like me) who might decide to sue for medical expenses for that broken hip. ‘An ounce of prevention...’ </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">Or, for the more agile, knee the offender in the chest, or step on his toes. Every time. Always shout “NO!” while the behavior is happening. </span></em><br><em><span class="font_large">Or, snap his nose with your thumb and middle finger. A dog’s nose is his whole life. He’s very protective of it. </span></em><br><em><span class="font_large">Snapping stings. </span></em><br><em><span class="font_large">The objectionable behavior will disappear. Use on any dog, especially YOUNG ones. </span></em><br><em><span class="font_large">Nip the behavior in the bud.</span></em></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/57433992019-05-04T23:05:35-04:002019-05-04T23:05:35-04:005/05/19: How to Slow Time... <p><span class="font_large">Bryn-dog has decided to shed like there’s no tomorrow. Labradoodles aren’t supposed to shed buckets, but it seems that she excels in this, too. This week alone I’ve extracted great quantities of her white, downy fur. She happily sits on the walk, half-lidded, enjoying my ministrations. Every now and then she’ll give a soft groan of satisfaction. <br>I love performing this long, leisurely service. <br>It needs doing once daily, and now I can do it outside. Birds watch from trees as hair floats off, with most of it snatched back and stuffed into the hairnet that dangles from the dogwood tree as an open invitation. The hairnet keeps the soft, airy stuff from misting the garden with white, and it pleasures me to know that her soft down will pad their nests. Sometimes, though, I’ll release wisps into the brisk wind so sparrows can swoop down to gather it in. <br>There’s SO much! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A few days ago I took her to the beach on a decently warm day and she suddenly exploded into a joyful, flat-out dash up and down its length while snatching small sticks from the golden sand to fling into the air as she raced along. Such exuberance! It was her first visit there in ages. Ice, snow and icy winds over this long, awful winter had made such excursions impossible. Now, these spring ecstasy fits are a joy to watch! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Menesson, the stately stallion who’s helping me learn the finer points of riding, is shedding massive quantities, too. Like Bryn’s hair, it’s pure white. A few days ago, after quietly cleaning his big stall as he ate, I led him down the corridor to the cross-tie place and began grooming him prior to riding. I always love this time. <br>Great quantities were snared with every swipe of the long, flexible blade. How could so much come away and he not go bald? <br>Ha! There’s no danger of that happening! <br>Every bit of his vast real estate needs attention, but no matter how meticulous I am, there’s always more. <br>I took my time and he stood there quietly, enjoying the attention. Especially when I moved down his powerful legs. They are so very beautiful. I now know his happy places. Just above his hooves are the four best ones. Leg grooming paralyzes him. Not a whisker moves. Now he went half-lidded, like Bryn, and even his ears were quiet as I hummed almost inaudibly and brushed with long strokes from the top of his neck down to his hooves. Time can slow to a crawl, doing this... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A few days ago, after we two worked hard for over an hour in the arena, I groomed him again before walking him back to his clean stall. Sunbeams streamed into the huge open barn doors right next to his roomy home. Ah, that warmth and light felt so good! I buckled his big coat on again, though- it was still only 49 degrees out there- and he resumed eating hay in his favorite corner. <br>I wasn’t ready to leave just yet, as I love standing there quietly, breathing in this beautiful place in spring. <br>Suddenly, he stopped chewing, turned to face the stall door, and walked two strides to me to bump my chest gently. I stroked his ears, moved one hand to his cheek and stood there, facing him. <br>I went still. <br>Then, something really special happened. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Menesson went absolutely still, too. He stood there, nose just above my head for a very long moment, and then, his eyes blinked, fell to half-mast— <br>and then, he was sound asleep. <br>Just like that. <br>Right there. <br>With my raised hand still resting on the side of his face he breathed in and out so slowly, so faintly, standing ankle-deep in fresh hay with the sun’s fresh light enhancing minute dust motes that hung suspended, decorating the air ------ <br>There we were, in the fog of a dream state <br>I guessed later that this peaceful magic lasted for some five minutes, with Time seeming to slow way down, to pause... <br>I was, in a word, spellbound.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/57349632019-04-27T21:36:19-04:002019-04-27T21:36:19-04:004/28/19: Other Lives<p><span class="font_large">This spring will be like no other, for I’m moving firmly into my new life with horses. My beloved secret garden will be open only very occasionally, and will look much simpler- because, with laser-beam intensity, I am utterly focused on learning to be a competent, confident rider, a goal that demands large amounts of time and mental and physical strength, not to mention funds. All are in short supply. <br>I’m on a very short tether any way you look at it. <br>And, I can’t serve two masters. Not well. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Nine months ago I entered a stable, found I could breathe without blisters, and nothing has been the same since that day. I’m studying hard, trying to stuff more than 70 years without horses into a few months of near-total immersion. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Odd observations keep rearing up, making me smile. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In the beginning, about 8 months ago, I rode instinctively. Now, with expert instruction, I’ve markedly improved. Instinct is in <em>partnership</em> with skill. It’s gonna be a great marriage. Especially as I’m so incredibly motivated to make it work. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Yesterday I bought a pair of western riding boots. <br>They do look odd. My mother was right to march me back to the cowboy store when I was 12 and make me return the huge (but well-fitted) boots I’d purchased with money I’d earned working odd jobs over two years. I weighed 89 pounds, was 58 inches tall and possessed size 9 feet. I looked absolutely ridiculous and didn’t care, but she did. I’d gone one step too far. She bawled out the baffled clerk after reclaiming my money. “Where’s your common sense? She’s a bug, wallowing in boats!” <br>So I sent away for a rubber saddle designed to fit over my bike’s seat. My long-suffering mom threw up her hands. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe and I went to Tractor Supply to see if ‘duck feet syndrome’ would manifest as powerfully today, but it turned out not to matter. I just wanted to own an honest-to-God pair of cowboy boots. I’m around 100 pounds, 60 inches tall and my feet haven’t shrunk. Not a millimeter. $100 buck square-toed, turquoise-colored cowboy boots are hard to ignore. I flapped happily around the store admiring the things. (Pointy-toed boots look <strong>so</strong> outrageous on me that it’s hard to stop laughing. At least these square-toed ones offer more room for my flappers.) <br>The duck is there, but I don’t care. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">As for horse heroes, there is one, Secretariat, the greatest racehorse of the twentieth century. He left all those horses in the dust at the Belmont Stakes, winning the Triple Crown with embarrassing ease on June 9, 1973 at 1:35 p.m. I saw it all. His jockey, Ron Turcotte, is a genius. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Another thing deeply puzzles me. Last July I was put on a splendid horse, and I knew immediately what to do. I rode all the gaits, including a sitting trot, with not one twinge of soreness. That first marvelous day I very reluctantly dismounted after only twenty minutes of heaven, partly because I was worried to death that I’d be too sore to ride again for days. <br>But Nothing happened. <br>This is weird, any way you look at it. I’ve heard comments that I’m just in denial or won’t admit it, as if it’s something to hide, but I don’t lie. Lying about anything is exhausting. One must keep track of fibs forever... <br>Being sore <em>goes with the territory</em>. I’d have no problem admitting aching muscles. But why am I NOT aching? <br>Just for the <em>science</em> of it, I’d <em>love</em> to understand what’s going on. <br>This –absence – really works for me, though. No muscle pain provides more precious time to laser-concentrate on the finer points of horsemanship. <br>Is this an example of ‘mind over matter?’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I wonder, because for 70 years I’ve had an incredibly busy nightlife. <br>Some deep part of me has been working all those decades on balance, posture, <em>reading</em> these animals through the reins, through my saddle, my fingers- <br>SOMETHING indefinable has been at work. Even when I had no hope whatever of getting anywhere near these beautiful creatures. <br>My ‘dream Boss,’ for example, would boost me up onto a racehorse and I’d competently ride him, and lots of other steeds, around a track as an experienced exercise girl. In any weather. The sort of riding I practiced was rather like ‘two-point.’ I would hover over the diminutive, short-stirrup saddle and we two would move with such speed and power! Racing is dangerous, exhilarating, and gloriously FAST. I was built for it. I would have been very good at it. <br>Brains are queer things. They tend to cling to certain (hopeless) hopes, and magnify them. And dreams can be incredibly persistent. Could they somehow affect my muscle memory? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">These nights, though, I lie down and immediately fall asleep without dreaming. <br>For Heaven’s sake, I’m living it. <br>Plus- <br>I’m just too pooped to participate. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In early 2019 my teacher had to remind me more than once not to assume a racing posture. I haven’t tried to explain that it has to do with muscle memory developed and strengthened for decades- in deeply established dreams. <br>That stance had become a habit. <br>He’d think me totally <em>weird</em>, and he’d be absolutely right. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">As for the inherent risk in all this? I might be dumped PDQ. Or not. All I can do is work hard and learn fast. <br>Garnering more skill makes for more control of myself, and the horse. <br>Life's a risk. So is love. But love trumps trepidation. I’m careful out there. I so want this miracle to last. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sometimes I like to sketch what I see. The Farm is beautiful, especially in spring. Drawing makes me really SEE the details. And appreciate them more. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There’s one thing my pencil and I know for certain: Yeah, crocs, dung beetles, jackals, sawgrass, mosquitoes and people are fascinating to draw. It helps one to see why they are all about armor, balls, fangs, spears, needles and bloat. Not exactly poetry in motion. But they’re <em>out there, everywhere</em>, and therefore interesting and special... <br>But, in designing even the humblest flowers, and the stunning Equus Caballus, God finally got it exactly right. </span></p>
<p> </p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/57271052019-04-20T22:40:44-04:002021-02-22T06:53:44-05:004/21/19: Cinder Blocks and Dead Shots <p><span class="font_large">Menesson, Casalae Farms’ champion Arabian stud stallion, is a bright, educated horse who has recently turned 23 years old. He’s quietly absorbed a lot of English along the way. And, he’s a dead shot. Read on... <br><br>Today I walked up to his roomy stall’s window sill and greeted him. He was facing the back wall’s corner munching heaped hay, but turned his beautiful head toward me, recognizing my voice. <br>“I brought an apple for you, big guy,” said I, and his perfect ears perked up. He left his breakfast then and came to me, poking his head over the sill. A long strand of hay still dangled from his mouth, giving him a rakish look. Grinning, I pulled it out and proffered the apple. <br>“Take a bite while I hold it.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He did. He bit down on a reasonable-sized piece of the succulent apple and gently took it in. After contentedly munching its sweet juices he carefully chopped off another bite while I held on tight, and chewed that one with pensive enjoyment. Two more bites disappeared the same way. Then we were down to its long, seeded core. I offered this last bit on my palm and he expertly scooped it up. <br>After sniffing my hands one final time, just in case, he continued to munch the last remnants while I admired his face, his large, dark eyes, surrounded by a thick liner of black skin, which emphasizes their beauty ---wait! <br>Both eyes harbored large, hard black ‘sleep sand’ at their inner corners. <br>Hmmm. Would he allow me to remove them? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Well, just ask. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Menesson, your eyes want cleaning; would you please lower your head so I can?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Without hesitation, he did exactly <em>that</em>. Tears welled, mostly from awe. <br><em>Don’t stand there mimicking a gobsmacked codfish. He might change his mind! <br>I raised my hands to begin. </em><br>At that, his head came down even lower, toward my chest, and then- he closed his eyes. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My God. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Approaching his left eye first I used both hands to cup his face, and gently dislodged, then eased, a big black ‘cinder’ out of its corner and chucked it away. He kept chewing the apple core, still ‘in the dark.’ I switched smoothly to his shuttered right eye. When he felt that one loosen and vanish he opened them again, raised his head, shook it and snorted. I stood there, keeping my face pleasant and calm. “Good boy. All done.” (But I <em>wanted</em> to punch the air, hop around and shout, “We’re communicating!”) <br>He turned back toward breakfast, displaying his big, rumpled, buckled coat more fully. He’d been down during the cold night. Clinging straw and sawdust revealed which side he’d favored. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I began to clean his home in a fog of delight while he ate and amicably shifted position once to allow me room to snatch up a big poop pile huddled against the wall, half-hidden by hay. <br>Resistance is futile. Not one escapes my fork. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Oh, and just for fun, Menesson couldn’t resist demonstrating another self-taught skill. He knew what that bucket was for and got a kick out of demonstrating it once again. <br>With a flourish, he backed up to it, and, after measuring twice with his hind hooves to make sure he was centered, raised his tail and pooped into it. Every ‘baseball’ scored a home run. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I cheered and chuckled and he made a celebratory circle around his stall before returning to his hay. Grinning, I carried on collecting the rest of what gardeners call ‘black gold.’ All of this horse-recycled food residue will be recycled yet again...and again... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My fork made almost no noise. Good. <br>Animals prefer to dine in peace and quiet. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I walk into the stable knowing I’ll walk out wiser, or laughing, or both...What fun!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/57189982019-04-14T00:12:07-04:002019-04-14T00:12:07-04:004/14/19: Different Strokes <p><span class="font_large">Horses have, I think, largely given up trying to connect with humans the way they once did. Twenty-first-century humans seem to be hurry-up creatures with considerable visual and auditory blocks in place when mingling with the lower orders, or with children. Our species doesn’t adequately grasp other mammals’ private minds, largely because these ventures take a lot of time, not to mention big doses of patience. One has to be willing to study the subtle cues that aid in interpreting what’s going on in, say, an equine mind. <br>There is so much to know. <br>We do acknowledge their very considerable physical power, their beauty, and their willingness to serve our needs. But how many of us know their special pleasure spots? Or what they consider fun? Or what sounds soothe, or annoy? Or when they’re lonely? Happy? Sad? Pleased? Appreciative? <br>Different mammals aren’t all that different. <br>Take grooming, a regular happening, as an example. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I used a typical grooming brush on my own arm and leg. I ran it through my hair, too. Brushes must pass those ‘feel’ tests to join my box of grooming goodies. My hands, though, are my primary ambassadors in the Touch Department. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Blake, the big thoroughbred gelding at Sunshine Farms whom I often ride, saw me coming today and moved toward his stall’s open area to say hello. We bumped noses. I held his head and smoothed his face. (Blake doesn’t mind being face-touched- when he’s given me permission to take that liberty.) <br>Speaking quietly to him I shucked my gloves and offered my bare hands, palms up. He lowered his head, signaling that I could move them gently up and down the sides of his face. He issued forth a deep sigh, flapped his nose and stuck his head high and out, a signal that he’d welcome a nose scratch to the area just above his mouth. When I obliged, using my short-nailed fingers very softly, his eyes closed and those sensitive whiskers twitched... (If he’d turned his head away, even slightly, I would have backed off.) <br>Now I shook my head from side to side, for fun. <br>So, Blake snorted and shook his! <br>“How about this?” I queried, nodding vigorously, up and down. <br>Blake nodded, too, and whinnied, amused. <br>He cocked his head, waay over to one side. <br>I grinned, and copied him, singing, “I’m only a cockeyed optimist...” (This song’s from a movie- South Pacific, I think...) <br>Whinny-grins rippled through the stable. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Blake and I have a thing... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Today, though, I would ride Sunshine Farms’ Ditto, a smaller, sturdy, stocky horse with a stand-up bristle-brush dark mane interwoven with grey. His hair is a lovely deep brown color, decorated with generous splashes of white and grey appaloosa spots sprinkle-scattered lavishly over his hindquarters. Some of these variously sized bubble bath-looking ‘circles’ tumble down his flanks, too. The effect is delightful! <br>Appaloosas are gorgeous creatures. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ditto always fidgets- I could say- ‘dances’- when cross-tied for grooming, which happens before saddling. I showed him a big brush I’d selected, and after he sniffed it carefully I began to explore ways of quieting his “must we?’ behavior. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The first rule here, to my way of thinking, is: never bang that big tool down. <br>I lowered it gently to his skin and began the long trip from the top of his neck to his behind and then a little way down his back leg, pressing just enough to collect shedding hair, but not hard enough to make him shift away. He shifted anyway. I’d guessed wrong. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Each horse reaches a point where stepping away from pressure happens. Ditto shifted sideways as soon as he felt the brush. I persisted, repeating the long, gentle strokes, using my left hand to inform him where each beginning place would be. About ten strokes later I’d located some pressure parameters, and so adjusted the pressure to accommodate each one. <br>But- when I drew it all the way down his back leg he stopped dancing around and stood still as a leaf on a dead calm afternoon. I slowly repeated the stroke, sliding down to the fetlock. Just under each one is a ‘sweet spot.’ I gently moved the brush back and forth between fetlock and hoof, about a 4-inch indentation perfectly fitted to my tool. While <em>it </em>moved slowly, slowly back and forth, Ditto <em><u>didn’t</u></em> move. He was entranced. <br>This is always hugely rewarding. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A while later he blew out a long snort-sigh. I stepped back to check his posture. There he stood, hung low, one hind foot cocked. All in all, a happy horse. In brushing him a little differently I’d begun to change his opinion of the procedure. I’d made the experience pleasant, and almost sensual. <br>“Jeez, Dee, You can apply four times as much pressure and get a ton more hair with short brisk strokes...” True. <br>I thanked Robin for her advice and carried on, my way. I love to learn their shapes, their most/least sensitive places, and their tolerance levels, while still keeping him tidy. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hmmm. What would happen if I tried to brush his head? Horses are very protective of that area. <br>Wow! Lots of indignant, vigorous head flinging happened as he made it clear that the brush was unwelcome anywhere near his ears and eyes. NO Way. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So I began again softly, high up on his neck, very near his poll. Three minutes later he’d settled down again, so I carefully inched the brush up to the left side of his temple, employing just the top and side of its medium- soft bristles to trace around his ears and eyes, then down his face. (Near his eye, my hand formed a protective barrier he could feel.) My low, murmured crooning never stopped. He lowered his head just a bit as I brushed gently, murmuring about whatever popped into my head, making the words blurry, soft, toneless, while seamlessly shifting to other spots on his neck, perhaps just under that funny, upstanding mane, before returning to his face for a few more gentle seconds. <br>He stood, hung low, half-lidded. <br>Ditto was totally relaxed. <br>Never push a good thing, thought I, and quietly switched to his mid-back, leading with my hand, touching him where the brush would connect a second later. He never had to wonder where it would land, or how hard the landing would be. Every one was always soft. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Horses are as sensitive as we are. When a dot-sized spider octi-creeps over our skin, we know. Ditto for horses. Every contact, even from a mosquito’s feet, is registered. <br>When I first groom a horse the skin ripples; there is an immediate shift away from that tool’s pressure. Horses anticipate what’s coming, but have been gently taught early in life to submit. It's no big deal, so they do. <br>Every animal is different. Most horses don’t mind being groomed in the usual way. Others dislike the procedure, but accept it as an immutable part of life. The three horses I’ve groomed have very definite opinions, so I decided to experiment with the different cleaning tools on offer to achieve a clean body with no inching away, and no flinching. <br>I strive for head droops. Cocked hooves. Relaxed postures. Deep sighs. <br>When I get it <em>right</em>, skin rippling and shift-fidgeting stop. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now a quiet, faintly surprised Ditto stood there, settling into enjoyment. <br>I love this. I just love it. It’s my blue ribbon. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ve been very surprised to discover that I like to groom almost as much as I like to ride. I’ve imagined myself grooming horses for 70 years, finding the rhythm of it a nice way to drift into sleep. <br>Oh—another thing: I had no idea horses have big cowlicks! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Is there a particular place that has ‘paralyzed’ the trio? <br>Oh, yes. <br>All had gone perfectly still when I gently brushed just below their fetlocks <em>horizontally</em>, back and forth, letting the bristles accommodate to that indentation. It’s as though Nature designed the four-inch wide space to exactly fit grooming brushes. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I should add that there is no rushing, here. Time slows as I explore their vast real estate, test pressure points, feel each muscle group, each tendon, employing hand and brush while humming or murmuring a sort of auditory ‘bath’ of soft sounds that seem to soothe both of us. By the way, I may have to repeat this ritual for a few days before I discern less agitation and more anticipation. <br>This sort of grooming takes as long as it takes. <br>I work, feel and listen; he feels, signals and trusts. We are ‘learning’ each other in auditory and tactile ways. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There is the horse, <br>There is me, <br>And finally, if I'm lucky, we join up. </span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/57105792019-04-07T08:21:42-04:002019-04-07T08:21:42-04:004/07/19: Lame Brain Syndrome <p><span class="font_large">During about three hours for four weekday mornings, from around 8:30 to 11 or so I groom the Farm’s stallion, Menesson, which can take me 30 minutes, as I love going over his powerful body with a sort of massage/brushing, and tend to linger over it. Then I tack him up, ride and learn, cool him down, brush him again, get him back into his huge, buckled blanket and lead him back to his stall. <br>I am <em>never</em> sore, physically tired, or nervous. Just supremely happy. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn is always near, watching the fun, or snoozing. She and Menesson enjoy watching each other while I work on technique, balance, natural aids, etc. and relish every minute with my beautiful Arabian friend. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But, I suddenly realized I might have a big problem. Weekday mornings my teacher is busy with other Farm business, so I’d be responsible for saddling and bridling him. <em>That</em> is no problem. There are always folks there I can ask to help me heave his heavy saddle up onto his back, and set it down gently. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><strong>But</strong>. There were many saddles and bridles in the first tack room! Which two were his? Yeah, this is an odd question. But the reasons for asking it are- reasonable. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After being broadsided by a truck that slammed into me at 55 mph in October of 2002, my brain’s ‘wiring’ has been jumbled substantially, causing oddities to manifest themselves now and then. At first, I didn’t know my own family or any of my garden’s flowers. I had to relearn everything. It took a year or two. Gradually, over the last decade or so, other brain changes have revealed themselves. (One neurologist warned I might notice other odd puzzles ‘down the road.’) <br>He was right. As time passed, I’ve unexpectedly found myself unable to differentiate individual objects when they are part of a group of the same sort. This phenomenon is extremely selective: it doesn’t appear when dealing with my car in huge mall parking lots, for example. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The tack room holds many Western (and some English) saddles packed closely together. When presented with this total picture every day I’d skim the room generally as my teacher chose what she needed. I’d see a sea of saddles sometimes covered by saddle pads of different colors. No matter how many times the correct saddle was brought out I perceived just -a saddle, not THE saddle. Unwisely, I ignored these pictorial blurs, anticipating only the end result- to ride. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’d been so engrossed in learning how to clean and polish saddles, clean stalls, clean horses, and cram everything about how to be a decent rider into my head for another five hours a day with internet courses, plus The Farm’s excellent teachers- that I neglected to consider that a ‘blur’ might occur. <br>I see only the Mane thing... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It would have been much smarter to set aside time, just in case, to: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- Memorize the relevant saddle’s <em>position</em>. (But alas, that sometimes changed.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- or, Photograph the salient <em>particulars</em> of the correct saddle- but only <u>that</u> one. Screening out the other saddles is a tricky business, though. And standing in the tack room, learning just <em>one</em>, is, well, peculiar for folks coming in and going out. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The third choice always works. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- Ask for help. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">While embarrassing, doing this without dithering moves me quicker toward my goal: to ride. But asking someone at the stable to pick out Menesson’s saddle, after eight months of my sitting on it, would certainly have elicited incredulous looks. <br>Explanations would be long and awkward; eyebrows would remain in hairlines anyway. <br>Heck, <em>mine</em> would. Quirks like this one are— one step beyond. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So, I texted my teacher that same evening and briefly asked for saddle/bridle identifier clues, offering no details about why. She immediately texted me what I needed, including the relevant saddle’s decorative white stitching and location, and that it had a broken latigo keeper on its <em>left</em> side. <br>Wouldn’t you know-- differentiating ‘left’ from ‘right’ is nearly impossible post-accident. So I left out ‘left,’ and simply looked for a broken latigo keeper (a two-inch wide, 4-inch long strip of leather with a rectangular opening where the cinch strap is tucked. (Its profile reminds me of a fat jar lid opener, only softer). <br>THAT- plus the stitching details- did the trick. Poof. The black hole vanished. Menesson’s saddle will always be easy to spot. <br>That’s the good news. Once the object is firmly identified, the hole is history. In fact, I’ll see ONLY that one saddle. <br>Weird. But I’ll take what I can get. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">{I have a similar problem with individual faces. Post-accident, old friends, acquaintances and even neighbors I haven’t seen in a while have come through my secret garden and, seeing me, strike up a cheerful conversation. But I’ll often find myself at a loss to exactly place many of them, especially if previous contact hasn’t happened in the spot we’re in at the moment, but maybe out in the front garden, or downtown, or downstate... <br>A few folks do sense, perhaps from my lost look (which comes and goes in a flash, just before my brain shuts down), that it would help to say their names and general location –“Hi! It’s Chloe Cadeedlehopper, from three doors down...” and then, I have her!} </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Anyway- <br>I gave up trying to locate Menesson’s bridle, though I’d put it on him more than once, and dealt with its various buckles, etc. There are countless bridles in there, many hanging together, which present as a spaghetti-jumble of strappy, looped, narrow, dark leather strips. <br>It’s one thing for me to seek an object, but quite a different thing to SEE it. Bingo. <br>Instant shutdown. <br>A visual black hole opened. <br>I ground my teeth. <br>Fortunately, another teacher, Tom, merely smiled when I confessed I couldn’t pick it out, even with my teacher’s texted particulars, which I read out to him. He went straight to one that looked like all the others, plucked it from its hook and said, cheerfully, “This one should work just fine.” <br>It did work, and I rode and learned for over an hour, feeling thrilled that I’d had the sense not to bridle-dither. When I speak up here, these problems disappear. <br>Oh- and I’ve since studied the correct bridle carefully. I’m 98% sure I’ve got it nailed, too. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Pound sand, lamebrain!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/57014032019-03-31T09:21:08-04:002019-03-31T09:21:08-04:003/31/19: Low Humor and High Jinks <p><span class="font_large"><em>Almost</em> everything features poop today---in a roundabout sort of way. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Humans tend to think of the ‘lower’ animals who share our lives- cats, birds, dogs, etc. -as being ‘dumb’ in the sense that they aren’t capable of reasoning things out. Therefore, they can’t make a plan- can they? <br>Well, they’re often <em>physically</em> lower, but certainly not incapable of creating flexible, adjustable mental constructs in order to survive, and thrive, in this complex world. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn, my labradoodle, shall serve as one example. <br>This past winter was particularly tough. Temperatures nestled in the basement, competing successfully with our freezers as they hovered around minus four degrees. Ice and deep snow blanketed the better part of Michigan, forcing me to opt out of walking Bryn each dark morning, for safety reasons. Instead, I regretfully let her out back into the secret garden, where she had been taught never to do her business. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Puzzled, she sat on the white walk that first time, looking into the kitchen’s big window, head cocked, flanked by very deep snow. <br><em>Are you sure, Boss? ‘The Rule’.... </em><br>I stared back, blinkless, in answer to her silent query, so finally, she looked around, thought about it for a good while, then decided. She would pee only in the Ram’s Head Garden beds and poop as close to its outer edge as possible. <br>I more completely appreciated that adjustment to ‘exigent circumstances’ only yesterday, when I took advantage of Traverse City’s heat wave- 42 degrees!- to further collect her winter droppings. (Nearly four feet of snow had gone, making the job easy.) <br>When presented with this huge Rule change, Bryn had taken just minutes to sort it out and adapt to suit both of us. The evidence lay before me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I predict that, in warm weather, she will NOT use the garden as her WC, having worked out <em>seasonal</em> Rule changes. This can’t be taught. It develops when an animal learns to respond flexibly to the countless novel, often inexplicable situations that Life presents. Bryn’s Alpha had made an exception to the Rule; she would, too, despite her uneasiness. <br>There’d be more proof that this former sin was canceled when she came back in. <br>“Good girl,” I said, assuming a benign expression as I held the kitchen door open. <br><em>Ahhh</em>. <br>She settled happily into breakfast. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> *** </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I often help the staff to clean stalls, a daily task. I really enjoy the job. A few days ago I slipped into Menesson’s much larger one to address the mess. (Casalae Farm’s magnificent Arabian stud stallion is ‘my’ horse to learn on, most of the time.) As King, he occupies the biggest stall. <br>He greeted me with tossing head, then pushed his nose into my chest, nickering. I slipped him a treat; we canoodled for a bit; I got to work. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And Then- something awesome, delightful, and really funny, happened. <br>Noting the position of my large poop collection bucket, parked in the center of his stall, he faced away from it and began to back very slowly and deliberately toward the thing, <em>feeling his way by extending his hind hooves! </em>I watched, entranced, as one hind hoof felt around in half circles, then the other one. He occasionally turned his head to look behind him, measuring, before backing up a few more inches to extend the left one, then the right, over and over, until both had finally made delicate contact with the bucket in different spots, precisely establishing its position. Backing up one more scant inch to make it perfect - he pooped into it. <br>I burst out laughing. <br>Menesson has a quirky sense of humor! <br>It’s such an honor to be allowed to experience the nuances of this horse’s gentle, brilliant mind. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">By the way, he has more respect for me as a competent rider now, usually responding smoothly and quickly to my increasingly coordinated riding signals. <br>This beautiful soul should never be saddled with a clumsy rider. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> *** </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Louie, Casalae Farms’ handsome, elegant stable cat, has, I think, finally concluded that ambushing my dog is beneath him. Bryn is not a threat. Sir Cat comes right up to her, gives her the ‘Eye,’ but keeps his weapons sheathed. Bryn always looks away, disengaging herself mentally. She’s conflicted about cats, wanting to chase- and avoid them- at the same time. So she references me. As Alpha, I’ll shake my head. Centered then, she settles into ‘ignore.’ <br>Louie, a graduate-level interpreter of canine minds, approves of this mental distancing-which, to him, probably infers deference. For now, he’s granted Bryn a (conditional) Visitor’s Pass. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I finished stall cleaning and brought Bryn into the arena to watch me ride. <br>Before I began the lesson, a pleased Menesson recognized Bryn and walked over to her. The two bumped noses. Louie noted the exchange with an inscrutable expression before retiring soundlessly to his snug nest in the main hall to nap. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I rode around the big arena, working on my posture and hand positions, when Menesson abruptly shied to the right, shocked by something that had whizzed by just over his head. I calmed him quickly; then my teacher and I looked around and then up: a sparrow was busily building a nest in the rafters! <br>I couldn’t fault my horse for his spooked lurch; he hadn’t seen or heard a bird for many icy months. Now, they’re popping up everywhere ‘cause spring is nearly here! Equines and avians will adapt quickly to each other as they find themselves living closer together. <br>And I’ll be in an excellent position to note how things evolve. <br>Live to learn!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/56910832019-03-24T01:52:51-04:002019-03-24T01:52:51-04:003/24/19: Crackzzz! <p><span class="font_large">Last Sunday Blake was saddled, relaxed and ready to go. I’d arrived thirty minutes early, and, maybe because I’d rehearsed it many times, I had him ready in only thirty minutes. (I’d asked for help twice to meet my goal: Be ready to ride by ten o’clock. And now it was precisely ten. Yay!) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Robin, my teacher, waited at Blake’s head; I climbed the mounting block, put one foot in the stirrup--- when gunfire ripped the air! Crack! Crack! Another horse being led around the arena for exercise leaped to one side and half-reared: his owner had a hard time holding on to his halter rope. Blake managed to contain himself, but just barely! He stiffened, held his head high and pointed his ears toward the sound, ready to run. That sound was- alien. He knew all the others- the clang of the barn’s metal doors in wind, for example, or hammers banging. This one didn’t fit. <br>I immediately stepped away and tried to make sense of what I was hearing. Robin, though, was angry, not fearful. <br>Holding firmly to Blake’s bridle she calmed him and then spoke loudly to all of us. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Those rifle shots are from the neighbor kid, shooting targets in his yard. He’s supposed to notify us 30 minutes before he shoots, but he hasn’t honored that. This isn’t the first time, either.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My God. That irresponsible behavior could have resulted in serious injuries to both horses and riders. Spooked, they can run blindly right through fences and into traffic. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">BTW, Sunshine Farms was established well before the area was this populated. Oddly, there is NO ordinance against target shooting close to the Farm, to date. So apparently the teen was not <em>legally</em> bound to notify Robin by text or phone. But the danger to others posed by this lack of personal discipline is considerable. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Robin and I agreed that riding would be unwise. Blake was clearly on high alert. The gunfire continued. So I unsaddled him, put everything back in the tack room again, and a bit later, returned to Robin. We were glum, but then she brightened. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“No one can safely ride right now, but I have another idea. I’ll bring our two champion cart ponies out here to play. They’re lots of fun to watch: their antics are guaranteed to cheer us up!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Robin led an eager black-with-white-stockings pony into the arena; this slim, perky mare has won many awards for Sunshine Farms. She snapped off the rope and Star was free. Though trembling with anticipation, she didn’t move an inch. <br>The whites of her eyes shone as she watched Robin disappear around a corner toward another stall while tossing an explanatory comment our way. <br>“Star’s waiting for her friend, Missy. I’m getting her, now.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A minute later she led a pretty nut-brown pony into the arena and snapped off her lead. Instantly the two friends dashed off from a standing start, using the vast space to play ‘catch me if you can.’ Hooves flashed: there was spontaneous bucking, rearing, whinnying, racing out at full gallop, and much bouncing in place while they thought of new ways to go ‘flashy.’ The ponies ignored the jumps, set up to school the Farm’s big hunter/jumper horses. <br>Cart ponies are never ridden. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The ponies heard the gun’s cracks but were so engrossed in thundering around that they weren’t as bothered. Star showed her stuff, racing around the arena at a fast trot. Holding close to the wall her slim legs rose high as she pranced by in fine style. She’d look elegant in the show ring, her driver, cart and harness gleaming, her eyes flashing, mane and tail flowing, in her element! Cart ponies love showtime and applause! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Missy, who has also won ribbons, wasn’t quite as flashy, but flowed along, close to Star, wheeling and charging, whinnying and making playful feints. They rolled on the soft ground together, heads stretched out, hooves waving at the ceiling. Twenty minutes later they stood front-to-back, mutually wither-grooming. (Horses can scratch their own chins, necks, faces, bellies and front legs with a back hoof, but can never reach this spot. Wither-grooming is very pleasurable for both parties, and tends to cement friendships.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The gunfire finally ceased, too late for a lesson. Never mind; high school would begin again tomorrow... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This incident served as another firm reminder: ALWAYS be vigilant when working closely with prey animals, who react instantly, and sometimes violently, to sudden shocks. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And yet- <br>In the barn lives Percy, a very, very fat little goat who likes to enter random stalls to settle underneath the chosen equine’s enormous, four-pillared body. Both peacefully munch lunch from their very different elevations. No resident seems bothered by these unannounced visits. <br>Just before the ‘pony show’ I popped into the barn to check how the horses were reacting to the rifle shots. Some heads jerked; there was nervous whinnying and some restless pacing. Workers reassured the more anxious animals. <br>And there he stood, legs a bit splayed, just <em>outside</em> a stall, little hooves buried in hay, forehead placed exactly on the V-edge of the stall’s outer corner. <br>He was precisely balanced, but...... too still. <br>I peered at Percy more carefully. Hmmm. Knees locked, eyes shuttered, hay strands dangling from his slightly opened, goateed mouth, no masticating jaws, almost imperceptible breathing--- <br>I grinned. <br>He was deeply asleep! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Some prey animals just don’t give a damn. </span></p>
<p> </p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/56832772019-03-17T06:51:29-04:002019-03-17T06:51:29-04:003/17/19: Almost, But Not Quite... <p><span class="font_large">A couple of days ago I had a lesson at ten a.m. I had to ready Blake for saddling, after being taught the Way, and its order, by Robin, my teacher. But she wouldn’t be there until ten. Good. I needed to learn to do this job independently. It’s not rocket science. But it is orderly. (Keep in mind; I’m 60 inches high when I stretch.) <br>I felt like a meerkat trying to undress, and then saddle, a patient greyhound. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Arriving twenty-five minutes early proved far too optimistic. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I took a deep breath and entered Blake’s personal space. There he was, his enormous thoroughbred body taking up much of his stall. He stopped eating to look carefully at me, but I could tell I was welcome. He lowered his head and we canoodled. Which means I took too long to smooth and admire his face and alert ears, and those big brown, mildly curious, even bemused eyes. I tickled his whiskers; he nibbled my nose. We exchanged air. He knew why I was there. He also knew I was greener than the grass he was eating. Happily, Blake is patient and kindhearted. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">First, I unbuckled his expansive blanket, which covered 80% of his big body, including half his tail. I began below his head, separating the Velcro, undoing the chest buckles and then undoing the four buckles that kept the bodywarmer in place around his belly and tail. I folded the whole fat thing three times, starting at his neck, before moving each two-foot fold toward his tail. Which meant going from one side to the other in front of him, where there were perhaps 8 inches of space between Blake’s head and his grain and water buckets. He moved close to his water bucket to sip, so, of course, my elbow dipped into it as I squeezed past. <br>Rats! <br>I pushed to back him up, winning a few inches, keeping my voice easy and soft. <br>Finally, reaching up high near his hind end, I slowly pulled the mostly folded blanket down to me. The dangling buckles and ties wound round his hind legs as they came away. He didn’t mind a bit. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I hoisted the heavy, very bulky thing up to the curved dip of his high, barred stall gate (fashioned so he could stick his head and neck out and look around) and wedged it in. I hadn’t needed to hump it down the aisle to elsewhere, which would mean parts of it dragging through boot-deposited mud (from torrential rain the night before), horse poop and wheelbarrow-dropped straw. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Anyway- <br>There stood Blake, with nothing on. <br>First step: done. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I opened the gate and slipped out; it obligingly closed again (a hint I ignored). I grabbed the halter and lead rope and re-entered. He lowered his head to my waist so I could slip it on, but facing him, I kept missing his nose. (Sometimes, working with one eye is truly irritating.) <br>I tried again. The halter went on, but snagged his nostrils. He glanced at me, surprised; I quickly adjusted the wretched thing. But then, for fun, he raised his head just high enough so that I couldn’t slip the halter over his ears. I hopped and huffed and puffed, but, no joy. <br>Embarrassed, I simply asked him to lower his head. He sighed and did, bless him. I reached high over his face, manipulated his ears to ease it over both of them, and then triumphantly secured the throatlatch. <br>Blake nickered softly. <br>Hmmm. <br>I chuckled, too. <br>For those with a sense of humor, inexperience is its own comedy. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Next, I attached the lead rope to the halter. The clock read ten. <br>Part two accomplished. <br>My wet elbow dripped. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A worker told me Robin had had to pop over to the bank, so she’d be a bit late. <br>Good! I had miles to go... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I got Blake out into the central aisle, barely avoiding his big body’s rush past me because the gate had thumped his rear, surprising him. I belatedly realized that the blanket’s weight on the gate was causing it to shut...I’d need to find another place for it next time. Fortunately, my feet had escaped his startled, steel-shod hooves. <br>Dumb luck. <br>Note: the next day I had the wit to ask Nancy, Robin’s daughter, to extract him. She did it beautifully, in seconds, without the benefit of a lead rope. She simply opened his gate and invited him out. He exited quietly, and then backed up to the mat to be cross-tied. <br>Lord! <br>(They’d been dear friends for simply years, and knew each other’s thoughts.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I secured him with crossties, which took time, as the clasps were the more complicated emergency release sort that I wasn’t familiar with. I’d almost have one connected, then not...The more I worked with them, though, the better I got. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Grooming was next. I found a soft brush (Sensitive Blake hates stiff ones) and polished him nicely, then brought out his saddle, pads, bridle and breastplate, and set to work. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The first larger saddle pad was easy- raise it up, place it higher than necessary, then pull it down his back a bit to ensure that his hair was smoothed. The second smaller pad lay over the first one- easy- but the <em>saddle’s</em> placement was a challenge, as Blake’s back was well above my head. Thumping a saddle down isn’t nice; it should be lowered gently. Try doing that on tiptoes. <br>I experimented with different lifting positions, He turned his head to watch as I raised and lowered that saddle, which gained a lot of weight as time passed and I got older... <br>There was a low, chesty rumble. Blake was amused! I had to laugh, too. Agile meerkats would do it better... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I finally settled on simply raising it as high as possible before setting it down, half on. After a brief rest, still holding it, I gradually pushed/lifted it into place. But too many adjustments had shifted the pads, which made for much switching back and forth to reset them. <br>Done. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But, I still had the girth to deal with. I found the proper one after conducting a search through a sea of them hanging in the tack room. (It wasn’t where I’d hung it the day before.) <br>After buckling it onto the saddle’s right side I moved around to his left side and reached under his belly to grab the dangling girth to buckle it into these straps. After a long, difficult struggle, where I almost had it in the first hole, then not, I pulled up hard one <em>last</em> time—Success! <br>Leverage isn’t nearly as helpful when one is too low down. And, Blake can really inflate! <br>Leading him around the arena quickly encourages deflation. <br>By now it was ten-twenty. And suddenly, Robin appeared. Noticing my weary state she had his bridle on in seconds. That job would have consumed another large slice of time. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I narrate all this to give a sense of how it is for me. I must always focus on being safe when moving around him to do these straightforward tasks with a minimum of fuss and time. <br>Many repetitions are required. Experience is the best teacher. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I offer one last ‘almost gotcha--- but not:’ <br>I was seated atop Blake next to the mounting block while Robin moved a little way forward to check my stirrup lengths. Suddenly, she straightened, pointed behind me and spoke loudly. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Get Away! <u>NO</u>!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Confused, I followed her gaze. A hefty resident cat had hopped atop the mounting block and was poised to spring up onto Blake’s backside! <br>Another millisecond... <br>But, hearing Robin’s command, the pussy paused...just long enough for us to ease away. </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">Imagine how he, a prey animal, would have responded to a clawed cat thumping down onto his hind end!! </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Situational awareness is always wise. <br>Always. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s the good part: I’m totally at home on their horse and Robin says I ride very well! I save savoring her praise only when I’m down and out the door... and can relax.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/56752102019-03-10T00:57:23-05:002019-03-10T00:57:23-05:003/10/19: Amazing Grace <p><span class="font_large">A few days ago I was gifted with something brand new to me, a magic time that lasted about 25 minutes and was so enlightening. <br>Here’s what happened. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I live in Saginaw to help my husband, Joe. Three weeks ago he fell on the thick ice that blankets much of Michigan and fractured 4 ribs. His recovery is going slowly but well, and I stay in the Saginaw Bay area to help him manage. So I couldn’t continue to ride in Traverse City. Never mind: we found Sunshine Farms, just outside Bay City, only about 10 miles away from our Saginaw farmhouse, where at least 25 horses live as boarders, or are owned by their owners, Robin Bellor, and Nancy-Smith Bellor, Robin’s daughter. <br>This winter the weather has been so incredibly cold that the animals often can’t be let out, because their big field is a sheet of ice. To slip and fall would likely mean disaster. So the horses stay inside, exercising with their riders in the arena, their minds kept busy with schooling for the hunter/jumper competitions all over the state that begin in spring. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One morning last week I showed up there to ride, garbed in my electric socks, gloves and jacket, my mood at once elevated and apprehensive. -1- degree temps make everyone cross and frustrated. <br>But today Robin told me I needed to wait a bit; it was playtime. “Living here, being ridden, fed, housed and loved isn’t enough. <br>Horses need to be free to be horses.” <br>What? I was puzzled. A little smile crossed her face as she bade me stand behind the mounting block. <br>She came back into the arena with my mount, Blake, who stood patiently while Robin disconnected his lead rope and then stepped away. Blake abruptly wheeled, broke into a trot and moved silkily around the large space, exploring the set up jumps, following the erratic flights of the barn sparrows, and generally reveling in his freedom. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Suddenly he broke into a gallop and dashed around the entire arena, flinging his head up and down. Then, after stopping abruptly, down he went on his back to roll and roll, back and forth, groaning with enjoyment. Blake is a tall thoroughbred, and to see him upside down, his blanket flapping, his hooves flashing toward the roof as he rocked from side to side, was a gasper! Finally, he righted himself, shook vigorously and whinnied loudly, looking around. He needed a playmate. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And, exactly then, Robin led in a smaller gelding, Ditto, and released him as well. The two rushed to greet each other, and then Ditto dropped, too, and rolled in the deep, soft sawdust with the same enjoyment, his blanket flapping just as enthusiastically. Blake stood very near, watching his antics with great interest. Ditto rose, shook himself, bumped noses with Blake and the two rocketed off, whinnying and rolling their eyes. Blake roared around a turn, and without a thought, effortlessly jumped a fence. Such light-as-air, amazing grace! The two horses charged on as a pair, switching from chaser to chased by some mysterious agreement. Their whinnies were excited and happy as they cut corners and revved up to ‘high gear.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And then, Robin showed up with a third horse, Magoo, and they trotted over to greet him. Magoo immediately lowered himself to the ground and rolled luxuriously. His blanket didn’t seem to mind being saturated in sawdust. The other two stood close, watching, until he finished, righted himself and shook off the dust. Time to join the fun! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(These three had enjoyed each other’s company for years. She would never set loose a horse that wasn’t in their social group. That would be dangerous to the unlucky horse.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Blake moved so beautifully; it was as though his tall, slim 1300-pound body weighed next to nothing. His prancing, wheeling turns were delicate, airy, incredibly graceful and full of mischief. Whinnies expressed delight as the three animals mixed it up. The two smaller horses ran in tandem, or pretended to rush Blake, who stood his ground until the last second before moving to the side and barreling off. It was enchanting! I’d never seen horses play! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Robin and I retreated to the wood-stove warmed tack room, which has a huge window. <br>“I do this every day in severe winters, with various horses, and never get tired of watching how happy it makes them. But when such big animals let go and play hard, hooves flash, and pseudo-kicks are incredibly quick. A careless observer could easily be seriously, unintentionally hurt. So you stay in here. I’m going out there to supervise, and be a physical reminder for them to keep their boisterous behavior within bounds.” <br>Out she went, and the horses whinnied hellos as they rushed around, but they kept their steel hooves a respectful distance away. They love Robin. <br>Just for fun, she came back into the tack room a few minutes later, grinning. “Watch what happens now...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The horses looked around, to make sure she’d gone before sidling to one corner where the really lush bales of special hay were stored. They furtively snatched fat morsels to munch. We laughed so hard! Robin mischievously rattled the tack room door as though she were coming out again; the noise triggered the guilty trio’s dash away from the forbidden corner. They decided she hadn’t noticed their theft. <br>Never mind that the evidence of their sin dangled from their mouths in large hay-hunks... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">They trotted to a far corner and turned their backs on the tack room to finish eating what they’d sneaked away, and then raced around the arena in different directions, maximally extending their necks and showing their teeth, daring another to stand his ground. It was rather like a game of chicken! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Robin called to the more enthusiastic Ditto to take care, and three pairs of ears turned toward her. They were certainly listening. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">About 25 minutes later the trio stood close together, steam rising from their noses, looking relaxed and sated. They were done. Robin stepped forward to catch Blake, who was fine with being led away to be saddled. Magoo and Ditto were collected by staff a few minutes later and settled into their own stalls. <br>Confinement during icy, sub-zero winters isn’t so hard on the horses when these regular playtimes allow them to stretch out a bit and simply be themselves. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Once again, yet another dimension has been added to my understanding of these beautiful creatures.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/56672162019-03-03T10:01:57-05:002019-07-05T18:51:49-04:003/03/19: Electrified! <p><span class="font_large">A couple of weeks ago Joe drove me to the Farm to ride my assigned stallion, Menesson. I couldn’t get off him properly thirty minutes later. I’d been so focused on learning transitions that I didn’t realize that my toes were in deep trouble. They had very nearly transitioned into <em>Frozen Solid</em>. Fortunately, Joe was close and came to collect me right away. All of me was trembling; I simply hadn’t noticed the incredible cold until I began having trouble holding the reins. Menesson was becoming confused by my uneven signals, so I halted the lesson and wobbled out to our car, with assistance. <br>Here’s the thing: I’m five feet tall and very slim- not skinny, just slim, and the thermometer read 9 degrees in mid-afternoon. <br>But I hadn’t gone riding without sufficient preparation. <br>Had I? <br>Here’s what covered me: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two pair of thick wool socks <br>Jeans <br>Big insulated boots <br>2 long underwear long-sleeved shirts, <br>1 flannel shirt, <br>1 thick Guernsey woolen sweater, <br>1 thick, short insulated coat and <br>2 pair of gloves, <br>A headband to keep my ears warm under my <br>Riding helmet, and finally, <br>My long, thick Hogwarts scarf. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Didn’t matter. <br>I still froze. I had to be helped into the kitchen, where I ran cold water into the big sink, sat high up on the counter and placed my flame-red feet into the quite cool water. There they stayed, still in blowtorch-painful mode. Over a period of an hour, I added tiny amounts of slightly warmer water—soooo painful- and repeated the process until the water turned toasty. My beleaguered toes gradually responded, finally moving from flame-red to a more normal cream color. <br>Believe me, thawing <em>hurts</em>. <br>It took another 2 hours for my core to warm sufficiently. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This was a major warning. I couldn’t ride again until we’d found a creative solution for this winter’s stubborn, rock-bottom temps. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two days later this girl was electrified! <br>I now wore- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">1 pair of thin knee socks. <br>1 Pair of Extreme (#4) long merino wool underwear tights designed for Arctic conditions. <br>1 pair of nearly knee-high smooth, thick computer-ordered electric socks with battery pouch located at the outside/top of each sock. These socks slid nicely over the two other sock layers. <br>Next, I eased on my slim jeans. <br>Then my boots, with their woolen linings. I plugged in the socks and set them to ‘H.’ Ahhhhhh....bliss. <br>Next, I donned the merino wool Extreme #4 matching undershirt, then layered two more Extreme conditions ski undershirts over the first one. Then I shrugged on my thick woolen sweater, and <em>finally</em>- <br>My newly acquired electric jacket from Gander Outdoors, whose square-ish flat battery sits snugly in its right-hand pocket, where the built-in cord awaits it. I married plug to battery, zipped the jacket and pressed the button located on its breast. ‘Bright Red’ is the highest of 3 settings. I left it on that flaming ‘H.’ (The directions warned that I might burn on High, but I shrugged. Lawyer talk. Why install a ‘Hot’ setting if one is advised NOT to use it?) <br>I added a thick ski headband that covered my ears, and finally plunked my black riding helmet over the headband and buckled it on. <br>THEN- I drew on my electric gloves, with each one equipped with a 2” square battery- flipped the two batteries- to ‘H’- and went riding. <br>Oh- I forgot to mention the last thing- my Hogwarts scarf, with its burgundy red and yellow stripes. Everything else listed above is black, because that’s the color offered. My scarf provides a fine splash of ‘other.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I wear one more thing over everything else. Joe ordered a special riding vest tailored for me that weighs not quite two pounds, which should mitigate some of the more awful potential injuries. A little canister of CO2 in a front pouch explodes with a soft pop, instantly expanding the secret ‘sausages’ buried inside the vest designed to shield neck and spine from top to bottom, as well as ribs and chest wall, All of this happens as soon as the connection to my saddle is broken. Two very similar motorcycle vests protect us when we ride our big bikes over the countryside.) <br>The cool thing: when my riding vest is buckled over the black electric jacket it’s almost invisible. <br>Plus, Joe feels less unnerved by my shenanigans, and that’s a good thing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So off I went, suitably attired this time for my adventure, which began, funnily enough, well before I climbed aboard Menesson. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">All the horses, blanketed in their warm fleece coats, had been taken outside to various paddocks to graze on the hay laid out there for them. <br>Menesson, of course, has his own paddock. <br>Anyway, as we left the barn and made our way out to catch him, Laura commented, <br>“Menesson isn’t happy about being outside all day. Three hours or so are plenty for him. He wants his big, roomy stall. But he’s also mischievous. When he signals by standing at the gate and I respond and go out to him, he’ll allow me to get just so close before he’ll pull back and gallop off. This game might go on for a while, so we’ll just have to be patient. When he thinks I’ve gotten the message- that he gets to choose when to come to me, the rest is easy. But the wait can be exasperating, especially in snow or rain. You’ll see....” <br>And then, she paused and turned to me with that ‘I’ve just realized...’ look. <br>“You know, Menesson loves you. I’ll <em>bet</em>- that when he sees you with me, there will be no games! Let’s see if I’m right!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And so it went. Menesson was at the far end of his paddock when we entered. He turned toward us, looked hard, and immediately trotted straight to me! He pushed his beautiful face into my chest and made absolutely no objection to being caught. Laura smiled, snapped the long rope lead to his halter, and handed it to me. Menesson was delighted; he knew I would ride him. <br>We three walked inside together and two of us felt honored, and humble. <br>I’ve added this gift to so many other horse memories Laura and I have caught- and cherished. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">By the way, I was <em>toasty warm</em> during that lesson, and have remained so. <br>Cool!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/56573222019-02-24T08:29:06-05:002019-02-24T08:29:06-05:002/24/19: New Wonders <p><span class="font_large">Last week I told you about the 8” ice scraper, which, by the way, went up one dollar, to $19.95, right after the column was published- (maybe because they had a sudden flurry of orders?) But still, for just under twenty bucks, it’s a good deal. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">That site again on Google: </span><br> </p>
<p><span class="font_large"><a contents="SSD7500 8-inch snow and ice scraper with D-grip handle&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="https://www.ruralking.com/suncast-8-in-ice-scraper-with-d-grip-ssd7500?utm_medium=cpc&utm_source=google&utm_campaign=shopping&utm_content=55640432&adpos=1o1&scid=scplp55640432&sc_intid=55640432&gclid=CjwKCAiAnsnjBRB6EiwATkM1XvssDSv_C4aJi9Fj5iF9Dd89voQFPOP-ZgNW5huZCDef_s4rnA1-KxoCifMQAvD_BwE" target="_blank">SSD7500 8-inch snow and ice scraper with D-grip handle</a></span><br> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now, let me frighten you a little. I related that my husband fell on the icy, but snow-covered cement at the bottom of our wooden stairs seconds after he told me to walk very carefully there, and to place each foot straight down so as not to slip. Exactly then, <em>he</em> slipped, fell, and lay flat on his back in the deep snow for about 5 minutes, groaning, in intense pain! Turns out he’d <strong>fractured</strong> 4 ribs! Four! This should spur folks to eliminate the ice where one walks <strong>before</strong> disaster happens. Stock up on salt and one of these ice choppers, then park the tools by the door and <u>keep up with weather conditions</u>. <br>There is nothing to be done about fractured ribs that aren’t splintered. Simply adapt to the situation, find relief in OTC pain meds, and wait. Doctors have long abandoned rib binding. The body manages just fine without that dubious assistance. <br>He’s still working a full schedule, trying not to sneeze, and bearing up fairly well. Ibuprofen has helped. But he’s very careful not to overuse that medication. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">On a more cheery note- I was at the Bay City dog park watching Bryn folic and chatting with a nice fellow who mentioned that his wife “usually takes our dog to this park, but she’s having a riding lesson today, as a slot was open; and so here I am.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Riding??? I immediately asked him for details, and he put me onto Sunshine Farms, about ten minutes away. (Ohboyohboy!) Bryn and I made our careful, shivering way to the car to tell Joe. He perked up. “Let’s investigate that place!” (Living away from Traverse City I’ve been unable to ride for the last couple of weeks. Joe will need my assistance for a while to come, and I’m happy to stay close, but oh, I’ve missed riding.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We drove straight there. (This stable, I mused, might offer a good downstate teacher, and maybe even schooled horses. I always welcome a different perspective.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The big barn was full of curious equines- at least 25- who poked their heads from their stalls to take us in. The Farm’s owner, operator and seasoned citizen, a petite woman named Robin, who has a wonderful smile, showed us around. <br>I took in the special scent of horse barn and leather as we stepped into the connected indoor area, which had fences set at different heights. A teen was practicing her jumping skills atop a handsome mare. Robin, noticing our shivering, led us into the big glass-fronted tack room, where we were enveloped in a blanket of soft, fragrant heat emanating from a very large, glowing bear of a wood stove positioned toward the back of the generous room. Ummmm...! <br>Three sleek tabby cats greeted us. I eventually noticed more, nested above very high wooden cupboards in snug, mussed blanket nests. Another oozed out of an overturned box. <br>“How many cats live here?” <br>She tipped her head to the side, looking pensive. “You know, I actually don’t have any idea.” <br>Wow. These sleek mousers were earning their keep, I thought. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And- in this room, seeing all the tack, I grasped the <strong><u>true</u></strong> measure of this place. Saddles, bridles, halters, pads, breastplates, martingales, cinches and huge horse blankets were tidily placed just so, and everything was <strong>Clean</strong>. <br><strong>This</strong> was the ultimate testimonial to the sort of woman The Boss is. <br>I wanted to be part of Sunshine Farms. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She introduced us to her attractive, cheerful daughter, Nancy, who’s also an expert rider and teacher. (A back room is loaded with award ribbons.) Robin left us to thaw, as she needed to supervise a student, so Nancy took up the conversation. <br>“Mom taught me everything I know. She evaluates and teaches the new students and eventually passes them on to me for more advanced training. She’s incredibly knowledgeable and will draw out and polish your best qualities. Plus, we have some darn good hunter-jumpers here- ribbon winners, who are patient with novices!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I booked a lesson with Robin for the next day. There’d be 10-degree temps, but I’d never notice-- until I dismounted to discover my feet were frozen. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Uh-oh... I’d be riding English saddles. Hmmm. Then, that unnerved feeling evolved to ‘Good.’ I must learn to ride with both. English saddles have no pommel or horn to grab, just in case. <br>I’ll be ‘in the wind.’ <br>Yeah, but then I’ll truly <u>learn</u> balance. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There were more visual delights. A very small, very fat goat stood inside the last stall by the big barn door, where a huge jet-black Percheron lives. (Percherons are enormous, glorious horses that pull heavy carts or beer wagons.) Sir Goat apparently enters any stall he fancies, and the resident horse and he share the hay. (An aside: As I left the stable yesterday that same good-natured Percheron reached out, took my fatly fringed burgundy/gold Harry Potter Hogwarts scarf into his giant mouth and proceed to gather it in! I felt a tug, looked back and realized what was happening. He made small, mischievous noises as he munched, and as I carefully extracted my treasure I found myself laughing so much I could hardly get my breath. <br>By the way, the scarf, though a bit damp, still looks splendid after its weird adventure.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And then, the next day, another surprise. Frieda, a gorgeous, solidly copper-colored hen with a bright red comb to set it off, also has the run of the place. She’d found herself lowest in the pecking order in the henhouse out back; the other hens had ruthlessly tried to dispatch her, so Robin snatched her up and brought her into the barn. She’s recovered from the attacks and now clucks contentedly while hunting for horse grain, or the remains of chocolate donuts, or tiny bits of sandwich bread that might be sprinkled onto the floor of the central aisle by stable staff during their breaks. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Chickens are resilient -in every way. For well over half a century I’ve kept a large photo I snipped from Life Magazine in the early 60s of a rooster who had been decapitated- he was to be dinner for the family- but who subsequently ran about for months afterward in the barnyard. The fascinated farmer used an eyedropper to feed him. The photo shows him posing jauntily on a large stump. I’m still full of wonder about that magazine’s most famous photo. <br>‘...running about like a chicken with its head cut off...’ has some basis in fact- but for so LONG? </span></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/ffcddbb51c8f16562c842fe27314a2532857b780/original/img-4733.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Anyway, as we led Blake down the big aisle to be saddled we nearly ran over the little copper/red hen. Robin asked Frieda to move aside. She looked up, cocked her head and clucked disapprovingly, before obediently veering away to let us pass. <br>Frieda mutters most of the time, maybe to notify these huge horses that she’s underfoot so they won’t inadvertently step on her. She lays eggs (nearly 200 a year!) in the most unlikely places. Staff finds them tucked under horse blankets, or nestled into loose hay, or between a crate’s slats, or plunked between the cleaning crew’s winter coats or boots. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Yesterday after my lesson, Robin and I unsaddled my ride, a big thoroughbred gelding named Blake. After blanketing him we led him into his stall- and found a perfect light brown egg perched atop his fresh hay ration. Frieda, who’d invited herself in, in his absence, clucked over it, but Blake, not amused, unceremoniously nosed her out. He likes his home to remain unencumbered by bold, brassy visitors. The goat gets his goat, too. (Blake won’t live in any other stall. This particular patch of real estate is all <em>his</em>. And so there.) <br>Grinning, Robin slipped the fresh egg into her pocket. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There is also a quiet, elderly, plump little short-haired dog who sniffs visitors in a desultory way before wandering off. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sunshine Farms lives up to its name. Every sort of animal- even the many sparrows who whizz through the barn foraging for grain- is cared about and respected. <br>Robin’s unconditionally love for them all is plain to see. She and Nancy have rescued more than a few ‘throwaways’ over the years. Under their tutelage, those grateful horses and ponies have gone on to win important ribbons. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The special ambience that radiates from their barn will draw me there frequently. And oh, the stories I’ll hear! ...And pass on to you...</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/56469712019-02-16T22:10:00-05:002019-02-16T22:10:00-05:002/17/19: Hot Tips <p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I went to Tractor Supply last week with Bryn (who loves wandering up and down their aisles) to buy more dried co<br>w lung for her. It’s packed with goodness, and the ingredient is simple- dried cow lung. Period. She loves this treat. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Anyway, as we were leaving, the clerk noticed Bryn and said, “Did you know that this Tractor Supply offers a dog groom room- which is going national as we speak? It has everything you’ll need to clean and groom your own dog. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Each wash bay has a big steel tub with a tall steel back covering the wall behind it. You can’t mess up when you use the hose. Two sturdy plastic tub shelf trays raise the tub ‘floor’ much higher if your dog is small. <br>You never need to bend.” (Bliss!) <br>“A portable ramp allows your pet to walk right up into the tub. Tie-up leashes keep her secure while you work. The hose has a control lever that offers hot and cold water you can adjust to your satisfaction and turn off and on instantly. <br>Huge plastic pump bottles full of various favorite shampoos and conditioners sit right next to the wash station. Choose what you like. <br>We provide two clean white towels. <br>A separate, lower steel table is supplied with a pole with leashes of various lengths to help keep your dog secured while you work. There’s a wall-mounted blow dryer, a very nice metal comb, and even brushes. It’s also a fine place to trim fur and nails. (Bring your own nail clipper, though...) <br>There is soft music, too- your choice. <br>Finally, we supply a plastic apron to prevent your getting wet.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I was amazed. Somebody had thought this out! <br>A smiling employee showed me the facility. <br>It was spacious, clean and absolutely perfect for the job. Two people can groom their dogs there. And the price per dog? $9.99! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But wait! That’s not all! The next morning I was back with grubby Bryn to try it out. She was fine with the ramp, the tub and the whole thing. After two hours of concentrated work clipping her clean, blow-dried fleece (I’d brought my own scissors) I finished, with no sore knees or backache or dirty bathroom. I used the provided broom and dustpan to sweep everything up, tossed the damp towels in the towel bin, cleaned the big wash basin’s drain of hair and was about to leave with my newly minted Bryn when the same man showed up again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Get this: He was incredulous that I’d cleaned up the considerable mess I’d made. (Bryn’s snipped fur had been everywhere.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“No need to do that: that’s <u>our</u> job!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I hadn’t known of this perk! Then the guy asked me to wait for a few seconds... He returned shortly with a $5.00 discount chit and told me to apply it when I paid up front. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Taken aback, I asked why. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Well, you did clean up...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Not that this gift is ‘policy’- he was just -generous. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So. Total price: $4.99!!! <br>Ridiculous. <br>Wonderful! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s the thing. What I did in that shining clean room costs <em>at least</em> $100 at a regular groomer facility. NOT including tip. It’s the best deal <em>anywhere</em>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Tractor Supply stores nationwide are being modified to include this service. Watch for this service at a TS near you. (So far, eleven stores have installed it in Michigan: that number is steadily rising.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And another tip: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Everyone should consider buying this slick winter tool: SSD7500 8-inch snow and ice scraper with D-grip handle, available with next day shipping, for under $20. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We tried to buy one at the local Home Depot, Lowes and Menard store, but they hadn’t heard of it, or knew of it only vaguely, so we found it on Amazon and ordered it. (Pictures show how it looks.) </span></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/2af0007ff37cbe70c037bd13eef7ca21243fc584/original/shovel.jpg/!!/undefined/b:W1sic2l6ZSIsIm1lZGl1bSJdXQ==.jpg" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">It came the next day. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The shovel-like tool just might save you from a vicious fall on the thick ice that currently blankets much of Michigan. In the last week, ERs are seeing many more broken heads, ribs and limbs from serious tumbles on driveways and walks. Joe fell hard, twice; deep breaths and sneezing are agonies. Dressing is agony. He’ll be walking wounded for weeks. This winter has proved a challenge for all. (So far, I’ve been lucky, but that can change in an instant.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Good friends showed up brandishing the ice scraper, and cheerfully demonstrated how it could chop easily right through the inch-thick sheet of solid ice that blankets our very long driveway, the sidewalk and even the first foot of the garage’s interior. <br>Bare cement and asphalt were exposed quickly. Dan and Vicki just flipped the ice chunks away. Wow! Now we can walk from our house right up to the garage without risking life and limb. The chopper is sturdy, razor-sharp, and simple to use. We consider it more valuable than snow shovels, which are ineffectual, or useless, for ice removal. <br>Owning the ice chopper has lowered our anxiety level considerably. (The only danger is finding a way to chop to a firm surface that first time without falling on the ice you must stand on to begin.) <br>We’ve also applied a big bag of chunky salt (available anywhere and kind to pet paws) to the ice-free surfaces. It’s effective down to minus fifteen degrees. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe has a saying; 90% of life is maintenance. But in this sort of tricky winter it can be more like 98%. This useful tool helps to lower that percentage to a more acceptable level. <br>Buy one for a friend!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/56358982019-02-10T01:12:17-05:002019-07-05T18:46:50-04:002/10/19: Haunts <p><span class="font_large"><em>Murphy’s Law: Anything that CAN go wrong WILL go wrong- usually at the worst possible time.</em></span><br> </p>
<p><br><span class="font_large">Horses have funny ideas. All of them at Casalae Farms have decided that the far end of the huge riding arena harbors haunts. Every equine resident tends to shy abruptly when ridden too close to the high-stacked hay bales, the large, pale pyramid of stored sawdust (for lining stall floors) and the Farm’s neatly parked white pickup truck. (Maybe horses can <em>see/sense</em> ‘things’ we humans aren’t designed to perceive. <em>Nothing</em> is impossible. Just ask any gobsmacked quantum physicist.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My husband’s mare, Kali, knowing he was inexperienced, decided she could veer away from that end of the arena without a correction. Joe, a psychologist as well as a cardiologist, decided to ride her right back to the ‘spooky’ place and then stop, so she could look her fill. That was unusual. And tricky. <br>If, say, a cloud’s passing momentarily changed the light that poured through the tall narrow rectangular windows set into the huge sliding doors, potentially triggering flight, Joe could be dumped. Prey animals are inherently unpredictable. They’ll flee perceived danger first, and reason it out later. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She looked, ears perked. Her tail hung motionless. <br>Joe sat quietly. <br>This, Laura and I muttered, was a bolt-in-waiting. <br>Then, a long time later, when that too-still stare approached being intolerable he turned Kali back toward the arena’s ‘comfort zone.’ We put the radio on to break up the quiet and help her settle. <br>She stood by us, head down, muzzle and jaw muscles twitching, pondering the last five minutes. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I pondered, too. <br>Here was an important lesson: when around horses, or riding, things can change suddenly. Cultivate a relaxed mind and body while being sensitive to potential horsey freak-outs. <br>Soon after, I began to understand one important reason equines have decided that that part of the arena harbors haunts. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">During my next lesson, while riding Kali at an acceptable distance from the ‘spooky space,’ a low, muted rumble, lasting about four seconds, disturbed the quiet air. Instantly she swerved sharply, side-stepped and half-reared. Planted firmly in the saddle I leaned forward and murmured “easy...” Snorting, she smoothed out, mastering the urge to flee. Years of training, and her trust in humans, had kicked in. <br>Fact: Had I been inattentive I’d likely have bitten the sawdust. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Turns out a large section of heavy snow had roared down the long, metal arena roof in response to sunshine heating the metal. This rumble-y release has occurred at least twice since I began riding, usually beginning over the ‘spooky area,’ and it always triggers horse-aversion. <br>Each time, I’ve been prepared. Knock on wood. <br> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> *** </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Something fascinating is always happening out there. One icy late afternoon Joe came to film my lesson so I could critique my technique at home. Afterward, I led my mount, the Farm’s stud stallion, Menesson, back to his tie-up area and removed his tack. Just then, Joe let out a little gasp. I looked up quizzically. <br>With wonderment in his voice he whispered, “I just saw a mare <em>skate</em> by those open doors!” <br>Skate?? I stared at him, and then at the two big, open double sliding doors at the far end of the stable. He pointed at them. “Just watch! It might happen again...” <br>The man was serious! I looked. It had rained, then snowed a lot recently; then, an intense cold front had transformed the flooded ground in Grand Traverse County into sheets of thick ice that ‘glassed’ the ground outside. <br>We heard muted shouting and saw people milling around out there, but had no clue why. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Menesson, though, began acting weird! Cross-tied, large front teeth bared in a horsey grin, he raised his head high as his busy nose trolled the air, gathering in a delectable scent. He looked smitten! His head vigorously nodded up and down, as though confirming my thoughts. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">More shouts outside. “I’ll stay over here; drive her to me!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What on earth?? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, to my amazement, a big chestnut mare wearing only a halter, <em>slid</em>, hockey puck-smooth and fast, past the big entrance one more time. No human was in attendance. That meant-- she was loose! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A minute later we heard more scrabbling and then a triumphant shout: “Got ‘er!” <br>Other staff rushed to help. Skiddish, whinnying objections, the prancing mare was carefully led into the barn and then into her stall. Everyone but Menesson breathed sighs of relief. No broken legs. No crazy gallop up the long aisle straight to her Romeo. <br>In heat, she’d caught his scent from far away and knew what she wanted. When the staff began to catch the other mares to bring them in for the evening she’d sneaked past the catcher and out of her paddock’s half-opened gate. <br>She was free. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She’d whinnied, “Where are you?” and Menesson had whinnied back his location. She’d been running parallel to the barn doors, but, unable to slow or stop due to sheet ice, had glided by that entrance, all four legs planted on Nature’s ‘rink,’ mane flying- the very picture of a child’s rocking horse come to life. But her windborne sexual perfume, powerful and intoxicating, had wafted inside, irresistible, and yet---- their stallion was familiar with the usual preparations for mounting a mare. His situation now didn’t match what the choreography had always been before. So he stayed put, while continuing to enthusiastically appreciate her pungent perfume. Menesson is nothing if not well mannered. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This highly improbable situation reminded me again to <br>Always stay focused. <br>Anticipate. <br>ANYTHING can happen. At any time. For no particular reason. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Murphy’s Law will always haunt the complacent.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/56254642019-02-03T05:21:53-05:002019-07-05T18:42:28-04:002/3/19: Changes<p><span class="font_large">I’ve been observing the other animals’ reactions and responses to Bryn’s and my entry into their lives. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A few weeks ago Bryn had made a rare objection to my leaving her outside in the car after she’d seen what was <em>inside</em> the barn the visit before that one. Exclusion from such a thrilling new world was simply- unthinkable, and she’d dared to express her appalled disappointment in a powerful way. Deeply impressed by the incredulity that rode on those two long wails, I’d re-assessed, and made the change after checking with the Farm boss. <br>She repeatedly warned me that her cat greatly enjoys stalking, then attacking, unsuspecting dogs. It’s his raison d’etre. Well-behaved Bryn was welcome, but with that fair warning in mind. <br>Interesting. <br>I decided to take my cat-reaction cues from Bryn by noting her facial changes and tail positions. There is a ton of information there. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn’s warm blue fleece coat has altered her appearance, making an interesting visual change for the horses. Every equine who was led past her took a long look. <br>I was riding Menesson in the arena, practicing trotting without stirrups, when he sent subtle signals to me that he wanted to inspect Bryn, who was tethered to the viewing bench in the arena. He’d noticed the strange change immediately and found it- disconcerting. <br>That was fine with me. We trotted over to her and I sat still, waiting. <br>The two friends touched noses. Then he sniffed her everywhere. <br>Menesson understands coats. Every horse in this big barn wears a thick one to ward off the intense cold. It was a reminder for me that horses notice everything. Every. Single. Thing. To be alert to change of any kind is a survival skill that all prey animals rely on. <br>I should have shown him Bryn’s garb before I mounted. My bad. <br>Having recognized what it was he blew out and relaxed; the two bumped noses again and he nuzzled Bryn’s muzzle before moving off, satisfied. <br>She was delighted with the exchange. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Louie, the very bright stable cat who’s made the entire stable his fiefdom, has two problems with the latest change in <em>his</em> routine. <br>Firstly, the new dog has consistently ignored this good-sized, handsome black-and-white Self. That realization really bothers him. <br>Cats are <em>never</em> ignored. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn might acknowledge Sir Cat down the road, but for now, Louie’s had to be content with performing his ‘spooky action at a distance’ routine again and again. (Making himself shadow-flat he silently <em>oooozes</em> toward her, snail-slowly, occasionally disappearing behind blankets and furniture before reappearing abruptly, mere inches away, which elicits doggie ‘shock and awe,’ which nicely triggers his clawed leap! It’s always been a winning strategy.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But, Bryn doesn’t respond to these ‘you’re toast, Buster’ cues. It’s exasperating! She doesn’t twitch, doesn’t change position or even gaze down at him, though Louie’s scent fills her nose. In fact, he worries that his masterful stalks have not been perceived at all! <br>To be made irrelevant is completely outside his purrview. <br>It makes him <em>crazy</em>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Perhaps he should look at this odd dog more carefully before leaping. His usual approach may require- revision. (And, what’s with that coat, anyway?? Is it claw-proof?) <br>Louie is off-balance...uncertain... <br>Uncertainty irritates him! He’s a CAT. Cats are <em>never</em> uncertain. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">His famous ‘Louie-Bomb,’ followed by the most satisfying chaos, has always provided huge personal amusement, while also making clear his Superior Position here. <br>But, this time, might the Usual Way backfire in some way? <br>(What way?!) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Well- <br>When baffled, a proper cat assumes supreme disinterest, even boredom, perhaps by cleaning one’s paws, or ‘taking a nap,’ while actually pondering the situation. <br>Never show weakness. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I constitute his second problem. Louie is greatly annoyed by my dogged refusal to touch him, or to succumb to the ‘I claim you’ cat-cologne he rubs onto my lower pant leg. Everyone else scoops him up and invites him to nestle nicely in their laps so that they may gently stroke him. <br>He is, after all, a truly splendid cat. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">dogs</span><span class="font_large"> have family. <br>Cats have Staff. <br>So, why won’t I serve? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He’s very, very insistent, punctuating his demand for my full attention with irritated meows (a sound, by the way, that cats reserve exclusively for humans) while trotting barely one inch from my moving body, and even with the vigorous dissemination of his personal scent on my bare hand when I reach down to adjust my boots or add spurs. Crossing that boldly into my personal space earns him only an annoyed Look and a slow headshake. <br>I remain as silent and aloof as Bryn. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Louie is data-starved. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">His eyes narrow. <br>He considers me another challenge. An enigma. A puzzle. <br>Frustration fills his elegantly whiskered, expressive face. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I have no idea how this fascinating ‘cat-and-me’ game will play out. <br>Instinct, though, tells me to continue doing what Bryn is doing...and then, <br>we three will see what develops. <br>Maybe chaos. <br>Maybe friendship. </span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/56146052019-01-27T00:59:03-05:002019-07-05T18:41:02-04:001/27/19: Some Stable Treats<p><span class="font_large">Intriguing things go on at Casalae Farms. For instance, the stable’s farrier (blacksmith) was working on a horse’s hooves there one afternoon. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(Wikipedia offers a succinct definition of ‘farrier: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>... a specialist in equine care, including the trimming and balancing of horses hooves and the placing of shoes on their hooves, if necessary. A farrier combines some blacksmith skills (fabricating, adapting, and adjusting metal shoes) with some veterinary skills (knowledge of the anatomy and physiology of the lower limb) to care for horses' feet.) </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’d never seen such a thing and asked if I might watch. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“No problem, ” he responded. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">As he labored I began to appreciate that this important job requires considerable knowledge, nimble hands, a <u>strong</u> back, and sharp eyes. (In late September he’d spotted the minute beginnings of a serious hoof problem in one champion and immediately began addressing it. That horse is doing very well.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Fun fact: Keratin, a protein, makes, for example, rhino horns, warthog tusks, camel knee and foot pads, human fingernails and - horse hooves. It’s tough stuff, so farriers need specially crafted, very sharp knives to trim hooves, a task requiring concentration. An unfocused farrier courts serious injury. I stifled my questions and learned by looking. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(Dinosaur claws were formed from keratin, too. This protein has been refining itself for millions of eons. *Dark, leafy green veggies encourage it to build strong nails in humans...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">All foals are taught to allow their feet to be handled. This 1100-pound animal had no problem with what was happening below. Balanced on three hooves, with the fourth on the bent man’s lap, equine eyes drooped as he spaced out, half asleep. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The farrier tapped another foot, signaling that it should be raised, next. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The horse shifted his weight and offered it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Such cooperation! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Footwork can take anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour per horse. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hooves, like fingernails, need routine trimming every month or so. As there are over thirty horses living here, this farrier’s work is never done. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sometimes a horse’s teeth grow unevenly, or develop sharp edges, requiring farrier dental work. He’ll file the tricky tooth just a bit to fix an uneven bite. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A horse can starve if unable to chew food properly. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Breakfast happens at around 8, dinner at 4-ish. A few horses will hoof-whack their stall wall and whinny and rattle food buckets if their caregivers are tardy. (Horses know what time it is.) This behavior can spread. The resulting din is both amusing and irritating. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Almost all horses expand their bellies when being saddled, so it’s wise to lead them about for a minute to encourage deflation, and then tighten the cinch a bit more if necessary. If this final check is neglected one might find one’s self sitting upside down, or shifted 45 degrees, from LCS- ‘Loose Cinch Syndrome.’ Imagining this ‘never-live-it-down’ scenario makes me grin. But those silly ‘cartoon consequences’ are an effective reminder not to get careless. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When feeding an apple I’ll bite it into smaller pieces first. A whole one can get stuck going down. (I always ask before offering a treat to a horse I don’t know; some cannot tolerate certain foods.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One horse, for example, can’t eat anything that contains sugar. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Menesson, their stunning white Arabian stallion, relishes little red-and-white peppermint hardball candies, a holiday treat allowed at Christmas. (His breath smelled sweetly of peppermint afterward.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Lena, A highly educated, lovely mare, has a special talent. I first saw her being saddled for my lesson. After introducing myself I produced a small horse treat. She chomped it down and eyed me for a minute, deciding- and then- her incredibly flexible nose spun round and round and round in big, rapid circles! I was too gobsmacked to gasp! Seeing me ‘catching flies’ Laura commented, “Lena’s always been able to do that, and will, if she likes you.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I immediately dubbed it her ‘helicopter’ trick. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Noting my astonishment with great satisfaction Lena cheerfully ‘helicoptered’ two or three more times, sending me into fits of laughter. This feat has to be seen to be appreciated. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(By the way, my lesson with Laura and her was <em>very</em> instructive. Lena’s incredibly sensitive. One or both ears were constantly turned toward me, so that when I’d ask for a directional or gait change either verbally or with my body, she’d respond instantly. It’s downright spooky! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She <em>really</em> wants to please. I’m learning never to confuse her by being unclear. Poor riding makes her anxious.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Anyway, I was leaving for home when she nickered to me as I passed. So, of course, I begged her to “do your ‘helicopter’ one more time, Lena!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Delighted, she obliged! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">OMG, I love this stuff!!! </span></p>
<p> </p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/56040192019-01-20T00:09:13-05:002019-07-05T18:39:35-04:001/20/19: Bryn’s Expanding Library of Intriguing Sniffs <p><span class="font_large">After my doggie had thoroughly ‘read’ my riding pants, boots, gloves and coat for months with deep puzzlement, she finally realized, just before Christmas, where those sniffs were coming from. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">On December 23, 2018, I led Bryn into Casalae Farm’s big stable to introduce her to their resident ‘giants.’ (She’d been driven there often, but had always waited for me quietly in the car.) <br>I plopped down on the bench, gave the ‘stay’ command and watched as her expressive face took in the visual and olfactory feast before her. The curious stable cat, Louie, crept very near, in stalking mode, trying to get her to react- Louie’s infamous for putting speculative dogs ‘in their place’- but incredibly, Bryn never once noticed him. She was too immersed in this new, stunning reality. <br>Louie’s face and twitching tail expressed his deep annoyance at her perceived snub. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Fifty-five-pound Bryn assumed ‘statue’ mode, and, for a very long time, simply stared and stared at the beautiful horses. <br>Thirty motionless minutes passed before her rear finally dropped to the floor. It must have been a relief, after standing so still for so long. <br>As before, only her eyes and nose moved. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Thirty minutes later it was time to go. My introduction was a success. I broke her trance and drove to a nearby dog park so she could run- and think about what had occurred. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My friend, Laura, who works there as a vet tech and superb riding instructor, would soon assume her care while Joe and I flew to Naples, Florida to visit family for four sun-drenched days. <br>Bryn now knew that I approved of this incredible place. Laura would have no trouble. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two days later I told her that Laura was now ‘Boss.’ She was fine with that, and with the formal handover. She likes Laura very much, having taken to her right from her first visit to our home. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">‘Laura Time’ was thrilling for Bryn. When settled into a selected spot inside the barn she was content- no, thrilled- to assimilate this new and exciting world. Horses continually clopped to the arena or back to their box stalls, acknowledging her with nods as they passed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn, who perceives herself as a small dog surrounded by these massively BIG dogs, is deeply, respectfully submissive; she won’t meet their large, curious eyes (reasoning that a direct gaze might be interpreted as a challenge) unless they aren't focused on her. Then she’ll look her fill. <br>One older mare, who has enjoyed dogs throughout her long life, was led the few steps to Bryn to extend her muzzle for a closer inspection. Bryn kept to her ‘sit’, but looked carefully away and closed her eyes, telegraphing that she posed no threat. <br>That gentle mare would gossip with other mares about Bryn later, out in the paddock, I thought, smiling. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn, clearly amazed and intrigued by that close encounter, was learning about their nature. Soon enough she’ll relax into their world, and there’ll likely be some friendly nose bumping. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Laura related a fascinating Bryn story. <br>“Dee, when Bryn came into the stable with me the first time, she asked to be taken down the far stable aisle all the way to its much roomier end stall.” (Bryn had always stayed in the entrance area.) “You know who lives there! I could scarcely believe it. Bryn <em>knew</em> Menesson’s scent, and followed it straight to where he lives! She wanted to meet him! Menesson poked his head out of his stall to take her in, too. They seemed to recognize each other!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Gorgeous Menesson is their blue ribbon, top stud Arabian stallion, and my frequent mount. His scent is all over my clothes. <br>Her scent coats me, too. The stallion had sniffed me thoroughly many times, intrigued. And now Bryn, following her nose, had made sure they’d meet. <br>For me, this is powerful olfactory magic. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A few days after I returned from Florida, I popped her into my car’s dog-friendly back seat and drove to the Farm to book lessons and offer an apple to Menesson. I bade her stay, as I’d be right back- but as I opened the building’s door and entered, my normally silent Bryn let out an incredulous ‘OOOOOOOoooooooooooohhh....’ that penetrated every nook and cranny in the stable. I’d never heard a howl from her, ever. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Shocked and embarrassed, I hastily booked a lesson for the next day, flinching as a second long, heartfelt wail pierced the air. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, there was silence. <br>She’d made her point. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ten minutes later I strode quickly back to the car. <br>Another shock! Bryn had moved up front onto the <em>driver’s</em> seat- strictly forbidden- to stare out the window at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. She simply could <u>not</u> believe my faux pas. <br>I didn’t admonish her. <br>I felt guilty. And yes, contrite. <br>From now on, she’d come, too. Bryn’s behavior had always been exemplary; there was no reason not to include her. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Laura took charge of Bryn soon after, when I had to leave town again. After hearing how she’d reacted to being excluded, she led her inside to be a passive part of things. After twenty minutes or so of drinking in the horses and receiving welcoming pats Bryn made no objection to being resettled in Laura’s car, where she gazed at paddocked horses and then curled up for a nice nap. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What a clever solution! I’ll learn more than riding skills from Laura, for sure!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/55937602019-01-13T09:40:18-05:002019-07-05T18:38:01-04:001/13/19: Miracles Do Happen - Part 4<p><span class="font_large">Bryn loved to sniff my riding pants, captured by horse smell. She had no clue what sort of creature had created it, though, so, one day I took her into the horse barn, aiming straight for the first bench just inside, out of the way of everything, but offering a fine view of the heart of the big stable. <br>I got her attention, then issued the command, “Sit, and stay.” <br>Plop. Down she went. I followed. We took in the view. <br> <br>Her eyes widened. Her mouth formed an O. A tall black horse, led by a stable hand, clip-clopped around the long aisle’s corner and headed straight toward us. My thunderstruck dog gave me The Look. <br><em>Boss, What! Is! That?? </em><br>The curious mare caught her eye as she passed; Bryn glanced back at me: <em>Is it ‘run for your life’ time? </em><br> I grinned. <br>“Horse, Bryn. That’s a horse. You must <em>stay</em>, and just look.” <br> <br>Look she did. My dumbstruck doggie mimicked a statue. Only her eyes and twitching nose worked to make sense of these scents. 30 minutes passed. Not a muscle moved. There was so much to comprehend! Just ten feet away someone was brushing a beautiful chestnut mare, who seemed to enjoy the attention. Two women wandered by, chatting. A few horses poked their heads out of stalls to whinny back and forth. And Louie, the stable cat, ambled over to her bowl ten feet away to delicately eat her dinner. <em>A CAT!</em> Bryn’s long ears perked: she glanced up at me, amazed, but uncertain. <br>“It’s fine. This cat is having his dinner and the horses are chatting.” <br> <br>Bryn licked her black lips and resumed her statue stance. The O softened as she continued to process this weird, wonderful place. Louie ignored her. Later, though, he pretended to stalk Bryn, creeping in exaggerated slow motion on little cat feet to the underside of our bench, there to crouch and glare. Only the tip of his tail twitched. Bryn stared down at him, saw me shake my head, and so dismissed Sir Cat. Giants were so much more interesting! <br> <br>After an hour’s exposure, we reluctantly left. I drove straight to the dog park, only a quarter-mile away, knowing she’d run around like a wild thing, dumping energy. Horses were _______! She simply didn’t know what, or how, to think about them. Bryn was full to bursting with awe and intrigue. There were Big, Friendly GIANTS in there-Wow! <br> <br>I was still mulling over WHY I could finally be around horses. What had changed in my life? Joe dismissed that I might have ‘aged’ out of it and instead, reminded me of a profound switch I’d made over three years ago, regarding food intake. <br>I’d been physically uncomfortable my whole life on the standard American diet. No one had had a clue why. <br>I couldn’t shed and keep off weight. Or, if I managed to for a while, I felt awful, not to mention desperately hungry, which would happen suddenly. So, I’d eat to relieve the deep need and avoid the shakes. <br> <br>One day in September of 2015 I happened upon a book that would change my life: <u>The Paleo Approach: Reverse Autoimmune Disease and Heal Your Body</u>, by Sarah Ballantyne, Ph.D. <br>An autoimmune disease means, in a nutshell, that a body has learned to attack itself. Once it knows how, the behavior can never be unlearned. The author related the shocking rise of MS, Psoriasis, type 2 Diabetes, Migraines, etc., and showed, backed by careful but still suggestive scientific research, how eliminating sugar, wheat flour and other suspected food culprits, may reverse these diseases’ devastating effects- for the rest of one’s life. <br>Deeply intrigued, I read the whole huge, beautifully laid out book- twice. Joe assured me the science was very intriguing. <br>It was hard to put down. <br> <br>In September of 2015, I took the plunge. Most of the food in our home was permanently eliminated. Including anything containing sugar- sauces, jams and jellies, condiments- and all bread, crackers, etc., made from wheat-based flour. Very little in a bag or box survived. What I did save would be for Joe. <br> <br>Two weeks into my New Approach I woke one bright morning a changed woman. After over 70 years there was No ‘normal’ abdominal discomfort. Its absence was shocking. <br>I could go on and on about what I <u>don’t</u> experience anymore. <br>This qualifies as another Miracle. <br> <br>Furthermore, my dry, flaky skin (a supposedly normal annoyance of aging) had slowly changed, one cell at a time, into soft and silky. This metamorphosis took just under two years. I glory in it every day. <br> <br><em>The Paleo Approach</em> author interviewed people young and old who’d battled a more severe form of dry skin, Psoriasis, all their lives. They are now symptom-free. <br>A twenty-something MS victim abandoned her wheelchair and now leads a reasonable, normal life. <br>Migraine sufferers find themselves free of that curse. <br>The list of diseases that respond to the Approach’s benefits goes on and on. Impressed, physicians and researchers are looking closely at the possibility of connections between certain foods and Autism. <br><strong>When one commits to this new approach, autoimmune disease is quiescent –IF- one remains committed to shunning foods humans are not designed to ingest, especially in such massive quantities. Every time someone gets cocky, or careless, his or her particular misery re-appears. With a vengeance. </strong><br> <br>Here’s another reward! Over 20 pounds of unwanted weight that I’d carried around for much of my life FELL off. I hadn’t aimed for this benefit; I’d long since given up that fight. But now my clothes were loose. Nine pounds vanished in the first two weeks. Over perhaps 20 months, my body gradually, gently eliminated a lifetime’s accumulation of sugar and wheat-based foods- that were poison to me. (And, by the way, throughout my life I routinely <em>never</em> over-indulged in sugar-packed food and drink.) <br>My body weight stabilized, leveling off at just over 100 pounds, I felt- and feel- brand new. I don’t own a scale. My body knew what weight was right for my frame. It hasn’t varied. <br> <br>After one year on <em>The Paleo Approach</em>, I conducted an experiment. I ate a small cookie that contained a normal amount of sugar. PAIN! Cramps! Life in the bathroom for days! <br>Ingesting sugar affects me much like heroin withdrawal affects addicts. <br>I will never conduct another test. This one hurled me back into that other miserable life. My new body chemistry simply won’t tolerate it. <br>My daughters confirm this. Off sugar and flour etc. for longer than I, they, too, feel renewed. My younger daughter Lisa warned me that if I began this regimen I could never go back, and she was right. <br>I never will. <br> <br>What evidence do I have that this new eating approach is why I’m allergy-free? <br>Just <em>before</em> exposure to Ballantyne’s book Joe and I went to the huge, month-long horse show held every mid-summer just outside Traverse City. I hadn’t once dared to attend it over the years, but maybe, just maybe, I might be able to peek at some champion jumpers from a distance... <br> <br>Almost immediately, I was attacked. The very air I breathed, full of microscopic bits of hay and horse skin cells, produced a swelling throat, itchy eyes and wheals that began to rise ominously on my face and neck. Though I’d worn a mask and had been extremely careful to remain well away from the many gorgeous horses milling around, I was, apparently, still too close. <br>We left immediately. <br>That afternoon marked the death of the faint hope that I might have outgrown the autoimmune response. <br>Ah, well... <br>I shrugged off my acute disappointment and moved on. <br> <br>Shortly thereafter, the Book popped into view. Two years later, Horses appeared on the horizon. You know the rest. <br>Horses and I are consistently together, and the joy I take from that fact is indescribable. <br> <br>Put succinctly, Ballantyne’s meticulous research and review of the literature provides very suggestive evidence that eliminating sugar and wheat flour, as well as other ‘trigger’ foods I won’t list here, will pay off <em>big</em> time. <br> ‘You Are <u>What</u> You Eat’ is truer than we know. Ingesting foods my body recognizes as ‘designer’ fuel means my one and only machine will serve me very much better for the rest of my life. <br> <br>**Next week: Bryn’s nosey horse prowess impresses her family! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Visit www.deeblair.com for recent columns, garden pictures and music.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/55829502019-01-06T00:44:44-05:002019-07-05T18:36:09-04:001/06/19: Miracles Do Happen- Part 3 <p><span class="font_large">After that triumphant first day in the saddle I immediately booked more lessons. <br>The plan: <br>Cram in as many as financially possible- three times weekly seemed doable for a while- and then ride alone when possible to solidify what I learn. Make every day count. At 75 I’m on a very short leash. I may have what -36 riding months? More? Less? Whatever. I’ll be the best rider I can be in the life I have left. Good enough! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When ‘grounded’ I study online and keep in shape. <br>The older I get, the more important this is. <br>So, I trot with Bryn on her rounds when it’s safe to do so. (Ice puts us off, but there’s always our treadmill.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When I reach each day’s stamina goal I do enjoy a rush of exhilaration. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe’s recorded some of my riding lessons. Good thing, too. Early Dee-geek behavior included: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- Flapping elbows while cantering, reminiscent of a goony bird trying to take flight </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- Leaning too far back or forward at the trot and canter (Drunken Sailor Syndrome) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- Allowing my legs to flap about </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- Losing a stirrup while admiring my horse’s ears </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- Dropping a rein while adjusting my saddle’s tendency to cant to the right as I rode </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The list went on and on. There’s nothing that motivates change quicker than watching oneself look foolish. <br>My dopey grin didn’t help matters. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Five months later I’m much more confident. My horses agree. Menesson, the Farm’s champion stallion, tested me for four face-reddening months after he’d been so incredibly obliging that first time, but now, acknowledging my growing skill and confidence, he’ll respond immediately to most cues. Laura, another superb teacher there, commented last week that I’ve begun to earn his respect. These days he’ll rarely show annoyance (such as flattened ears, or stopping dead, then refusing to move forward). <br>I so want to avoid those embarrassing admonishments. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There was another thing I fervently hoped to do-- clean stalls with the crew. Karen, the Farm’s owner, was fine with it after I assured her I knew what to do. (A twelve-year-old girl on YouTube had demonstrated how to clean a stall properly. It ain’t rocket science, for sure, but I’d never been in a stall, let alone clean one. She’d demonstrated the special filter rake to shake viable sawdust through, and how to rake the fresh sawdust stored against the stall’s wall to spread it over the bare, cleaned floor. Simple. Sensible.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I can’t remember when I’ve been happier to do scut work. For me, it’s an essential part of the whole horse experience. Every day there I learn something brand new. <br>I wore a good mask, lest all that hay/straw/dust trigger The Monster. My wraparound glasses fogged, though. (Rats. I’d have to fix that, somehow.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Fun horse gossip kept us laughing as we worked. <br>One of the staff commented that an experienced cleaner knows which stall belongs to whom, just by noting each resident equine’s toilet habits. For example- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- Some horses poop in one area and keep the rest of their home pretty clean. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- Others are messy, depositing droppings everywhere. They might add some bucket water or urine to a poo pile and mix it up, just for fun. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- One horse sometimes backs up to his emptied food bucket to poop in it- probably because it amuses him. Every day it must be checked, then cleaned if necessary, before fresh fodder is added. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- Another horse pulls a mouthful of hay from his rack, dips it into his water bucket, and <em>then</em> eats it. For him, water enhances the flavor. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- Others might have a favorite comfort toy tucked into a corner- a good-sized rubber ball, for example, or a cloth bear. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- One horse is very interested in the latch on his stable door. The staff, watching him watch them undo it, have since tweaked the mechanism slightly. (An ounce of prevention...) <br>He still thinks hard about it, though. <br>Watch ‘horse escape artists’ on YouTube. It’s a hoot. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I love learning this stuff. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It takes 3-4 hours every morning to muck out 30 stalls, sweep the long aisles and refill food and water buckets according to each horse’s nutritional regimen, printed out on each stall’s exterior wall. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The huge manure pile outdoors slowly breaks down, cooking naturally to about 160 degrees f. It’s turned regularly. The resulting rich black compost is sold to eager gardeners every spring after cooking for a full year. (My secret garden contains countless yards of horse compost that I’d worked into the dusty soil 26 years ago. The result? Astonishing flower power.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One fine afternoon in late September I was driving eagerly to my lesson and had nearly arrived there- when a horrible realization hit me! Busily studying technique and setting a lesson plan goal I’d totally forgotten to take the three medicines! The pill, for example, needed two hours in an empty stomach to be maximally effective...Ah, what an idiot! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What should I do?? If I went back home to take them, I’d miss practically the whole lesson! And the pill wouldn’t kick in anyway. Not that soon. <br>I pulled over, thought it through, decided. <br><em>I rode yesterday. Joe once mentioned that these meds might take a while to dissipate. Maybe they’ll still offer some residual protection 24 hours later. Or not... <br>Whatever. I’m not going back. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">That decision could be construed as stupid and dangerous. But here’s the thing: Danger be damned. Suddenly I was a <em>lifetime’s</em> sick to <strong>death</strong> of being threatened by this curse. <br>I’d ride bare and deal with the consequences. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Within 20 riding minutes, the next <strong>M</strong>iracle manifested. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Nothing dire happened in the arena. Not one thing. <br>I breathed normally. <br>No eye and tracheal blisters appeared <br>There were no coughs, no vision problems, no egg-sized wheals popping up all over my body... <br><u>Nothing</u>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe and I were stunned, disbelieving. Scarcely daring to hope, I went back two days later to clean stalls again and ride. The meds stayed home. And, in a truly bold decision, I even chucked the specially ordered mask. (In for a penny...) <br>Still, Nothing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Turns out I’ve somehow evolved into ‘normal’---a standard issue human being who can mingle just fine with horses. !!! <br>After three quarters of a century, this astounding fact illuminates my life.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/55739312018-12-29T23:13:24-05:002019-07-05T18:30:46-04:0012/30/18: Miracles Do Happen; Part 2 <p><span class="font_large">I had just discovered that my life’s passion, horses, and anything to do with them, might be a supreme dream fulfilled, after a lifetime of deprivation mostly due to debilitating allergies. (See last week’s column.) As a child, I’d checked out any books having to do with horses, and had memorized them. Then, at age 13, when I finally was able to approach another horse, and the allergy disaster happened. I could never ride. Nevertheless, I spent subsequent decades thinking about the massive amounts of information the books had contained. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I did manage to sneak in a few equine contacts, despite the danger. In the late 50s the Bay City State Park riding stable near our home in Saginaw, Michigan offered horses who had too often been roughly treated by clueless renters. Twice, I paid for an hour, took the reins and walked alongside their poor selves, glorying in their very presence. One wretched horse, Coco, kept waiting for me to whip or kick him, but we’d mostly walk, and he’d graze and heave huge sighs of happiness. I wanted only to be close. He didn’t mind how I looked. (Wearing thick gloves, goggles, a heavy mask, and loaded with antihistamines that made me vaguely ill and unsteady, I was a weird sight. The garb and pills were vital, though. If I touched a horse, or breathed in his special scents I would court deep trouble. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now, in July of 2018, my new meds had changed everything. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two days after my first visit to the 30-stall horse barn at Casalae Farms, I went back there for my first ever lesson, unmasked, ungoggled and ungloved. <br>In the central stable aisle, I stared at magnificent Menesson, a pure white Arabian stallion (officially described as a grey by experts), who’d won multiple performance blue ribbons. He stood there, saddled and cross-tied, and looked me up and down. <br>He knew I would be his rider. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was OK to feed him a horse treat. Looking pleased, still wearing just his halter, he crunched down the stable’s cinnamon-apple pellets, being careful not to bite my bare hand, which he’d quickly enveloped. (I hadn’t noticed.) He gently pushed it out, gave it a wash, then vigorously nodded his perfect head. He loved those pellets. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Before I could ride I was asked to sign a paper that listed the sport’s obvious dangers. Casalae Farms would be absolved of blame, should I crash and burn. <br>Snorting, I scribbled my signature immediately. </span><br><span class="font_large"><em>Life</em> is a risk, every single day. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Looking back, I recall noting some nervous speculation. Standing before them was a 75-year-old pint-sized lady with zero experience <em>determined</em> to master the art of riding. If I were the owner, I’d be nervous, too. Anything could happen. But clearly, I was absolutely committed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Connie, my first teacher, had listened to my unusual history and decided that 22-year-old Menesson would be the perfect fit for me. They’d owned him nearly his entire life and he’d never chucked a rider. He and she would soon know a lot more about my skill level and potential. <br>So would I. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I climbed a portable stair to mount the 1100-pound horse. He stood quietly, awaiting orders. Connie carefully described what signals he responded to, and how, and in what order to apply them. <br>I ate it up. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“OK. Remember. One cluck to walk.” <br>I clucked, and off he went, neck arched, hooves perfectly placed. We slow-walked, and fast walked. <br>“Hmmm,” she said, after watching me for a while. “You have a darn good seat, and a very light hand. Menesson is carrying himself well. Fact is, he likes you.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Time passed as my horse and I began to relax. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Eventually she called, “Now, two clucks for a trot when you’re ready, <em>if</em> you think you can manage it.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two clucks. He responded instantly. What controlled power! What a rush of awe I felt! I began with a sitting trot, and then moved into a posting trot. All my life I’d ridden this way, but only in dreams. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">{Heavens! I do define ‘permanently smitten.’} </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There was a shout. <br>“For heaven’s sake, Dee, you’re a natural! You ride with instinctive balance and poise! How can this be? Are you <em>sure</em> you’ve never done this??” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">These words marked another supreme moment in my life. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After some time trotting at a good clip round the big arena she asked if I wanted to move up...to a canter. One softly spoken ‘whoa’ would stop Menesson, should I feel unstable. <br>Was I game? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I nodded, and she called out, “Remember, ‘kiss’ to canter.” <br>I readied him, ‘kissed,’ and Menesson moved effortlessly into a smooth, collected canter (basically a controlled gallop). His neck arched, his long mane flowed, his tail arched... <br>It was my first up-to-speed riding experience, and I hardly needed the horse. <br>I was transported. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There were more explanations from other observers, who shouted that I was – “really good!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After whizzing around the area for a time I needed to stop for the day and collect my wits. The praise was overwhelming, my responses so natural and effortless and it spooked me. So I spoke a soft ‘whoa,’ and he responded immediately, and with fluid grace. <br>This animal was the epitome of style and grace. What a gift! <br>Needing to process what had happened, I dismounted, carefully sliding to the ground. It was a long way down. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Just then, Menesson’s stunning three-year-old grey son (who’ll gradually evolve to white) pranced into the arena, ridden by a top US trainer, Tom. Everyone watched them work. Wow! To see an Arabian move is always a thrill. <br>Like father, like son... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This special day marked the beginning of my quest for riding excellence. I would learn from three experienced teachers and other educated horses. (It isn’t good to focus on just one.) Those well-trained animals would have to put up with my ignorance, but only for a little while. I never, ever want to hurt their sensitive mouths conveying clumsy signals. <br>I’d home study, and then practice over and over, and encourage my teachers to demand my best efforts. And neither party would ever allow age-related ‘passes’ to excuse wishy-washy work. <br>“Think of me as 35,” said I. <br>And why not? I feel that young, thrive on constructive criticism and am certainly strong. Building my secret garden took a decade or two of truly hard work. I’ve never labored like that in my life. I can still dig deep, lift those 40-pound compost bags and run fast sprints. Asking a horse for a response isn’t so much about strength, but most often about <em>communication</em>. Reins and bit, legs and voice communications. This can be done subtly. That's the art. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s a curious, amazing fact: I experienced <em>zero</em> soreness after that riding session and no aches subsequently, especially in my thigh muscles, which were totally unaccustomed to gripping. I have no clue why. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And so ---my great horse adventure has begun!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/55663992018-12-23T01:03:01-05:002018-12-23T01:03:01-05:0012/23/18: Miracles Do Happen <p><span class="font_large">Our big tree glows with lights and cherished ornaments, and I’m sitting near it, warmed by my very cool Hogwarts School Scarf and a mug of delicious coffee. Ready to set down for you a marvelous life change- a huge event- that I haven’t been able to process sensibly, or think straight about until now, nearly 6 months later. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s what’s happened. <br>One pretty afternoon in mid-July of this year Joe strode into Sunnybank’s kitchen, plunked down opposite me and asked for my full attention. Baffled, I closed my computer and stared at him. <br>He placed three little containers in front of me. He touched the first one. “Take one pill now. No questions. Just do it.” <br>I did. <br>He touched the second. “Put two drops in each eye.” <br>Ahhh,.. o.k...... <br>He indicated the third container. “Squirt a mist into each nostril, just once.” <br>I did, completely mystified. <br>“Now, come with me.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What on earth??? <br>Too flummoxed to speak, I followed him to the car. He drove precisely 5.1 miles, and I gaped at where we stopped. This place was called Casalae Farms. It was set off by what seemed miles of bright white fences, lots of paddocks, and LOTS of horses standing there, gazing at us curiously. <br>I paled. Horses? “JOE! I am deathly allergic! We can’t be here!!!!! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Hey. Do you trust me? Do you trust our daughter? We two doctors researched the latest meds available. You’ve taken them. There. Will. Be. No. Problem. No inability to breathe, no lost vision, no sleepiness or drugged unsteadiness. Zero. I Guarantee it. <br>Now, go inside. Take your time. We have <em>all</em> the time in the world.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I think I remained paralyzed by doubt? nerves? for a bit, but he simply waited. So I got out and made my way to the front door of a very large one-story building. I went in, very slowly... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’d never, ever seen the inside of a stable. Only pictures. Never saw horses in their stalls, heads poking out, munching hay. I’d only three times breathed in the scents that go with these beautiful animals. The first, best time happened on the evening of my third birthday. I was taken to a little clearing surrounded by very tall pine trees in the middle of town and placed on a shaggy pony, who walked patiently round and round a well-beaten circle with two equine friends who were carrying other happy children. <br>That pony ride brought a rush of Total, Intense Joy. I was profoundly changed in an instant. Precisely then, my life was set. I would live it surrounded by horses. <br>Here’s a weird fact: It was as though I was revisiting a shadowy former existence. <br>Only 36 months in the world and I knew these scents, the feeling of warm horse flank, the pleasure of braiding a rumpled mane, the creak of the saddle, as certainly as I knew my name. It all felt so <em>familiar</em>. Yet, I’d never seen a horse, except in a picture book. <br>It was eerie. <br>It was the best, best --reunion. <br>I can’t explain this better. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But life had other ideas. <br>Except for the annual September Saginaw Fair, where I could blissfully ride the gorgeously carved merry-go-round horses, sometimes twice, I rarely saw another live horse. I clearly remember the exceptions. <br>Once, aged ten, while riding my bike around our block I suddenly skidded to a stop. There, right there, two girls, maybe a year or so older than I, were busily, expertly unloading two palomino horses from a dual horsebox built into a van parked in front of their modest home. These twins, Janet and Joan R- names forever engraved in my memory- backed them down, saddled them and rode up and down the street and into the open field that served as a huge communal play area behind all these middle-class homes. <br>I think I stood there for hours, spellbound. I never approached them; they were based twenty feet away, across the street. That was not allowed. But I could look. <br>I can play those two happy hours back as a loved mental movie, even today. This is the first time I’ve ever spoken of it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Every Sunday at 3:30 we drove to Grandma and Grandpa’s house to watch Roy Rogers and his horse, Trigger, on TV, as they had another 30-minute adventure. It was the highlight of every week. <br>And every Tuesday and Friday the milkman would deliver bottled milk to our front door. His horse happily accepted my proffered carrot. <br>Once I sent $5 I’d earned babysitting to the Double Bubble Gum people for a rubber saddle that fitted my bike seat exactly. It was a most wonderful treasure______ but one day it vanished. <br>I drew nothing but horses. St. Stephen Elementary School’s principal, Sister Paula, angrily rang my mother. I must never draw another: my teacher was sick of seeing them. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Disobedience was unthinkable. <br>But I could still draw them at home. And, at school, I drew a home, corrals, flowers, hay bales, meadows, grass and sun-- and a little girl in pigtails holding an extended rope that left the picture’s margins. Something was connected to that rope, something just out of sight. <br>It angered them, but what could they do? <br>I was never discouraged. I knew things. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My cousin Nancy was given a beautiful chestnut mare when she was ten and I was thirteen. The mare had a foal that Nancy raised. But- then I entered puberty I found myself suddenly, violently allergic to all hay-eating animals after entering the county fair’s horse barn. <br>Doctors diagnosed an acute allergic reaction to horses. That slammed the door on my dreams. It was a crushing blow. Epic. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My first cousin, Nancy, and her parents lived in Dearborn, Michigan. I never was able to visit her, or see her horse. Undaunted, I formed a club, the BSKDC (Black Stallion Kentucky Derby Club- influenced by Walter Farley’s wonderful story, <em>The Black Stallion</em>, which I’d all but memorized) and we’d chat about her horse life whenever she visited Saginaw. I still have the paper I drew up to form the club, making Nancy vice-president. I was president, of course... <br>Once I filled out a form that promised some lucky person would win the sleek bay racehorse pictured in LOOK magazine- <em>if</em> the name an applicant submitted was accepted. I studied that stunning horse for days, chose a name, mailed that form and haunted our mailbox. <br>Nothing ever happened, of course. But anticipation, and the possibilities- made my daily life a bit more bearable. Denial of reality was an indulgence that helped mitigate the awful pain. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now, in 2018, I was at LAST inside a stable, after nearly three-quarters of a century of going to sleep every night thinking of horses, riding them, cleaning them, racing them. <br>This new reality was Impossible. <br>It was, in fact, how one defines a miracle. <br>I stood rooted, extremely tense, for a long time, waiting for the ax to fall. Blisters might easily form on my trachea and on my eyeballs, and I would be felled, unable to breathe. <br>But------ nothing happened. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Suddenly, shockingly, I didn’t care if it did!! I’d enjoy every single second in this horse-saturated environment, and to hell with consequences! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Inside that barn were two long aisles lined on both sides with roomy stalls. <br>I counted. Thirty. <br>Some were empty, as their residents were outside, cavorting with friends or grazing. Insiders poked their heads out of their boxes to whinny to each other. Two stood quietly cross-tied in the central aisles, awaiting saddles and bridles, and their riders. <br>This. was Heaven. <br><br>I stood there and simply looked, and looked and looked, while breathing in their special perfume. It was, perhaps, the most perfect hour of my life. <br>I wasn’t aware that I was silently crying. One lady, a large brush in hand, greeted me cheerfully, then looked closer, and quietly asked if I was all right. <br>My husband answered behind me. “Oh, she’s just happy. We’re here to look around, if that’s OK.” <br>“Sure! Wander wherever. You’re welcome to explore.” <br>And off she went to groom her beautiful white Arabian horse. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Eventually, Joe poked me out of my reverie. “Go on, move! Look around. Walk up and down the aisles. Check out the horses; look into all the tack rooms...and don’t miss the huge indoor riding arena and its elevated, glass-enclosed viewing room....” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And so, this woman, this normal woman, did. No tightened chest happened. No wheals as big as eggs. No blistered eyes. No acute vision loss. Just me, walking slowly up and down the two aisles, peering into the stalls’ interiors, noting food buckets, water buckets, soft sawdust floors occasionally decorated with poop balls... <br>One contented, curious horse’s flexible lips mussed my hair and flapped over my extended hand, hunting for a treat...The animal finally licked it thoroughly. I was enchanted. I’d never seen or felt a horse’s tongue. I’d never dared to pet a horse. (All covert visits saw me in a mask, goggles and gloves.) I turned to go back, past another long row of stalls, and <em>there</em>, just down a way, was the huge indoor arena. It boasted a very long mirror so riders could more effectively evaluate their horses’ confirmation and their riding postures. Deep, chocolate colored sawdust coated the vast floor, and overhead lights brightened everything. This arena was closed to the elements and directly connected to the stable area. <br>One could ride at all speeds, all year long. <br>It was perfect. <br>I found it impossible to grasp. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After an hour of such massive sensory input I was suddenly overwhelmed, lightheaded, and had to leave immediately. I needed space, and lots of time to process what was happening------- and what wasn’t. <br>We left. The car was silent as we motored along. <br>I was semi-mute for days. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ve lived a long life taking on all manner of delightful personal challenges, such as: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-teaching myself competent gardener skills, and how to design lovely little gardens <br>-researching what flowers appreciate to be happy <br>-learning how to ski <br>-learning to be a competent pilot <br>-hiking through Europe alone for months, absorbing its lovely architecture and scenery <br>-learning how to competently train our doggie <br>-learning to sing properly and how to make musical CDs <br>-writing a book and expressing myself in poetry <br>-experiencing the great joy of motherhood <br>-biking and hiking at least five National Parks with Joe and eventually, Bryn-dog <br>-reading science and rudimentary astrophysics and all manner of philosophy and history-especially biographies of people who’ve moved this planet in a different direction. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> Willful ignorance of the world’s story is NEVER bliss. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-sharpening my reasoning and evidence-based skills to more effectively deal with life’s odd, sometimes scary twists and turns <br>-learning to be totally content with my own company <br>-cherishing the friendships I have, every single day. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">To remain profoundly depressed, morose, and angry about what could never be was to waste my life. <br>No horses, ever. Fact. <br>I’d accept what could not be changed and move on- and, for heaven’s sake, try to do it with some grace. <br>I’ll look back only if there was something to learn from Life’s inexplicable, often injurious curveballs. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Forward</em> thinking welcomes the fascinating pursuit of life’s changing panorama. <br>Backing too far into regret or acute disappointment encourages a slow decline that metastasizes into rage and hate, a toxic brew that inexorably erodes a body’s balanced mental and physical chemistry. </span><br><span class="font_large"><strong>Bad</strong> things very often result from embracing that approach. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now, in this sparkling July afternoon, I’d been thrust squarely into a new, fresh, eerily familiar equine world. It was akin to finding one’s self transported to the moon. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">At 8 a.m. that evening, nothing bad had happened. I still breathed easily. There were no eye bulges. No giant wheals. I felt fine. <br>Normal. <br>I didn’t know what to say. <br>Joe just grinned. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There is <em>so</em> much more to tell. I couldn’t write about any of this since that momentous first day at Casalae. In fact, I couldn’t write about <u>anything</u>, period. I’d just sit there, staring at the keyboard. <br>My mind had flat-lined. <br>So, for months I’ve reprinted (and gently tweaked) favorite columns submitted over the last 13 years. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’d resume writing if-and when- my fingers and brain unlocked... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Today, December 21, with zero warning, a word-tsunami suddenly roared toward me, almost too fast to comprehend. I raced to my computer and this story spilled out. <br>I’m just warming up! <br>Be prepared; it’s gonna be all about horses for a good while!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/55561402018-12-16T00:42:46-05:002018-12-16T00:42:46-05:0012/16/18: Backward Bigfoot Bumpkins <p><span class="font_large">Joe and I needed an outdoor adventure to more fully appreciate Northern Michigan’s winter face. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Let's try something different,” said I. “How about snowshoeing?” <br>Years ago my downhill skiing had been frequently plagued by acute ski-tangle. Any topographical anomaly encouraged them to mount each other: down I’d go. Rising again was comically difficult, as the mile-long skis refused to be reasonable. I’d flail around, graceful as a walrus on a dance floor. Joe, finally realizing I wasn’t behind him, would ski back, hunting for pole-sign under six feet of powder. After one 12,000- foot triumphant ski experience down---and three spectacular wipeouts in the Rocky Mountains, high, I huddled in front of Winter Park’s ski lodge’s blazing fireplace and firmly declared that the odds were against me. Downhill skiing would henceforth morph to the cross-country sort. It was just too frustrating, otherwise. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But those (even longer) skis proved just as irritating. I found myself entangled more than upright. Face it, I grumbled to myself: you’re just too short (barely 60 inches high and shrinking) for such long fellows. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This time, though, I’d acquit myself well. I mean, what can happen to a reasonably nimble person wearing little tennis racket-type thingies? <br>Besides, I’d already mastered walking. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So, off we went to rent some snowshoes at the Timber Ridge Lodge, about twenty minutes southeast of Traverse City. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The clerk measured us and brought out two pairs. He was surprised at my surprise. I’d never looked closely at snowshoes; these plastic fatties looked weird! Bristling with teeth underneath and sprouting buckles and straps topside, they were strongly reminiscent of steroidal Bigfoot feet. Intrigued, I strapped them on (with his help) over my sturdy boots. <br>If ducks could walk flatfooted, then so could I. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Awkwardly staggering out of the lodge we set off through a huge, mature forest with powdery snow deep and crisp and even. Initially lurching, legs spread out like two-year-olds with a load in their pants, we soon found our strides, relaxed into a rhythm and began looking around the spectacular woodland with deep pleasure. The curved trail, which seemed to meander on forever, was wide and nicely groomed. Though the weather was incredibly cold (high teens) there was no wind. Plus, we seemed to be alone out here. <br>Wow. We could love this. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Crunch, crunch. Lovely iPod music filled my headphones as I padded, buoyed by Bach. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Half a mile later, I glanced back. <br>Huh. Where was Joe? I listened. Nothing. <br>I waited, sure he’d slide around that bend and wave, but no... <br>Backtracking, I grinned. Was it possible I’d find <em>him</em> down? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A few turns later there he was, lying on his back, waving those broad, webbed feet, chuckling. <br>“I tried to back up to look at something more closely—<u>unwise</u>. I figured you’d find me sooner or later....” <br>Oh. Backup difficulties hadn’t occurred to me! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Clumping over to him I extended a mittened hand to pull him up- and foolishly reversed, seeking more leverage. With a squawk of dismay, <em>I</em> fell backward. There we were, two prone stuffed sausages, flailing away in a deep snow bank. <br>What can one do but laugh? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Struggling to sit up (not easy, with protruding equipment swamping both boot ends) I finally managed to remove my gear, pull Joe up, and then re-buckle- which was a struggle, as my fingers went numb. But. Alas, all this huffing and puffing was for nothing. Teetering to one side, I tipped into the snowy depression we’d made. OMG. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Upright Joe fell against a five-inch tree trunk, laughing. Jolted, the tree dumped a large pile of snow smack onto my face. Sputtering, I rolled onto my side, noting glumly that our winter sports history was gleefully repeating itself. <br>This footgear, though much shorter, was wider and, well, ducky, presenting its own challenges. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">On the bright side, only the forest had observed we two backward city bumpkins. <br>It was small comfort. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But now we’d become disoriented. Snowshoe and cross-country ski tracks went both ways, so it was tricky to decide which direction would take us back. After some discussion we simply trudged along the trail, reasoning that sooner or later, it would end up back at the Lodge. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There was another problem. I was really hot! My snowsuit would be hard to take off, though. I’d have to remove my snowshoes again. And my gloves... <br>I had warm, layered clothing underneath, but would then have to tote the suit... (Friends had warned against overdressing for this adventure but I didn’t listen.) To peel off the top layer now would eat up the scant minutes we had left. (Our rentals had a two-hour time limit.) <br>Cooking, I carried on, with Joe firing off verbal pictures of roasting marshmallows melting the snow. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The trail wound around and through the countryside and, a good while later, did eventually lead home. We were very late, though. The kind clerk let it go, noting snow where it shouldn’t be. <br>He knew. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">All in all, though, it had been a thumbs-up adventure. Snowshoes are fun! <br>Timber Ridge was beautiful, but we’d buy our own equipment and explore trails much closer to Traverse City. The Commons, for example, offered gorgeous possibilities... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe has occasionally tried to get me to reconsider skiing, but I’m resistant to wearing anything skinnier- and longer-- than I am. <br>These fatter pseudo-feet, however, promise a cool future! </span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/55461122018-12-08T23:56:56-05:002018-12-08T23:56:56-05:0012/9/18: Cesar's Simple Gift<p><em><span class="font_large">Exercise, discipline, affection. </span></em><br><em><span class="font_large">In that order. </span></em><br><span class="font_large">Cesar Millan </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One Saturday night a few years ago Joe and I went to the beautiful Midland Center for the Arts to see and hear Cesar Millan talk about his life with dogs. Cesar, the world-famous dog whisperer, is incredibly wise about how to approach, understand and train them- and rehabilitate their owners. </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">“There is no such thing as a problem breed. However, there is no shortage of problem owners. With a dog, people are not disciplined. They think that by spoiling a dog, it will love them more. But the dog misbehaves more because people [involved with them] give affection at the wrong time.” </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">“Dogs in America get more affection than most women in third world countries.” </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-But not exercise, or discipline, which should always happen <em>before</em> affection is offered. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here was the auditorium scene that greeted us: <br>On a large, deep stage with muted lighting sat a sofa, an end table, and a small rug with a coffee table on it, all set well back from the stage’s edge. <br>It portrayed a typical living room. <br>(Oh- and there were three huge screens set in a high triangle so that folks up in the highest balcony- like us- wouldn’t miss a thing.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Cesar popped onto the stage, his famous grin lighting up the big (sold out) auditorium. He was dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeved gray tee shirt- simple attire designed to focus our attention on what he came to teach, rather than on him. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Straightaway he commented that humans are the hardest to rehabilitate. They can be stubborn, or blind to why their pet’s objectionable behavior occurs. It can be humbling- and embarrassing- for owners to realize- and accept- that <em>they, not their pet</em>, are the problem. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In his TV series (lasting nine years) desperate clients would come to him highly motivated to understand and change their enabling behavior. Viewers would watch the liberating changes with deep interest, hope, and not a little chagrin. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">First, Cesar would listen to the owners’ complaint, and while they talked he’d size them up. And their dog, too. <br>The challenge? To coax the folks to see themselves as their dog did. <br>As <em>submissive</em>. <br>A Bad Thing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Didn’t matter if their beastie was gigantic or teeny. His message was always the same. <br><u>Dogs, to be balanced, require a Pack Leader.</u></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">No pack leader around? Then the human will find him/herself with a willful, disobedient, confused, irritating, obnoxious, dominant dog. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">That final descriptive adjective is another Bad Thing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dominant (‘alpha’) dogs have free rein to do whatever they please to their submissive humans- for up to fifteen years! Exasperated, frustrated, baffled owners might dump the dog, or have it euthanized, or give it away ruined. Then they’ll buy another, ‘better’ dog and repeat the same submissive behavior, expecting a different result. <br>Or, resigned to their situation, they’ll submit to their out-of-control dog until it finally dies. How awful for both parties. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe and I saw a lot of bobbing heads out there. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Cesar asked us to move into our dog’s moment. <em>“Dogs learn mostly with their noses. ‘I’ll believe it if I see it’ for dogs translates to ‘I’ll believe it if I smell it.’ So don’t bother yelling at them: it’s the energy and scent of calm confidence they pay attention to, not your words.”</em> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Humans, he mused, need to know how dogs sort out the world. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now came part 2- demonstrations. The three dogs brought to him had never laid eyes on him. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A local humane society handler trotted out a big, handsome, shorthaired dog obsessed with balls. He’d been returned to the humane society over and over by frustrated families because of this infuriating obsession. The staff was despairing. Charley-dog had an impossible-to-cure problem. Could they ever get him successfully adopted? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After Cesar pulled these few scraps of information from the handler he asked her to bring out the ball she’d been hiding behind her back. “Please set it down some distance away.” She did. <br>Ohhh...it was a lovely big red one. Charley-dog came alive with a fearsome, laser intensity. His eyes gleamed! <br><strong>Ball was All. </strong><br>Cesar picked it up, ‘owning’ it. Charley, released by the handler at his direction, rushed toward Cesar, ignoring everything else. <br><em>BallBallBall! </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Cesar slipped on a simple collar/leash (one looped line) and continued to hold the ball while the dog visually devoured it. <br>Then, he set it down in a spot he chose. <br>When the animal went for it he made a noise: <br><strong>“Sssst!!” </strong><br>Startled, Charley’s focus broke. He looked up at Cesar for an instant before shifting his laser-gaze back to the Ball again. At that exact instant, the sound came again. <br><strong>“Ssst!” </strong><br>Translation: That. Ball. Is. Mine. <br>This time the dog stared at him, uncertain. Cesar moved the slim collar/leash high up on his neck (to achieve excellent control with minimal effort) and led him away about ten paces. Charley went willingly, but kept glancing back toward his beloved Ball. Cesar asked the dog to sit while pulling the lead straight up as his left foot tapped Charley’s hind end. <br>Plop. Charley sat immediately and stared up at Cesar, totally attentive now, to this interesting human. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Charley-dog instinctively knew he faced a Pack Leader. Happily absorbing Cesar’s calm, assertive energy and quiet confidence, he relinquished ball-thoughts without fuss. <br>Poof. <br>Gone. <br><em>No problem, Boss. You own that ball. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Cesar walked him toward his property, and a millisecond after Charley glanced at the ball, Cesar tapped his hindquarters gently with his left foot and made that noise. A <u>reminder</u>. <br>“Ssst!” <br>Charley snapped to attention and looked up at Cesar intently. <br><em>Ohh, right! That’s </em><u>your</u><em> ball, Boss. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Redirection- and a new focus, Cesar- at precisely the right moment, was the key to Charley’s successful behavior modification. We watched the animal mentally switch to obedient, submissive respect. I could almost hear a ‘Click.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Again, Cesar led him toward the ball. They padded around it and past it. Charley-dog, watching Cesar for cues while heeling, ignored it. Why? <br>It wasn’t his. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Satisfied, Cesar freed him. He wandered around to sniff the furniture and explore the whole stage, nose working busily. But he completely, permanently ignored the big red ball that sat before us. <br>The handler and audience were gob-smacked. Dead still. Stunned. Blown away. After a long, dead silence, fierce applause. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Next: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Punkin, weighing about 35 pounds, had a food obsession. The owner, a pleasant older lady, was going nuts. All her dog thought about was FOOD. Countertop food. Table food. Her granddaughter’s food. She always found a way to snatch it. Her owner couldn’t shame/scold/scream her out of her bad behavior. She felt helpless. Arghhhh! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Cesar attached his slim collar/lead high up behind her dog’s ears and got its full attention by offering a delicious chicken morsel from one of three chicken-filled, cereal-sized bowls an attendant had quietly placed on the end table. <br>Punkin scarfed the gift down. (Cesar had demonstrated, by hand-feeding her, that he owned the food.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He asked the owner to keep her (leashed) dog from following him while he walked away to set his three meaty bowls of chicken bits on the stage floor close to the audience, leaving perhaps five feet between each bowl. Punkin watched every move. Then he led the eager, wide-eyed, straining, salivating dog toward them. <em>Ohboyohboyohboy</em>....Her nose worked frantically. As she lurched toward the bowls he made ‘the sound’ and touched her flank with his sneaker, which came up behind his other leg, very fast. <br><strong>“Ssst!” </strong><br>Translation: ‘No. Mine.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">No exclamation point necessary. It was a simple fact. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Startled, she looked up at Cesar. He re-adjusted the slim collar/leash toward the top of her neck again and maneuvered her into the ‘heel’ position. (Remember, he’d never seen this dog before.) Each time she microscopically tilted her body or eyes toward the food he got her attention with ‘that sound’ while keeping the collar situated high on her neck behind her ears and straight, but not taut. One minute later they began deliberately walking past the bowls. <br>Around the bowls. <br>Between the bowls. <br>Back and forth. <br>In and out. <br>Round and round. <br>Punkin never once looked at them. </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">Your food. Understood, Boss. </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Cesar removed the lead right there by the bowls. Punkin wandered off to entertain herself while he chatted with us. She went deeper into the set to sniff the couch, end table and little rug. But. When she sneaked a furtive glance toward the food bowls from that long distance away, testing, Cesar was instantly ready. ‘<strong>Ssst</strong>!’ <br>(He’d been waiting for that long-distance glance, and had seized the moment to reinforce the lesson.) <br>Punkin was startled! <br><em>Oops! This Alpha sees all... </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Snapping to attention, she looked over at him. He held her gaze quietly. She dropped her eyes, a submissive gesture, and continued to explore the big stage. <br><em>Just checkin’, Boss. </em><br>The aromatic chicken was never acknowledged again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The dog’s owner stood there flatfooted, open-mouthed. The audience was too stunned to clap. It was pretty darn quiet in there for a long time, as we absorbed this. <br>Finally, once again, the applause was thunderous. <br>These two demonstrations were, in a word, <strong>Sensational</strong>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Last- a male handler from a local rescue group brought in a super-timid cream and white Labrador puppy about seven months old, who seemed glued to the fellow’s legs. The little guy wound apologetically around them, twisting the leash every which way as he hunched and fawned and crept about while being slooowly coaxed and tugged out onto the stage. The puppy looked thoroughly intimidated by life. <br>The sad journey took awhile. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Cesar went to him, knelt and patted him calmly, and then encouraged him to sniff his hand. He quietly positioned the slim collar/lead correctly, got the pup’s attention with a tiny tug, and began to walk steadily forward across the stage, radiating confidence. <br>He owned that moment. <br>He. Was. <u><strong>Alpha</strong></u>. <br>An Alpha human represents <em>Safety. Power. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">As they strode along the puppy’s confidence grew by the second. The little guy began to prance and gambol by Cesar’s side. He’d tapped into Cesar’s energy and made it his own. <br>Life was good! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There were gasps, then <em>huge, sustained</em> applause! <br>What stellar demonstrations of ‘Own the ball,’ ‘Own the food,’ ‘Own the moment!’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">How could such effective training be. so. simple? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He’d never laid a cross hand on the animals, never raised his voice. He <em>did</em> command their full attention by radiating calm, assertive energy, and by living in <em>their</em> moment. For Cesar, the dog in front of him was all there was. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">That’s <em>focus</em>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There was no mystery or magic here- only a man with a simple plan. By offering calm, assertive energy directed absolutely toward the dog he was working with, along with a deep understanding of how they worked, he offered them, their handlers, and his audience- a new way of operating. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Everyone</em>, he reminded us, has the power do this. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He told us: “Never beg, never plead with your dog- ‘Sit! Sit! sitsitsit-sit! I said sit....’ or... ‘Stay, oh, please staaaay? Staaaaaay? staaaaaaaaaaaay...?’” Cesar, half-stooped, palms out, backed away from an invisible dog, pantomiming this all-too-familiar behavior, to great laughter. (He’s a fine comedian.) We ruefully recognized ourselves, all right. No decent dog would be motivated to obey a pleading human victim who would shrug sadly and sigh-but never take command when his pet routinely ignored his timid requests. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Cesar demonstrated, over and over, that being<strong> T</strong>he <strong>P</strong>ack <strong>L</strong>eader is essential for developing a balanced dog. <br>And a balanced owner. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It really <em>is</em> that simple. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was a pleasure to witness Cesar’s ability to change a dog’s life, just like that. His books, found in libraries and bookstores, are packed with insight and information. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe and I understand how to be pack leaders. <br>We deeply love our Bryn. <br>She is our pet, not our child. <br>We’ve set clear boundaries and defined the behaviors she’s had to master to enjoy a happy, balanced life. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A few examples: <br>Human furniture is for humans. Always. <br>Never jump on humans. <br>Chew only what is permitted. <br>Pee and poo outside. <br>Never beg at dinner tables. <br>Be gentle to any smaller dog or child. <br>Obey our commands <em>immediately</em>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And on and on. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One other important note: make sure your dog is paying attention before you issue a command. Make sure it is looking at you and listening. Eliminate distractions. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn’s life-lessons are taught with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of quiet confidence. <br>She is so pleased when she gets it right. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn-dog is respectful, knows her place, and loves us right back, in full measure, largely because we’ve accepted, and used, brilliant Cesar Millan’s simple, profound gift.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/55355742018-12-02T00:09:14-05:002018-12-02T00:09:14-05:0012/01/18: ‘Let It Rain, Let It Pour’… <p><span class="font_large">Funny, the memories a drenching rain recalls. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One wet day a few years ago I grabbed my biggest umbrella and strolled to Hannah Park, just across the street. Every so often I get the urge to walk in the rain. It didn’t hurt that I’d just enjoyed Gene Kelly making dance-magic in a downpour an hour ago- I wanted to recapture his exuberance for a while. My day had been ‘bumpy,’ so gazing at the Boardman River, dotted with delighted, vocal ducks, will always lift my spirits. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I carefully descended the steep cement stairs to the river—and came upon an amazing sight. A large golden retriever stood squarely in the middle of the meadow, legs spread out, paws splayed, head slightly raised, eyes closed, utterly transported. The rain was pouring down in buckets; even the ducks had sought shelter under one of the big trees. But that dog, drenched to the skin, had planted himself out there, willing it to fall even harder. The wetter he got, the better. His fur actually parted in the middle of his back from the all that water. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">His owner, decked out in raingear, waited patiently under a tree. He noticed me watching his dog, and chuckled. “Sailor lives for these times. He does his rounds, then finds the perfect spot and places himself like that. Odd, eh? He’s too old now to manage the river; it moves pretty fast- so he gets his ‘fix’ this way. I think the experience must be similar to a massage…” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Sailor? What a great name!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The man smiled. “Yeah; when my wife and I brought him home- he was ten weeks old- we noticed he took a great interest in the kitchen faucets. Then, when she decided to take a shower and turned it on, Sailor was thrilled! He yipped, hopped in and began snapping at the spray, inspecting the drain, and generally making himself at home. Eventually, he just stood there, in the same position he’s in now, and let himself get pummeled. I swear that pup smiled. We knew then what to call him.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I looked carefully; nine-year-old Sailor hadn’t moved. And, by golly, he was smiling. That dog was the picture of contentment. <br>“He’s lucky we’re willing to indulge this; it’s rarely convenient for my wife and me to walk him in torrential rain, but we’re always rewarded.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">For nearly ten minutes we enjoyed his golden’s enjoyment. Chatting and laughing, raising our voices to accommodate the downpour, he told me his dog’s story. <br>The couple had seen their daughter off to college, but within two months began suffering an acute case of ‘empty nest syndrome.’ Finding themselves moping about the house too much, they marched off to the local animal shelter. Their lonely puppy was waiting. <br>They were cured. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The rain lessened; it was time to break the spell. The man whistled and shook the leash. “Wrap it up, partner!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Reluctantly Sailor opened his eyes, gave a heartfelt sigh, and shook himself mightily. A ton of water flew every which way. Two more vigorous shakes, and they squelched over to a blue van. After a thorough toweling, Sailor hopped onto the tarped front passenger seat, accepted a large milk bone, and dispatched it with relish. “We bought a heck of a hairdryer when the house started to reek of ‘sopping canine.’ Making him acceptable takes time, but it’s necessary. He settles down to wait again for rain. When he dreams, it’s not about squirrels, believe me.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A cheerful wave, and they were off to join his wife. Sailor sat, sodden and happy. Obviously this was a familiar routine. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I sloshed home, grinning in the rain.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/55267372018-11-25T00:50:49-05:002018-11-25T00:50:49-05:0011/25/18: Timeless Questions; Garden Reflections on a Gloomy November Day... <p><span class="font_large">Gardens possess an elixir that tinkers with my sense of time. I’ll ponder the rapidity of growth, the colors and perfumes, the variety of life out here and the science behind it all, and forty minutes will vanish in an instant. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Canna lilies, for example, begin as dirt-y bumps. These tropical plants often grow two inches every sun-drenched day in here, to eight or nine feet high! Whenever I want to see something marvelous emerge impossibly fast from practically nothing, I’ll trot over to my cannas and stare. <br>The despised, gorgeous Japanese beetles add a dash of delicacy as they voraciously chew those giant leaf tips to lace. What is it about cannas that they love? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A drab-looking hummingbird moth hovers nearby. The heavy insect is easily as large as its namesake. Absurdly insubstantial wings hum: the creature hangs suspended in front of the big kitchen window as if inspecting its reflection…Imagine the huge amounts of energy needed to accomplish this feat! How long can it hover before refueling is necessary? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A honeybee staggers around inside a huge hibiscus flower, its black and gold body completely blanketed in sticky white pollen. Even its eyes are coated. Yet it flies, undaunted. Just a skim of ice on a airplane’s wings changes the aerodynamics. Add an inch more, and it falls out of the sky. How has the bee’s aerodynamic design canceled this danger? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hundreds of unblinking black-eyed Susans — most minus their orange ‘lashes’ – dot the lush landscape. Each seed-packed orb demonstrates design perfection. There are no square, rectangular or sausage-shaped Susans. (Why is everything in our universe round?) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My four massive sweet autumn Clematis vines are in spectacular bloom, blanketing fences, huge steel spider webs, gates and evergreens... They’ve grown fifty feet from little sticks in just three months! Millions of white starflowers bob with every tiny breeze: their perfume fills the garden. Their nectar intoxicates frenzied bees. <br>Clematis isn’t bothered by mildew, mold, or beetles. Why? It’s chemistry. They’ve figured it out, somehow, over the centuries. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The ‘bling’ of the garden bell roused me from my reverie. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A dad and his teen son entered; the boy propped his glasses up on his nose as the two looked around. We began sharing thoughts, and favorite musings. Both loved science, so I shared some thoughts about organisms that prefer certain plants. <br>His son glanced at me, glassed eyes gleaming with mischief. “Hey, Dad, here’s an experiment: microscopic life on a clothed human is the most varied and prolific on pants zippers and waistbands. To prove it I’d swab your laundered pants--the zipper, button, and the area around both-- for contaminants. There’d likely be nothing. Then I’d test that area again before you tossed your pants in the wash. Remember, we zip up first, then wash our hands after using the toilet. There’d be residue there, from alien doorknobs, your flowerbeds, food, dirty dishes, grocery carts... <br>The result – quite a microscopic population, compared with other clothing areas – should prove my theory!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We gasped, then howled with laughter. Todd grinned. He’d been joking, but I thought he might pursue this germ of an idea sometime, just for fun. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Seriously, what really interests me are the rapid multiplication of bacteria and viruses, and the chemistry behind their mutations…Why do bugs attack only certain plants, for instance?” <br>His father smiled. “Yeah, you might have fifty years- a tick of time- to delve into things. So you gotta specialize. That’ll be a challenging part of the next few years. Choosing what to concentrate on.” Todd stared ahead for a moment, overwhelmed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then he propped up his glasses and turned to me, his face lighting up. “MIT’s accepted me. I want to explore biological engineering, and maybe aeronautics —” <br>A hummingbird, then a huge bumblebee, whirred by… "Dad, how can they do that? Doesn’t the math say it’s impossible for those bees to fly with that equipment?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ah, a man after my own heart!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/55184602018-11-17T23:04:37-05:002018-11-17T23:04:37-05:0011/18/18: Dead Boring<p><em><span class="font_large">Dear readers; Bryn and I saw two field mice zipping through the parking lot near the library: the sight of them triggered a memory I thought I’d share again. This column shall serve as my 2018 annual rant. I always indulge in one per year. </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’m nestled in my favorite chair, watching firelight create interesting shadow-pictures on the walls. They make me reflective. I’d been researching mice- especially field mice, who have a peculiar set of back legs reminiscent of kangaroo legs, and a little tuft of hair right at the end of their tails. <br>What a year 2010 was! One memory remains particularly vivid. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I lived in England for the first half of 2010, to be near David, my late mother’s English husband, who’d had a stroke. (He died in August of 2010.) During his last February he was temporarily transferred to a small hospital forty minutes away, because Ross Community Hospital, much closer to David’s home, had been plagued with a virus and needed disinfecting, from ceilings to sublevels. It would take weeks to scrub it down. When the massive job was done, he would be transferred back. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Meanwhile, I motored daily to this far-away, much smaller facility... <br>and found a surreal scene in David’s wing. Eight elderly men, who, as far as I could see, had working voices, active minds and movable limbs (they could sip tea and munch biscuits just fine)- who lay propped up in their ward beds, four to a side, in the immaculate room. As usual, there was no medical equipment in sight. Paper cups housed various pills. <br>There was nothing to look at- no magazines or newspapers, no television, no soft BBC radio music/patter, no joke-y nurses, <em>nothing</em> to think about, or to see or do. </span><br><br> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s the weird part. <em>Nobody made a sound</em>, though most were awake and alert. I couldn’t even hear them breathe. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It gets stranger. Their <em>Visitors</em> were silent. They just sat there by their loved ones’ bedsides, exactly like spellbound Hobbits. Reflecting now, I suppose that they, being naturally reserved around so many other strange men, and having zero privacy, had chosen to say nothing at all. There weren’t even sheeted barriers between the beds to encourage whispers, or maybe a kiss? <br>But no. Only stares were exchanged. Everyone was too shy to say anything. <br>I was witnessing an extremely slow-motion checkout- death from boredom. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">If I were in charge, I’d offer some good gossip! Who were these elderly men going to tell? <br>How about passing along village news? <br>How about bringing along a young child who could chatter about her day at primary school? <br>Why not have a caregiver offer to read short stories for an hour every day? It would be a highlight, I bet. <br>Or, why not trade life-stories? Those long-lived men could relate some pretty lively episodes, I thought. Each man might await his turn with something like- anticipation. <br>But oh, dearie me, it was <em>not</em> the British way. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This silence was toxic. It can still give me nightmares. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sometimes British stiff upper lips are a huge pain. The British dislike making a fuss, and so were politely queuing up to meet Dr. Death. Chuckles and relaxed chatter were as unlikely here as dormice in teapots. All that was missing were eight coffins and some dirt. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> Lunch and tea were served, <em>ever</em> so quietly. I seriously considered dropping a teacup, just to shatter the silence. Maybe I could pass gas. Or bring a radio to play some great music. <br>Jeez. I’d go absolutely bonkers in here, in a New York minute. (David would endure it for nearly three weeks.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I blew in every afternoon to chat, but he’d opted out. In fact, I never heard his voice again after that experience. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The head matron was crisply unhelpful when I asked why he slept so much. Questions, especially from meddling foreigners, were unwelcome. Was he given sleeping tablets? She wouldn’t confirm or deny it. Any medical information was closely guarded. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The doctor was, as usual, unavailable. (British doctors regularly insulate themselves from patients’ families. One asks ‘matron’ to notify his office, which is often in another part of town. Then the doctor’s receptionist rings to fix an appointment for perhaps a week later. By then one’s question is irrelevant.) <br>American docs are <em>infinitely</em> more accessible. In fact, one often bumps into them on their hospital rounds.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Fighting back, I chose crackly brown paper to wrap a book of outrageous cartoons by George Booth, which I presented to David with a ta-da flourish. (This went over poorly. The British don’t <em>do</em> ta-das.) He remained determinedly asleep. I understood. This gangrenous silence was surely to blame. It was very like a pseudo-death. If waking up offered the same dreary blankness that sleeping did, why bother to wake up? <br>Perhaps that was the point. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The British National Health System is long past bankrupt. Though old, sick bodies are tidied, kept warm and decently fed, old minds are abandoned. <br>There are no funds for “frills.” <br>A nurse told me this. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One day, fed up, I brought along two realistic wind-up mice and placed them on his taut top sheet. They busied themselves circling. David didn’t notice. <br>A nurse delivering pills did, but wasn’t amused. I didn’t care. “Everyone here’s dying—of boredom, ” I commented loudly. <br>One bedridden gentleman looked astonished at my boldness, but by God, he nodded. Nurse pursed her lips. Typically brash, rude American, she thought. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I knew the indulgence was stupid. With this mouse silliness I risked making David’s life more difficult –but- how could his life be worse than having to endure these naked green walls, the bare air, and this dead-silent room? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two days later he was transferred back to Ross’s antiseptically scrubbed hospital. I was so glad! At least it bustled with activity and visitors, mostly farmers who sometimes chuckled in the big ward. <br>Sometimes there was radio music. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The starched Matron here was surely glad to be rid of me. I was disliked, mainly for talking out loud and actually being inquisitive. <br>What rubbish! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But I had the last laugh. I left those mice with two patients. Intrigued, they quickly palmed them. Other men noticed. At least one pair of alert eyes twinkled. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I will always wonder what happened next.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/55083712018-11-10T23:33:26-05:002018-11-10T23:33:26-05:0011/11/18: Our Post-Halloween Treat- or Trick <p><span class="font_large"><em>There is magic in the night when pumpkins glow so orange and bright... </em><br> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Halloween season stood out this year for Bryn, Joe and me. She’d sniff her way up and down our street until her startled ‘pause-n-freeze’ pose would alert us to another neighbor’s newly installed lawn additions- such as skeletons sprawled on porch chairs or oozing out of graves, and witches that clung to overhanging tree branches, their capes twitching in the light breeze. Distorted, bone-thin men in rags- what Science Fiction writer Ray Bradbury might call ‘bump-in-the-night bogies,’ were animated by their owners from after dusk until well into late evenings so people driving past could enjoy the scenes. <br>Humongous spiders waited on giant webs or swarmed over houses, climbing nearly to their roofs... <br>One home advertised itself as a “Dead and Breakfast” establishment, causing lots of their front yard skeletons to climb out of their graves to snare a room with a decent bed. “Bein’ dead must be boring,” mused one child to his dad on Halloween. “That’s why they come up to the party out here...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My unsettled doggie preferred to trot on the street side of the wide sidewalks. (Too many bones without an ounce of meat on them?) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One early evening a week before the big evening we strolled by a smallish yard that happened to light up just as we passed. Alarmed, she leaped straight up into the air, landing stiff-legged, ears quivering and nostrils flared. <em>What was this?? </em><br>Four big wagons, one hitched to a skeleton-horse, had been set out. Skeletons manned the driver’s seats while their skinless friends lounged in the cargo beds. Ghosts, leering pumpkins, long deceased doggies, tombs and all manner of creepy stuff filled the lawn. The amazing scene attracted crowds of people holding their phones high to take pictures. It stopped cars dead: drivers and passengers were blown away by the awesome spectacle. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Just before ‘The Event,’ even more homeowner marvels popped up. One really sweet one, an inflatable, full-size Cinderella-like carriage, pulled by two pretty gray horses, appeared on a front lawn three homes away from ours. Its generator purred almost inaudibly, keeping the airflow even. <br>Wow! It was possible to peek into the carriage’s lit up interior. “Maybe Cinderella’s in there,” shouted one tiny child dressed as a ballerina. A six-year-old boy jumped up and down to sneak a peek. “No,” he pronounced. “No - ‘cause it’s not at her house yet- ‘member- she lives in the country!” <br>The perfect answer! <br>Everyone admired its charm. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular"><em>(Today, reading what I was about to submit, Joe chuckled. “Dee, that carriage was a hearse, not a princess’s carriage.” I was taken aback, then thoughtful. Ah...that was why those horses were dark gray, not white. Silly me. But hey, the little dancer had thought the same thing...) </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Down the street a single skeleton horse was hitched to a wagon, accompanied by a Boston terrier-sized ‘bone’ dog; Bryn skidded to a stop to stare, baffled. <br>It was an inspired, very effective tableau! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sixth Street had been truly transformed! <br>Later, we decided 2018 had offered the best displays yet. So many well-lit exhibits had certainly thrilled loads of visitors. <br>Joe and I arrived back in town only 40 minutes before ‘Trick-or-Treat’ was scheduled to begin. We tore inside, dressed up in the witch and warlock costumes I’d laid out days ago, dumped tons of candy into huge bowls and sat out on the front porch in hastily set up folding chairs to join in the fun. Near the end, Joe carried on distributing treats at a furious pace while I walked three blocks in my costume to see for myself what was happening. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What a huge turnout- but fewer children had shown up compared to last year (when nearly 1,350 kids had trudged up our stairs). Just over 1200 children trick-or-treated this time, and received our tribute. Almost every child thanked us. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The morning after, I fretted about taking Bryn for her walk; she always sniffs diligently around trees, along sidewalks and into bushes for interesting news, and I’ve caught her many times trying to sample someone’s discarded summer hamburger bits or discarded pizza. But she has a serious medical problem, reacting violently to anything other than her special diet. Even a tiny bit of the wrong food could send her straight to the hospital. Halloween candy bits are routinely dropped or discarded, making the next day unnerving for us. I’d tried a muzzle one year, but my normally silent dog actually cried until I removed it. So now, extra vigilance was necessary. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Even though we walked well away from the most visited areas, and most lawns had been raked, making discarded candies easier to discern, she’d still managed to scarf down a 4-inch square, thin hunk of veggie pizza without our noticing until too late. Brightly wrapped candy always stands out, but this partial snack had blended too well into the leaf-mottled, curbside landscape. <br>Horrified, all Joe and I could do was wait. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We were incredibly lucky. <br>Just an hour later up it came, having been inspected by her stomach and then <em>summarily rejected</em>. She deposited it on the carpet <em>still in perfect condition</em>, still with the various veggies arranged nicely across the thin dough. It was WEIRD. <br>To say we were amazed is to severely understate our reactions. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn, chagrined, left the room embarrassed and upset, though I’ve never scolded her for vomiting. That misery means ‘sick.’ ‘Sick’ means <em>not her fault</em>. Nevertheless, she wanted only to distance herself from this baffling barf. She couldn’t look us in the eye. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We simply picked it up, scrubbed away the coffee can-sized stain and breathed a deep sigh of relief. <br>No emergency room. <br>No life-and-death situation. <br>The invader was happily trashed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was, if you will, as though lingering Halloween ghouls had seduced Bryn into gobbling down a potentially lethal Treat, but had then relented and taken it back again- call it their unlikely, gross, reverse Trick- for reasons we’ll never fathom. <br>But who cares? Bryn <em>had</em> coughed up The Scary Thing. That’s what mattered. <br>Life is good!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/54987562018-11-03T23:29:43-04:002018-11-03T23:29:43-04:0010/04/18: Montreal; Canada’s Island Jewel- Part Three <p><span class="font_large">We woke early On Tuesday to another bright morning with few clouds, 55 degrees or so, with a light breeze. The plan: to explore Montreal’s Old Town neighborhoods and then venture downtown. The city has quite an impressive profile, with slim, modern office buildings piercing the sky. It’s the second largest primarily French-speaking city (after Paris) on the planet. We identified Hindi, German, Chinese, Japanese and Portuguese. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Later we came upon a restaurant called Eggcellent, tucked into a cobbled street, which specialized in breakfasts. With a name like that we had to check it out!<br>I ordered crisp bacon and avocado slices to set atop my (backpacked) gluten-free bread, which they were happy to toast. Joe had homemade sausage and eggs. The coffee was robust, tasty and black. We’d come back soon! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Most shops weren’t open this early, so we biked on Old Town’s sidewalks. (People in cars tended to work their phones as they slowly navigated the ancient streets, making us nervous.) We looked into lots of little shop windows and constantly wove around construction. Big machinery, stacked cardboard boxes, portable barriers, piles of earth, sand, and displaced cobblestones made for tricky biking. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The <em>best</em> place to travel turned out to be in the heart of the very busy downtown! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s a great promotional statement from <a contents="GoBiking.ca" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://gobiking.ca/quebec-rides/cycling-in-montreal/" target="_blank">GoBiking.ca</a> of why Montreal is considered a world-class bike-friendly city: </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">Major cycling publications and organizations have consistently rated Montreal as one of the top bicycle-friendly cities in the world during the past decade -for good reason. The creation of hundreds of kilometres of bicycle lanes, paths, and trails, and the establishment of the self-serve rental system with 5000 Bixi bikes, puts Montreal at the leading edge of what large cities can do to facilitate and promote cycling. </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/14ebab55fecdf9bc8f1507387cf52ebb9fa50419/original/montreal-064.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br><em><span class="font_large">Downtown bike lane on De Maisonneuve Boulevard. </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">The amazing thing about all of this is that a little over 20 years ago Montreal had the opposite reputation: it lagged far behind Ottawa and Toronto for being bicycle-friendly. Not long ago Mount Royal Park was the best Montréal could offer cyclists looking for an interesting place to ride. If you want to do some hill climbing, or get a fantastic view of Montreal’s downtown core, Mount Royal is still a great place to cycle. However, now the city has so much more to offer. </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">One example is the recently completed bicycle lane, which transverses the entire length of Montreal’s downtown area. It’s not about painting a white line and a few bicycle symbols on a narrow strip of pavement. This bike path takes up a whole car lane on De Maisonneuve Boulevard: it’s separated from the rest of the street by a substantial cement curb. Well thought out traffic signs help cyclists to safely navigate through busy downtown intersections. Moreover, Montreal is serious about keeping this bicycle facility open all year round. At one point motorists were actually complaining that the city was removing snow from the bicycle lane faster than the roads! </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Eventually, well past two o’clock, we were too pooped to pedal. A French meal, imaginatively served, would restore us. The Vieux Port Steak House’s prices made us pale- until we remembered we could whack off 25%. Much better! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Revived, we biked to the Basilique Notre Dame, a Catholic Cathedral not far from our hotel. Built in the 19th century the magnificent, colorful neo-Gothic interior boasts a stunning pipe organ with 7000 pipes. Celine Dion was married here. <br>Arranging one’s wedding, though, requires patience. Its wedding calendar is booked seven years in advance! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There was a long line to get in as part of group tours of twenty, and a fee (around $10/person) to boot. As time was short we decided to forgo it. Do view the evocative videos offered on the net, though. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We pedaled past a huge Observation Ferris Wheel located on a nearby island, which offers all-encompassing views of the city (for $25/person), its multiple bridges (lit at night) over the huge St. Lawrence River, and the smaller islands. Open from 10-11 p.m. the cabins are air-conditioned in summer and heated in winter. <br>Next time... </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">Not once did we see any sign of law enforcement. Large groups of cheerful young adults, most likely students from McGill University, Loyola College, Concordia University and The University de Montreal, just to name a few) never seemed over-boisterous or unruly. Many smoked. <br>Every evening soft pastel lighting enhances the huge Boulevard’s restaurants, shops, Cathedral, and other architecturally interesting buildings. It’s a great draw. Jazz and pop music inside and out enhances the scene. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">College students who like soccer, American football and hockey (the world-class Montreal Canadiens are based here) visit bars with wall-hung screens featuring these games. <em>Brassiere Sportive</em> was good for a glass of wine- and it offered free popcorn. We ‘wrinklies’ stuck out a bit, but nobody minded. <br><br>In the twilight, almost all the people gathered on the great pedestrian <em>Jacques Cartier</em> Boulevard itself were over 50. Most, in fact, were over retirement age. <br><br> <br>There was one ‘monumental’ curiosity. <br>Right at the top of the Boulevard, which slopes gradually to the mighty St Lawrence, stands a 50-foot high statue of Admiral Horatio Nelson, erected here in 1809. To me, it looked almost exactly like the one in London’s Trafalgar Square. Great Britain’s premier sea warrior died fighting the Battle of Trafalgar. <br>It’s the oldest monument in Canada. <br>Curiously, Nelson is positioned looking inland, not out to sea. <br>(But I think I read somewhere that the British Admiralty headquarters used to be up that way...) I didn’t know he’d lost an eye and a good part of his right arm in various battles. The statue depicts this. <br>Anyway, just after the turn of the 20th century, the original 8-foot-high Nelson showed signs of deterioration, and so was moved to a local museum. This one’s a replica. <br>Wikipedia adds its own comment: [* signifies my own comments] </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>As a monument which may be seen as celebrating a British victory in a city that is predominantly French-speaking, it’s garnered its share of controversy. In 1890 a Quebec sovereigntist faction plotted to blow up the column. In 1930 </em>[*as a clever, non-confrontational compromise] <em>francophone Montrealers responded to Nelson’s presence by erecting a statue in a nearby city square (now known as Vauquelin Square) commemorating Jean Vauquelin, a French naval officer who valiantly fought during the Seven Years’ War. </em>[*The two statues glare stonily at each other from a safe distance; so far, neither man has blinked.] <br><em>Still, many French Canadians continued to object to Nelson’s presence. In 1997 the city proposed moving the monument to a distant Anglophone district, but public opposition has kept Montreal’s oldest monument in its original place.</em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">On Wednesday morning we awoke to heavy rain, predicted to last all day and throughout the night. But at 6:30 a.m. it stopped; local radar showed we had a few hours to zip around town, so we wheeled our bikes to the huge gate, unlocked it, and were off. Up and down the avenues, along the river, through the streets, around the old clock tower, and finally, back to Eggcellent for coffee and a hot breakfast. YUM! </span></p>
<p><br><span class="font_large">We’d barely returned to our hotel before the heavens opened again. Rain drenched everything. Alas, I’d brought no raincoat. The rain intensified. <br>Before lunch, the room cleaner knocked. When I answered, that kind man offered me a brand new foldaway raincoat in its own pouch, left behind by another guest. It was posh! He’d been saving it for a small guest without adequate rain gear. It was perfect for dashing outside and directly across the street to explore Marches Bonsecours, a huge, beautiful Palladian style two-story domed building finished in 1847. For many years it housed Montreal’s City Hall, a 3700-foot meeting room and the Farmer’s Market, as well as accommodating banquets, exhibitions and other festivals- until 1878. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">{Wikipedia comments that] <em>The building continued to house the farmer's central market, an increasingly multicultural mix of small vendors with business mainly conducted in the French language until the building was slated for demolition in 1963.</em> [*However, calmer heads prevailed; it] <em>was later transformed into a multi-purpose facility, with a mall that houses outdoor cafés, restaurants and boutiques on the main and second floors, as well as a rental hall and banquet rooms on the lower and upper floors, and municipal office space. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bonsecours Market was designated a National Historic Site of Canada in 1984.<br>We strolled through the main floor’s many separate shops that house attractive, often pricey merchandise, like clothes, jewelry, and fine memorabilia. But the second floor was dark and empty. <br><br>This splendid building is safe from the wrecking ball, though. <br><br>We left our snug digs very early Thursday morning, drove through nearly constant rain to the Canadian border, zipped through Customs and found ourselves back in Saginaw that evening. It had been an uneventful 13-hour drive. <br><br>As our younger daughter may move there, we’ll enjoy returning to this appealing city in future, knowing the territory much better now.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/54896432018-10-28T10:55:26-04:002018-10-28T10:55:26-04:0010/28/18: Montreal: French Canada’s Island Jewel: Part Two <p><span class="font_large">The drive to Montreal seemed too long; anticipation made time drag. I finally rolled up into a ball on the front seat and went to sleep, something I rarely do. It helped enormously to hurry time along. Joe drove well, sipping hot chocolate and munching a cookie while listening through his earpiece to a good story. When I woke we’d began to nibble at the edges of the big city. Its population numbers nearly two million souls. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The traffic was reasonable, as it was Sunday. Our GPS lady was mostly unruffled. After just one mistake she took us off the Big Road and into the old city. The island of Montreal (named after Mt. Royal, a small mountain in the island’s middle section) from which the city is named, is huge. <br>Here are some thumbnail statistics: </span><br><br><span class="font_large">192.74 miles in area </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">31 miles long </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">9 miles wide </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Official language: French. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ancient Rue St. Paul, just a couple of expansive blocks away from the St Lawrence River, is elevated almost 100 feet above it. This part of Old Montreal boasts original cobblestone and brick streets, which wind appealingly through the neighborhoods’ side streets. Our tiny hotel, Auberge BonSecours, was set well back from that old thoroughfare. We turned off St. Paul Street to immediately face a very tall, arched, long brick and stone tunnel into which were built two 12-foot-high ornate iron gates dating from the 17th century, which are still swung closed and locked every night at 8. Every resident has a key, should they want to stay out later for the nightlife. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">From relative darkness, the tunnel opened into a longish, ancient open courtyard. Long, very high stone/brick walls framed a charming little seven-room hotel at its far end, which is, in fact, a converted stable. It is reached by climbing up three steps to a generous cobblestone patio set outside its front door which offers a couple of little iron tables with chairs to enjoy morning coffee and croissants. So French. So charming! Three ‘stalls’ on the courtyard’s right side had sheltered carriages centuries ago... and now, cars. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The warm brick and stone façade outside was decorated with black iron hayracks planted with thriving, vividly red geraniums, to stunning effect. I rate picturesque scenes like this in terms of ‘sigh value.’ (My scale moves from 1 to 10, with ten being tops.) This one earned a firm 7. Keeping designs simple, with lots of ‘POW!’ value, makes a most satisfying first impression. <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/62ab5f8f2eeba6819d44d34dbd877a1ee238aba5/original/img-4327.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The concierge, who spoke quite reasonable English (far better than my abysmal French), escorted us to our pleasant, simply furnished room on the second floor. A glass-paned door at the sun-filled end of our boudoir opened onto a huge roof patio with a fine view of the cobblestone courtyard one story below. This roof patio was much bigger than our quarters. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Inside, pale yellow walls set off two double beds and a smallish hand-painted, very French red armoire. A small chair sat snugly against a tiny tri-corner table holding a little telly set against the wall. The small bath was equipped with a square porcelain toilet and sink and a glass-door ‘phone booth’ shower with excellent water pressure. The towels were thick and white. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We relaxed happily into our nest. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Having spent nearly all our time <em>indoors</em> investigating the Royal Toronto Museum’s treasures, we decided to explore Old Montreal’s outdoors for most of our three full days here, as the weather, though rather cool, was sunny and a bit breezy, perfect for biking the area. Also, the huge, main pedestrian boulevard, only two blocks away, offered cheery pubs and restaurants featuring wonderful food. We never ate a mediocre meal. French food, imaginatively presented and freshly flavorful, rarely disappoints. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The first day, Monday, after our free continental breakfast (fresh coffee, fresh o.j., fresh baked bread, an assortment of cheeses, olives, bagels, hard-boiled eggs, thin ham slices, fresh berries and other fruit), we unlocked the huge iron doors just after 7 a.m. and wheeled out to bike the length of the St. Lawrence River as far as we could, using the wide paths lining its edge, which was brightened in spots by lots of small trees planted in long lines. Later in the morning people walked up and down its green swath eating baked goods and sipping coffee, enjoying the sun. There was plenty of room for bikers. We stopped frequently to explore the various jetties and structures that line the river. </span></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/6f871d366515c1aca2229ace3e291a447c30cebc/original/img-4328.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/d8d06fdd20d7f15538048ee3060b5cda4aee7c67/original/img-4329.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/fbf0f67161fb151029a70b468c4440a8252ce7f2/original/img-4338.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">One in particular, the Science Building, rose above the St. Lawrence. We love science exhibits! Closer examination, though, revealed zero activity inside. What? We locked our bikes and tested the big glass doors. They were open. Inside reflected the outside; all gray steel, stone and cement. There were no carpets. There was, in fact, nothing at all. Well, almost nothing. Two people, looking busy, manned a nearly barren desk against the right wall of the huge lobby, but no other souls, save we two, were about. This building was empty- of color, of people, of any softness (like comfy lobby seats, or maybe some large potted plants, which would thrive in all this natural light). </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then we heard faint, canned music. A large, round, candy-stuffed carousel, manned by two young men, was recessed well away from the traffic that should be flowing through this big entryway. A huge gray cement pillar had made it effectively disappear. There were lots of soft drinks, too- and even croissants and some sandwiches under glass. The candies’ bright wrappers provided visual relief from the gray that gloomed the interior. <br>This kiosk made no sense. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The two ‘greeters?’ in the lobby seemed didn’t mind our wanting to climb to the second floor. Surely there’d be something to look at up there! But, no. Floor-to-ceiling windows did display the fast-flowing river. Otherwise, only two colorful 50s-style movie posters and closed, unlabeled doors broke up the long walls. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Silent emptiness reigned. Baffled, we descended. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The building felt vacuumed of everything that would give it purpose. Most tourists had gone, but still...I found its nakedness exceedingly odd. What ‘science?’ Where? We looked at each other, shrugged, turned, and left. The desk jockeys, still at their posts, didn’t meet our eyes. The whole thing was unsettling. If there was nothing to see, why have it open? We didn’t feel like asking them for clarification. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The wind had picked up; biking now was a challenge, as the temperature had dropped to the high 40s. We pedaled on, though, wanting to view the Old Port’s docks, and maybe even see some interesting boats. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There was just one- a huge, gorgeous yacht. I’ve never seen anything like it. Her beauty and clean, elegant lines enchanted us. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Blue Moon</em> would stand out anywhere. Pure white, she is privately owned, cost over $75,000,000, is just over 175 feet long, has a captain, a crew of 15, and can accommodate 12 lucky guests. Her graceful lines are arresting. We stood in the late morning sun for a long time, talking about, for example, how very tricky it would be when the captain eventually must back her slim length out into that fast-moving river before turning one way or the other. What a feat that would be to witness! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Nobody seemed to be inside. Blue Moon sat there quietly, awaiting her next adventure. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Go to Google and ask for ‘Montreal’s huge yacht at Old Port.’ The short video shows her in late summer, when lots of much smaller boats were moored nearby, costing a mere million bucks or so. Moon’s arrival had apparently created a local sensation. The nattily dressed TV announcer reporting on her stood amid a crowd of summer-casual folks who had gathered at the docks to admire her and speculate about the beautiful boat’s background. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Old Port officials declined to say who owns her. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After biking up and down the swiftly flowing St. Lawrence we’d worked up quite an appetite, and were now shivery cold. The wind, quite gusty at times, was increasing every hour. So, round about two o’clock, six hours after we began, we pedaled wearily home, shed our wheels and walked to a restaurant our concierge recommended. Jardin Nelson is located right at the corner of Rue St. Paul and Place Jacques Cartier, the huge pedestrian boulevard. Flowers gushed from very large planters attached to its open patio, completely enveloping the five-foot-tall wall. Inside, a slim female vocalist sang popular French music, accompanied by a fine small band just behind her. Appreciative people ate and clapped. The singer, well known locally, can really deliver a song. Even in mid-afternoon the big indoor lunchroom was packed. Our salmon salads were delicious! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After exploring some of the little souvenir shops that line the boulevard we returned home at twilight and settled in for the evening. It had been a long, interesting day. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Auberge BonSecours is set so far back from the street that, for me, time seemed to slow, and then- reverse. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Nearly asleep, I fancied I could hear carriages and horsemen clip-clop in and dismount, spurs and gear clinking. They’d stable their steeds before resting somewhere close by for the night... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We fell asleep quickly, enveloped in Old Town’s deep quiet. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Tomorrow would prove to be very informative, and a bit strange. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Tune in next Sunday for the final report on our adventure. </span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/54790322018-10-21T01:43:24-04:002018-10-21T01:43:24-04:0010/21/18: A Toronto Museum Exploration: Part Two <p><span class="font_large">Joe and I packed our two bikes, left Bryn with family and drove to Toronto to stay for three nights to explore the Royal Ontario Museum’s many treasures. Our B and B, only a few blocks away from posh Bloor Street and the ROM, was nestled into a thickly treed residential neighborhood crammed with middle to upper-class homes. (Almost every home we saw since entering Canada is made of warm red brick. A wood-framed home is rarely in evidence.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The drive went smoothly. Customs took 5 minutes. But as we finally began to weave into Toronto’s sprawl six hours later we found ourselves in the middle of massive, forever long highway construction. 12 lanes were reduced to one or two. We dared not blink for fear we’d miss exits- or take them erroneously. (Our GPS British lady, completely muddled by all the confusion, gave up almost immediately.) <br>Finally, an hour or so later, satellite-settled, the GPS lady regained her composure and found Admiral Street, and we settled into our comfy rooms. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Some impressions: Admiral Street winds in serpentine fashion toward Bloor Street, and Queen’s Park, and is lined with every fabulous world-class store imaginable: Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Holt Renfrew, Chanel, Tiffany, Hermes and Armani, to name just a few. Restaurants are elegantly expensive. What’s displayed in those windows is as out-of-reach financially as the moon. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A block or so before all this bedazzlement we biked through curvy blocks of commanding, ivy-clad brick residential homes lining Admiral street, some sporting huge balconies high up, stained glass windows and even some towers, dating from very early to the middle of the last century. They’re tightly fitted into narrow lots absolutely stuffed with mature plants: shrubs, trees, struggling geraniums and impatiens- all fighting for light. As a result, there are big weeds growing lustily in between and underneath. It seems that after planting, the greenery was often- well, abandoned. The overcrowded ‘landscaping’ partially obscures the homes. It would be tricky to find one’s own driveway, I mused. Why had nobody decided to grow just beautifully kept grass, which would have framed many of these imposing homes? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The cars parked there were elegant. We saw ladies pushing carriages, but no teens tossing basketballs in driveway hoops- because there wasn’t enough room. <br>The whole plant-cluttered neighborhoods were vaguely unsettling- bordering on claustrophobic at times- for this gardener. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Anyway, we biked to the museum by a different route the second morning and stopped suddenly in confusion. My God! The ROM’s lengthy 19thcentury brick façade had been massively breeched -chopped- speared? by thrusting, MEGA-HUGE pointy, triangular shards of steel-lined glass that jutted out over the pavement at nearly impossible angles, reminding me of Superman’s eerie Ice Home. <br>It was Stunning! Awful! Horrifying! Marvelous! Scary! Weird! <br>My mouth took a very long time to shut. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/5f383432c14deee643b318bbc64cc42da082aca0/original/img-4400.png/!!/b:W10=.png" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br><br>Here’s how it’s described online: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Inspired by the ROM’s gem and mineral collection, architect Daniel Libeskind sketched the initial concept on paper napkins while attending a family wedding at the ROM. The design was quickly dubbed the 'crystal' because of its crystalline shape. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">His comment: <em>"Why should one expect the new addition to the ROM to be 'business as usual'? Architecture in our time is no longer an introvert's business. On the contrary, the creation of communicative, stunning and unexpected architecture signals a bold re-awakening of the civic life of the museum and the city." </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure the same man helped to design the new World Trade Center in New York City.<br><br>Never, ever have I seen anything like this freaky marriage of the stately, dignified elderly brick façade and entrance arch to a giant, triangular, thrusting, powerful, angular, screaming-its presence-mountains of glass. People walked under it without a thought, but that whole gigantic, fantastic façade hanging over me was <em>unnerving</em>. The architect has made it impossible for anyone to ignore the ROM’s presence. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After I’d settled down a bit I decided I might learn to really like it. <br><br>The older building, resigned now to centuries of baffled acceptance of what it cannot change, is, I fancy, beginning to adapt to the twenty-first century with grace. <br><br>This ‘connection’ might be the most innovative join-up I’ve ever witnessed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We locked our bikes and popped into a narrow, dark-walled corridor lined with wiry metal tables and thin chairs. People sat, sipping coffees and munching bakery purchased from its smallish vender-style snack room. Huh, thought I. It’s rather- understated. I’m used to cafeteria-style lunch/tea rooms in big-city (New York/ London) museums. But this seemed to work. People brought their own food; others downed sandwiches and water in the huge atrium off the entrance. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There were lots of folks wandering through the exhibits. Our exploration of ‘China’ the day before had attracted Chinese, Japanese, and other Asian people, as well as crowds of Europeans and Americans. Today, though, we began to wander through less populated rooms filled with Greek and Roman works of art. Gorgeous vases portrayed beautifully coiffed women in flowing robes sitting with friends. There were rearing horses... The drinking cups, though, some with delicately painted men and women sumptuously dressed, made us gasp. One incredible cup had a goat’s head and neck attached. I could imagine some lucky owner sipping wine from that beauty. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/428725708dad8f19a29a73dede2c57123da86d72/original/img-4318.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In fact, we spent a lot of time gazing at drinking cups: some presented as shallow oval stemmed dishes with handles at both ends. The ones with beautifully portrayed animals as an integral part of the cups themselves were strongly reminiscent of the museum’s fantastic exterior architecture. Ordinarily, one wouldn’t ever think of such intriguing ‘blendings/joinings, say, in the 20th century, or even in this one. But darn it, they can work! (Hmmm. Maybe Libeskind took inspiration from these gorgeous cups.) <br>One little snag- it would be tricky to set down an animal cup to reach for food. Wine would tip out, wouldn’t it? Joe took a photo of this cup to illustrate the situation. <br>But I could happily live with that tiny inconvenience if I owed such a spectacular sipper. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">All this wandering and mooring for a bit on benches designed to be only temporary ‘rest havens, chatting about what was before us, and then moving on made the time pass far too fast. Again, we found we’d been on our feet for over 5 hours. Enough. We were suddenly aware that lunch would be welcome. Why not visit the same pub as yesterday? It was three o'clock. <br>Over a shared ale and delicious chicken/salmon salads, we decided to return in the spring to pick up where we’d left off. There is so much more to absorb! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A few more impressions: <br><br>- Our residential neighborhood was really quiet, especially after 7 p.m., though it lay very close to populous, posh downtown Toronto. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- We noticed only two uniformed guards inside the museum. I’m sure more were there- just not obvious. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- Bordering the local park, bikes were locked onto specially fashioned stands displaying rent-a-bike machines. Toronto is VERY bike-friendly (although one wonders how practical this accommodation actually is during their long, fierce winters). There were 6-foot-wide bike lanes down both sides of Bloor Street, though very few bikers. Anyway, just insert a special card above the bike you choose, which scans it to identify you.’ Unlock your bike and off you go. <br>Cool. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- The University of Toronto was right next to the museum. Lots of students wearing heavy backpacks walked purposefully here and there. Smokers abounded. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- The ROM’s elevators are- irritating. This is a first. I’ve always felt neutral-to-grateful for them. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We’d enter to face a curious panel of buttons and little squares of gray metal <em>too low down</em> (I, whopping 5 feet tall, never complain about such a thing) which blend too well into the gray metal panel behind, making it difficult to quickly discern what’s going on. The interior lights were a bit dim. Instead of showing floor numbers clearly, folks had to peer to find them. ‘Up’ and ‘down’ chevrons were set oddly and helped only to confuse; there was no info on what different floors offered. <br>Besides its ‘plan’ being hard to sort, passengers were uncomfortably aware that seconds were ticking by. Way, way too soon the elevator, impatient with its load of puzzled, trying-to-discern-the code, finger-poised people, would begin to move up or down on its own. Visitors would shake their heads and mutter their annoyance in different languages as they found themselves on unwanted floors. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Instead of facing that ‘jumble symbol jungle’ again they’d shrug and walk off to find some stairs. We did, too. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- I found the ‘directive’ signs to galleries off the giant atrium nearly as confusing. The names of the donors for particular areas were <em>huge</em>, long and elegant. For example, <u>The Elizabeth Antonia Hamblatonious Smythe Gallery</u> (I’ve made up the name for demonstration purposes) would be set in capital letters etched deeply into creamy marble high above the entrance. <br>After that, trigger words at eye level about what was in there were almost grudgingly added- a bit like an afterthought. <br>I’d have designed it the other way around. Big, easy-to-read declarations for what is on exhibit, with the donor(s) names much less massive. It’s lovely-- stunning, actually, that these people cared enough to give the grateful museum the eye-popping money necessary to erect such beautiful, airy rooms. Having said that, and meant it, a nice plaque on the wall as one enters makes more sense. It’s about the museum’s collection, not the donor. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Well, here I am, fifteen hundred words into part two, and threatening to ramble on and on. I must leave out many more marvels we admired. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We’d depart Toronto very early the next day, a Sunday. Most folks would be asleep pre-dawn: traffic would be reduced to a trickle. Thank God. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Montreal was in our sights. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Tune in next Sunday for Part three: Montreal: French Canada’s Island Jewel. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">PS: Today, I’ve decided I really like the ROM’s exterior. The whole thing is rather special. Freaky special. I want to go back if only to study it more. If you visit, note that it ‘ate’ a window on the side not shown. There is only a bit of one still showing. The rest has been- ingested... Wow. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This thing is stupendous.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/54688832018-10-13T23:13:25-04:002018-10-16T22:38:54-04:0010/14/18: Our Canadian Adventure - Part One <p><span class="font_large">Joe and I had a fine adventure the last two weeks of September, exploring Toronto and Montreal. Here’s how it all happened. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Our fiftieth wedding anniversary, celebrated in June, represented a Giant milestone. And to honor it our families went all out. Joe’s sister, Mary, and her husband Vince, lifelong dog people, offered to move into Sunnybank House to mind Bryn, who really likes them. (We’ve always included Bryn in our car adventures: she’s a marvelous traveler. But tackling Customs? Finding a Canadian hotel that took doggies? Trying to explore by bike, with Bryn sometimes left at the hotel? It got complicated. So this wonderful gift swept those worries away.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Our two daughters decided to introduce us to Ontario’s major city, Toronto, and French Canada’s Montreal, especially the historical area of town, which dates from the 16th century. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two days before leaving I told Bryn that Joe and I’d be away, but that Vince and Mary would come to stay with her. Bryn understands an amazing amount of spoken information. I know this because I constantly witness her comprehension. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn’s sense of time is different from mine. ‘Soon’ to her means within hours. ‘In a bit’ or ‘later’ signifies a day or so, maybe more. <br>Unruffled, she greeted Vince and Mary a day later and I formally handed her over. (They knew all about her unusual food requirements.) <br>“Stay with Vince and Mary. We’ll be back later.” <br>She accepted our departure with no fuss. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">First, we drove to Toronto. Jenny and Lisa had purchased a year’s membership to the Royal Ontario Museum (ROM), the second largest museum in North America, and only three blocks from our comfortable, spacious turn-of-the-century bed-and-breakfast accommodation. Located on the second floor, our bedroom and generous bath were spacious. A nice kitchenette, equipped with a round table, 4 chairs, a fridge, toaster and coffeemaker, looked out onto a huge, roofed, open porch with its own comfy couch and more round, white iron tables with pretty place settings for continental breakfasts. It was lovely to relax out there for our three evenings with a glass of wine. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We were the only guests right then. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The museum, just 6 minutes away by bike, was chock full of fascinating exhibits. Our membership card made entering fast and easy. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><u>Spiders: Fear And Fascination</u> - immediately caught our attention. The creatures were, via holograms, dashing about the exhibit floor. Intrigued children tried to pounce on them, or follow them as they zipped around. (The spectacle was a reminder, too, that spiders are nearly everywhere...) <br>We noticed some fist-sized ones behind glass, moving through their specially constructed homes and environments- in deserts, or in more familiar areas. Intricate webs were spun to snare insects that we humans find irritating.) Wolf spiders, trapdoor spiders, <em>amazing</em> peacock spiders (who have vivid, multi-colored abdomens as bright as their namesake’s) and a myriad of other odd ones, are exhibited, along with short videos that explain their habits and habitats. With a single button press, visitors learn how they’ve evolved (a few, perfectly preserved in amber, date from hundreds of millions of years ago), their reproduction and growth, which ones are venomous, and how to tell, and how they sense their world. Spider Man’s fantasy talents further demonstrate some of the creature’s major assets. It is a splendid, well-thought-out presentation. </span><br> </p>
<p><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/acb0a1a388848637f113203fa2845a3c1408daa9/original/spider.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br>Understanding these creatures helps to curb irrational fears. I noticed that children who’d initially avoided the larger arachnoids were soon caught up in the adventure. Curiosity is a powerful draw. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We moved on to China, whose history spans six millennia. The earthen Ming Tomb, large and domed, contains the remains of a revered sixteenth century general, Zu Dashou, and three of his wives. The gate and carvings that announce it are splendidly regal. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Moving on, Daoist and Buddhist paintings, jewelry and china from as far back as 1300 BC are delicately rendered, and gorgeously detailed. <br>The helmets of Chinese soldiers, though, really caught my attention. These small, beautifully fashioned metal caps and/or facemasks were tailored to fit each owner’s head precisely. The details added to their ancient war garb are exquisite! <br>Today these helmets would fit only preteen children. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(A memory popped to the front of my mind. It’s astonishing how small interior cathedral doors are. Hobbit-sized. People were pint-sized in Europe, too, when compared with the much taller, better nourished humans alive today.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We finally moved on to the ROM’s dinosaur collection. <br>Ah- all the usual adjectives fail to express what’s there. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One GIGANTIC grazer, Barosaurous, a recent (re)find with an amusing, true story I’ll tell in a bit, dominates the area’s vast, high ceilinged floor. The thing is INCREDIBLY long. The neck goes on and on and on, until Nature <em>finally</em> added a teeny, teeny tiny head. You’d have to look hard for a brain. How would it have the wit to put one foot in front of another?? Or chew?? Or poo? Or reproduce? How could anybody cogent ‘be home’ up there? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Its massive body also supports a mile-long tail that fades into the distance before finally ending in the tiniest of tips. I fancy it was used to decapitate threats- if its thinker could remember how to do such a thing. <br>One needs to walk along under it to grasp the length. <br>Even then... <br>I’ve never seen the like, though I’ve visited many stunning dinosaur displays in The U.S. and Europe. <br>This. One. Takes. The. Prize. <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/5d71ac67ee76d9d9612393610c1b3d81e3c33d62/original/dinosaur.jpg/!!/b:W10=.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s an amazing, true story of how it was (re)discovered. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">David Evans, the man in charge of the dinosaur section, looked far and wide for a sauropod to display. It would be a triumph to feature such a rare creature. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After a long, frustrating search around the world he found himself browsing through other museum publications one day. A few words jumped out at him. Someone, decades ago, had mentioned ‘ lots of sauropod bones lying around in the Royal Ontario Museum’s basement.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><u>WHAT</u>? They'd had one all along??? He rushed back to paw through its underground vaults and sure enough, there were piles of giant and tiny sauropod bones sitting in closets, in drawers and on shelves. It turned out all the bones were from the same beast! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(The big museums have vast underbellies. I’ve often wondered what other rare treasures might be stored down their bowels, forgotten for decades. OMG.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally assembled, this AWESOME Barosaurus skeleton includes four massive neck vertebrae, a complete set of vertebrae from back to pelvis, fourteen tail vertebrae, both upper arm bones, both thigh bones (each of which is nearly five feet in length), a lower leg, and various other vital pieces. (Experts, who had enough bones in their museums to know how to do the job correctly, created the missing bones from plaster.) <br>The entire thing, approximately 90 feet long, stops viewers cold. Total mass: probably more than 15 tons. The skeleton nearly defies gravity! (Surely it had used deep water to support that much bulk. Surely!) <br>It must have eaten 24 hours a day to stay viable. I decided it could have made no sounds- No room in that teeny throat for such a luxury... <br>The trip down to its stomach had to be an extremely long, continuous one. <br>But here was proof that Barosaurus had lived. <br>And thrived. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One simply must see it to believe. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">By 2:30, we realized a break was necessary. Our stomachs growled. Our feet hurt. Our brains ached. My eye ached. Our mid-morning apple snacks had worn off and we longed for lunch. The Prince of Wales Pub, set into our residential area just off the huge Bloor Street shopping corridor, was quiet and popular. We’d found and noted it the evening before when biking around the area to get our bearings. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Meals, served in a pretty atrium, were delicious. Afterward, we pedaled home to nap, think and plan. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Tomorrow we’d explore more: The Bronze Age, a Bat Cave, Greece and Egypt. Not to mention the building’s waaay out there architecture. <br>Clearly, it’s going to take more than one trip to Toronto to do this museum justice. <br>Tune in next week for more fascinating stuff!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/54582832018-10-06T23:10:49-04:002018-10-06T23:10:49-04:0010/07/18: Two Contented Souls <p><span class="font_large">Some years ago, when visiting my family in England, I took a long, solitary afternoon walk down the rustic, unpaved Callow Lane, which led to the little village of Much Dewchurch, and its Black Swan pub. The sun, partnered with a freshening breeze, intensified the scent of meadows and wet earth, as it had just rained. Baa-ing, grazing sheep and lots of birdsong completed the idyllic picture. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After a bit, I came upon a lively little stream about two feet wide, bisected by a clump of trees that grew amid a tangle of briars next to the lane. Close by, partly camouflaged by lush greenery, was a sturdy pup tent that framed a medium-sized, gray-muzzled, curly-coated mutt. He barked once to announce my arrival before settling next to an elderly, slim man in worn corduroys, who was adding twigs to a small fire. <em>Preparing for lunch and tea,</em> I thought. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">His smile was gentle. I smiled back, and commented on the rainbow forming in the field above him. He nodded. “Nature’s optimistic, by nature.” I laughed. The guy sounded educated. I immediately wondered about his background. He read my mind. <br>“I tutor physics students in London. Every summer Bert and I like to trade our fancier digs for long, joint-oiling walkabouts, including tent living. Friends have gotten used to my prolonged summer absences to nonspecific locations. <em>I</em> never know where I’ll be. We both love living rough for a few weeks each year. I move when I please, and try to keep a diary. <br>Bert loves that every village, shrub and tree is full of news for his nose. <br>Living this simply, with no phone, no deadlines and no worries, is marvelous. We please only ourselves. I wasn’t sleeping much before starting these annual rambles; now that’s not a problem.” <br><br>I learned that his wife of forty-one years had died, and rather than succumbing to grief and loneliness he’d decided to explore “our green and pleasant land” on foot. <br><br>“After Helen died, each minute that passed was an hour. Out here, though, each hour seems a minute. I’ve abandoned my wristwatch, and love the freedom, the unpredictability, and the release of scaling way down. I’ve rediscovered my usual optimism—and simple pleasures—little things, like a bar of chocolate, or a local ale.” He sighed. “Summer always ends too soon.” <br>Bert’s slim, curly tail thumped agreement. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A shredding sticker on his half-filled knapsack read, ‘I Stop For No Particular Reason.’ Inside the tent’s flap was a trio of well-thumbed paperback books by Thoreau, Twain, and Wodehouse. He noticed. “Old friends. Should I die in my sleep, it’ll be with a smile.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I shook hands with a contented man. Rounding a bend I looked back to wave, and heard laughter as he called out, “I just remembered another perk—most nights I sleep with the most gorgeous stars!”</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/54491402018-09-29T21:12:30-04:002018-09-29T21:12:30-04:009/30/18: A Radical Redo From a Big Bang<p><span class="font_large">Just days before Christmas about six years ago an SUV ran off Sixth Street in the steady rain, smashed through our front garden’s antique iron fence, ripped over the grass and through the front flower bed to charge up the wide front porch stairs and roar straight into the house. The sixteen-year-old girl, a recently licensed driver, had struck the neighbor’s van parked in the street next door, then pressed the accelerator to the floor (thinking it was the brake). She was unhurt, but our home was grievously wounded. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The sixty m.p.h. hit caused the entire structure to vibrate violently from the shockwave. Almost all the original 125-year-old plaster on the second floor shook, cracked, split and then crumbled. Dust bloomed, coating every single thing. Even toothbrushes. The plastered, papered walls were held together only because of the wallpaper. This huge mess necessitated massive replastering and extensive rebuilding (which took nearly 8 months). </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The exterior of our home was shattered, as well. The front screen door was caved in, the interior hall banister and bottom stair treads were rammed out of alignment; the wide porch stairs had been crushed; much of the front porch’s floor and railings were in splinters. Two ancient white iron urns of impressive weight that had flanked the stairs were flung well away from their moorings. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In July, after a long, tiresome renovation, it was finally fit to live in again. (Thank goodness the girl’s parents had insurance!) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Another big change stemmed from this event. Our house has lost weight. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It’s interesting what possibilities suggest themselves when one’s entire second floor- including bed frames and mattresses- are stacked in corridors, or piled temporarily into other rooms. Some familiar objects began to take on a new identity- as potential clutter. Furniture, willed to us by Joe’s parents, rocking chairs, tables and other stuff we’d always kept, seemed to ask, ‘Are all of us still necessary? No. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So. A purge began. The ultimate clean, I think. I reviewed the accumulation of forty-five years of marriage, pointed at things and said, quietly, “You, you and you- OUT.” Seven pieces of furniture (cupboards, chairs, a desk, end tables, an armoire) were sold. Result? Every room felt much more open. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Other changes happened as well. A month before the plasterer had finished, I’d looked hard at our empty master bedroom. With everything banished to accommodate the plasterer’s ladders, buckets and tools, the thirty-five-year-old carpet was naked, so to speak. There were ancient stains over there, and there, and parts of it, where our bed had been, were much faded from exposure to years of morning sunlight. Now plaster dust coated it, dulling the blue. It would never be the same. We could now install a new carpet without fuss. Wait a minute! Wouldn’t it be fun to see what lay beneath? Maybe I’d want to do something different! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So I ripped it out, removed the ancient, shredding pad, then vacuumed away 35 years of dust, bits of plaster and dirt. A yellow pine floor blinked in the sunlight. The wide planks gently sagged just a bit toward the room’s middle, and were peppered with shiny nail heads. Someone, years before we took possession, had tried to cure its creaks before re-carpeting. One plank in the middle of the room had been partially cut away and replaced with fiberboard, probably to accommodate electrical wiring. I looked down: the little desk we’d had there had certainly left indentations, even with that old carpet and pad down. This was really soft wood. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The empty room echoed. I sang a few phrases of ‘The Last Rose of Summer,’ and grinned. <em>Not bad, old girl. In here, you sound decent.</em> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Suddenly tired, I slid down against the wall, and sat on the floor. How long would it be before this floor saw daylight again? Probably another quarter of a century. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I thought of the three previous families over 120 years who’d loved this room, who’d chatted in here, who had undone and brushed out their long hair, slept, written letters, snarled at mosquitoes that had sneaked past the open, screenless windows’ curtains… I smiled, and let my mind wander. A rusty gleam caught my eye. Embedded in a board was an extremely old, very thin, long hairpin, which had helped to hold someone’s luxuriant hair firmly in place at the turn of the previous century. I pried the thing out: its imprint remained in the wood. In my palm lay homey history- in a hairpin. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It didn’t take long to decide to re-carpet. The soft pine floor would permanently register every bit of furniture we set on it. Plus, in Northern Michigan, the winters can be long and cold, and I couldn’t imagine walking on wooden floors, even with thickish rugs down. (By the way, at the turn of the century linoleum was all the rage. Everyone who could afford such a luxury chose it; we have remnants of the pattern, with a horsehair backing, selected by the original owners, the Morgan family. Lino, the height of fashion, proved sturdy and easy to mop.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I didn’t repaper any of the four bedrooms whose ceilings and walls had been completely replastered, but chose instead to paint them, using light, airy colors. Then every bedroom was reassembled. Their windows could be approached without leaning over end tables, and the new honey brown carpet in our master bedroom gave the pale yellow walls a warm glow. The long hallway received pale apricot paint, decorated only by a simple, flowery, foot-wide border, which enhanced the high ceiling. I sold many framed pictures, rehanging only the most cherished. Wow! What a difference! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Those changes led us to remove the carpet (ruined by ground-in plaster globs as it was applied to the downstairs hall walls and ceiling, not to mention workers’ dirty boots as they trampled in and out for months) and tile the front hall downstairs instead. (The next year we redid the living room walls to compliment the repaired part.) Along with less furniture, I nearly emptied the clothes-stuffed closets. It’s amazing how many aging outfits and tired pairs of shoes were recycled. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Some weekends I still touch up the paint here and there in the baths and in our kitchen to keep things looking fresh. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After such an awful Bang, a slimmer Sunnybank House has settled nicely into its new look. </span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/54403422018-09-23T11:17:35-04:002018-09-23T11:17:35-04:009/23/18: Exploring Ancient Chester <p><span class="font_large">On April 9th, 2009, my husband rumbled into Hereford on the noon train. Hereford, a city of about 60,000 in the West Midlands of England, is seven miles from my late mother’s cottage. (The plane ticket was super-cheap: he’d gotten the ‘wrinklie rate,’ a five-day $400 round-trip ticket from Detroit to London on the ‘red-eye’ express. A Marine, he can sleep anywhere, even in a second class airline seat.) His medical office was closed for Easter, <em>and</em>, in four days it would be his birthday. We could celebrate it together. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After he’d cheered the progress I’d made with my flooded-out cottage renovation (I’d been living there for months to do this awful job) we decided to motor to Chester, not quite three hours away. It lies just two miles from the Welsh border, along the tidal River Dee. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This beautiful, ancient city of about 80,000 souls is a World Heritage site. Over two thousand years ago busy Romans built its (partially excavated) amphitheater designed to seat 8,000, pillared gardens (still there), and huge arches. Multiple restored medieval black-and-white timbered buildings shone in the afternoon sun, having maintained their dignity despite their cant. Chester’s ancient cathedral, with an intriguing mixture of styles, is the third most visited in Britain. But the two-mile-long stone/brick Roman wall nearly surrounding Chester was my favorite marvel. That’s where we’d spend the next day. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Our arrival was marred by a misery. Online I’d found an attractive-looking B and B with a nice write-up, located close to the center of town. The reality was shocking. The picture had lied! Cement covered everything. A spindly, 15-story-high derrick dangled directly overhead; I couldn’t imagine trying to sleep under that! The building’s walled parking area was girdle-tight. Bulging trash bags lined the garden wall’s edges. Bad sign! We found the hidden key in the old outhouse and climbed nervously up to our assigned room. Horrors! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This bilious boudoir had two badly made beds crammed into an extremely narrow space. Joe quick-peeked at the gray bedsheets, checking for bedbugs. Black specks betray the creatures. (We’d gotten a big dose years ago when I’d found us a nearly pitch dark, horrid room in Rome. Alas, I’ve mastered the art of booking bummers.) <br>This room’s bathroom was the size of a canceled postage stamp. A split, sagging window looked out on more cement that merged into a busy road. <br>We shuddered. A look was exchanged. After stampeding out the door I stepped out onto that road and stopped traffic. Joe hastily backed out, I leaped in, and we escaped the Pit of Despair, fists punching the air, shouting with relief. <br>That wretched structure was decades past its sell-by date and needed a decent burial right soon. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We found a parking place in the center of town and began to wander the winding, cobbled streets in search of lodging. Six blocks later we happened upon The Pied Bull Pub/Inn, Chester’s oldest coaching house, dating from 1144, and one block from everything. Perfect! There was even one parking space left behind it! In a flash we secured its last enormous, slightly canted second-floor bedroom, which offered a big, high, ancient four-poster bed, a well used sofa with matching chairs, a coffee table, armoire and generous bath, and to top it off, windows that offered great views of the medieval streets- oh, and breakfast, also cheap as dirt now, in the off-season. <br>The only problem? We wanted to stay forever! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two medieval ghosts haunt it. We questioned the very elderly front-desk lady about them. <br>“Yes, indeed, I’ve seen the ruffled gentleman three times over these many years, but, so far, not the parlor maid. Muriel has, though…” <br>Looking thoughtful, she stared into space for a bit, and then added, “He never speaks, just looks out yon window...” She pointed to an ancient one on the stair’s landing. “He’s no trouble…” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The fish and chips supper was yummy, but breakfast died on the vine from a <em>crime</em>: instant coffee was served! Bleh! This would never do! <br>The next morning we found a tiny shop a block away with lace tablecloths and lovely china cups, and savored their freshly brewed beans. Ahhh! A full English breakfast, with unbuttered toast-in-a-rack-so-it-can-get-cold-quicker, was cheerfully gobbled down. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In Britain, if you order coffee, you’ll get one cup. Might be instant. Might not. (Ask, if you care. I certainly do.) Frequently, at bigger hotel chains, a steaming carafe full of the real thing is set before you, but ordinary eateries offer ONE pour - often instant. So I order ‘Americano,’ a tasty, real bean-brew presented in a baseball-sized cup, and make it last. <br>I love England, but this sort of parsimonious thinking is a moan for me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Fortified, we explored Chester’s High street with its many shops, and then circumnavigated the town from the broad, crenelated top of its imposing Roman wall, peering down at the splendid, grandstanded racehorse-course set in a very large, open meadow, and watched narrow, gaily painted houseboats navigate through the River Dee’s hand-cranked locks. Chester’s town crier, dressed in medieval garb, shouted interesting news to delighted explorers and eager shoppers. We gazed at everything, commenting about oddities and architecture for hours. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Later, still strolling high up on the battlements, the light-flooded, panoramic Turner landscape began to dress for twilight. Time seemed to slow. Save for the last birdsongs, a cloak of quiet began to settle gently over the city, muting sound. We were enchanted. Wouldn’t it be marvelous to come back here for much longer? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And yet, the cost, and Time’s relentless passage reminded us, well into our seventies, that returning to this deeply historical, tale-ridden, semi-enchanted place isn’t likely in this lifetime. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> On the <em>other</em> hand- maybe there <em>is</em> a ghost of a chance......... </span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/54311812018-09-16T22:09:49-04:002018-09-16T22:10:00-04:009/15/18: Bathing Beauties and Other Delights <p><span class="font_large">Well, on September 9, in the Fairy Garden, I finally tucked in the huge, collapsed Dicentra spectabalis. What a perennial star! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She emerges emerald green in mid-spring, from partly shaded, moist, fertile earth, and grows feverishly to 3 feet high. Then, quaint, plump, dangling pink or white flowers emerge. Children, especially, love them. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The blossoms look very much like hearts, but I love to introduce her as ‘Bathing Beauty in her Bathtub.’ Remove a pink flower, turn it over and spread each end apart gently to reveal a blushing lassie rising from her bath, caught out. It’s impossible not to giggle when I wiggle the dim-witted damsel and view her discomfiture. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">White works too, but for me the impact is lessened by Madame’s sheet-white, bashful countenance. The pink flower is funnier. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dicentra blooms and blooms, impervious to slugs, bugs and disease. The flowers finally finish in late June, but her leaves remain lovely, very gradually evolving to buttery gold by mid-to-late August if she’s not stressed. ‘Di’ appreciates being groomed- once. With both hands I snap off the skeletal, exhausted twig-ends that housed the blossoms. (Be careful; the other lovely leafy branches can easily break.) <br>Finally, one early autumn day, ‘Di’ finally droops and snaps, done in by wind or heavy rain. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Cleanup is easy. With deft flicks of my wrist I simply tug at the base of each fat stalk, which snaps cleanly, leaving barely a bump in the soil. I cover the raw area with an inch of rich, black earth, and she happily snuggles down for the winter. (The vacated space can be huge, so I might pop a potted chrysanthemum or other arrangement that doesn’t mind a bit of shade, over her spot. Judiciously placed stones underneath the pot keep the mum from pressing down too hard on my lady’s nearly invisible bump.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sharing space with this delightful resident is Corydalis lutea, a cobweb-delicate, incredibly prolific plant. Her butter-yellow flowers are always evident, most especially in spring and summer. Despite her incredible fragility, she handles the crushing weight of heavy snow with nary a tremor. I was thunderstruck to discover her in perfect condition in early spring, as I began to master the art of gardening. <br>How can ‘Cory’ be so tough? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Unlike Dicentra, who is content to stay where I put her, Corydalis makes merry constantly, but she is incredibly easy to dislodge. When her offspring threaten to become a nuisance I simply tug gently, and that bit of rooted plant pops out of the soil without a fight. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Tidying ‘Cory’ should be done regularly. She’ll grow too cheerfully amid the emerald green Irish moss (Sagina), or among the thick clumps of Labrador violets. The area becomes noticeably neater when I cull, but I’ll still have lots to enjoy. <br>Nothing nibbles her, or makes her sick. Given part shade, moisture, and well-drained, fertile soil, she’ll look lovely 12 months a year. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">‘Violet,’ another low-growing plant, needs a firm hand, though; otherwise she’s everywhere. Stunning June blossoms glow an intense blue, just above plump, lush purple and green leaves. If she’s cut back (a tedious job), I’ll often get a second flower show. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ostrich ferns, and one enormous Goat’s Beard (Aruncus), enhance the Fairy fountain. I’ll chainsaw the easy-care, 6-foot tall, plumed Aruncus to the dirt in November. Both plants will spring back in Spring. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In the Ram’s Head Garden the Sargentii crab apple tree has burst into bloom. Zillions of bright, orangey-red berries dangle from her branches, providing food for the birds through much of early winter. Some avians eat too many and stagger about, slightly tipsy. It’s quite a sight! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Every spring, billowing blue and white clouds of perfumed Sweet Alyssum reseed in brick-walk cracks throughout the Fairy Garden. I love its delicate scent. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hovering over everything is my 18-year-old Cornus kousa Dogwood tree. Profuse, pure-white butterfly-blossoms blanket the tree in stunning fashion every June and remain for weeks, before finally evolving n August to masses of quarter-sized, bright red seed balls perched atop stiff stems, which hang down like Christmas ornaments. When they drop I poke them into the soil, creating enchanting, miniature red ‘forests,’ perfect for fairies. It’s fun too, to slip the long stemmed berries into the curl of giant hostas’ leaves, creating a pretty picture in autumn. Imagine huge blue hostas ‘finished’ with these lovely red balls... <br>Birds, and Sir Chipmunk, love this fruit, too. <br>There are so many! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Today marks the season’s last day to view Sunnybank’s secret garden. Do pop in to see the final show!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/54210662018-09-09T01:16:20-04:002018-09-09T01:16:20-04:009/9/18: Different Folks...<p><span class="font_large">One lovely early morning in mid-summer some years ago four middle-aged ladies showed up, smartly clad in attractive Bermuda shorts, crisp short-sleeved shirts and spotless deck tennis shoes. They wore expensive, very attractive haircuts and large wedding rings, which glittered as their leader fumbled angrily with the padlocked chain securing the first large, Victorian iron gate. She loudly demanded admittance, though my sign inviting visitors to enter wasn’t out that early. <br> <br>Before I could respond, another one stated they had come too far to be ‘put off’ by a menial gardener. (Clad in baggy coveralls, my twiggy, rumpled thatch of hair and cheeky black smudges serving as common-as-dirt gardener’s rouge, I WAS a distinctly unimpressive sight.) I should be ashamed of myself, they chorused- voices high with indignation- for keeping it locked, knowing visitors were standing there. (It hadn’t occurred to them to introduce themselves, or to ask who I was.). Right then it was a few minutes before 8:00 a.m. I had hoses lying about, and hadn’t finished my morning weeding. Dirt, shriveled leaves and petals lay on the path, waiting to be swept up. Much of this disarray was evident to these indignant women, but still, they felt they had every right to come in when they pleased. <br> <br>Sunnybank is a private garden, I reminded them gently, and they would be most welcome when I could clear the paths of hoses, tools, weeds, and me, and that would happen about 9 o’clock, as always. Incredulous, they stomped off, buzzing with frustration, muttering that they should ring the front doorbell to complain to the owner about ‘that idiot.’ Their backs were rigid and their voices cut into the clear morning air, like flies at a picnic. I stood there bemused for a little space, then carried on with my work. Wouldn’t it be interesting to see if they returned! <br> <br>In fact, they did, in mid-morning, and remained a good while, gesticulating with manicured fingers that stabbed the air. Their tanned heads nodded vigorously as they chatted about form and texture. I wore clean, nicely fitted clothes and a sunhat and chose to inconspicuously read my book on a bench, and went inside when they came too near, not wishing to cause embarrassment. Not for the first time, though, I wished I could hear them more clearly. Were they gardeners? Could they identify the various plants? <br>I’d never know. <br> <br>Not just ladies can be challenging. One middle-aged, tidy gentleman with a large, wonderfully expressive mustache insisted I had “misrepresented” a plant, and bluntly told me I didn’t have a clue what it was. HE knew, though, and in a year or two, when it had established itself, I would finally realize his identification was the correct one. Nothing I could say would convince him I knew what I had planted. With this sort of person I decided that it would cost me nothing to stop arguing and agree that he might be right. It made him happy. He harrumphed triumphantly, and went on his way, back erect, eyes flashing. <br> <br>The vast majority of visitors are content to relish the scents, the bird life, and the interesting Victorian flowerbed edging tiles I’d gradually carried back to America after every visit to my mother’s cottage in rural England, They enjoy discovering the many semi-hidden statuary pieces while wandering through this peaceful place. We often laugh, exchange gardening tales, and chat about their visits to other, often enormous gardens in different countries. (Sunnybank is smaller and more intimate.) We might natter on about fountain installation, pruning techniques, and my dopey mistakes. Opinions about everything are bounced back and forth like basketballs. <br> <br>These sorts of occurrences are the salt and pepper of my gardening year. They remind me that every day is an adventure. I never know what might happen. Gardening is rarely boring… </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Visit www.deeblair.com for recent columns, garden pictures and music.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/54121672018-09-02T02:03:22-04:002021-11-01T08:14:42-04:009/02/18: Soggy, Delicious Memories <p><span class="font_large"><em>I’ve been doing this column for over 13 years without a break: I need to take some time off. But I offer some reader favorites that I’ve especially noted over the years, and will submit them every Sunday, as usual. Hope you enjoy them again. </em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s an eight-year old reminiscence from 2010, when I began the long renovation of my family’s flooded out cottage in England’s lovely countryside. I’m sitting on the carpet-stripped, unlovely floor of their beloved home, sifting through intriguing parental mementos. Here are limp old London Times Sunday magazines that she kept because of their wonderful commentaries, or for the alphabetical listing of the 1000 most influential people of the twentieth century, or for anything that caught my mother’s eye. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s a clipping that had captivated her- about tail-less cats… </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She loved to read about the universe’s origins; biographies; and on why tigers have stripes. Dubbed ‘the great experimenter’ by David, she loved to read cookbooks cover-to-cover and then improve recipes that caught her eye. A few meals wanted a decent burial; most were wonderful. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Occasionally I rediscover treasures. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s one. A clammy page, pried apart, reveals a cherished poem about a tree at the end of its life. Mother loved trees; one photograph shows David, her English husband, and her standing next to an immense 700-year-old oak, giving shade during England’s Great Plague, and still living happily outside our favorite nearby country pub, called Loughpool. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Memories surface; I recall sitting inside an even bigger, older, thriving tree in a Gloucester churchyard. Now its massive lower branches rest quietly on the ground, too incredibly long and heavy to remain suspended. The earth, over the centuries, has gently risen to meet them; surely it appreciated the support. In spite of that hollow heart, Tree was fully dressed in green that day, soaking up the sun. The churchyard’s ancient, teetering tombstones kept it company. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And what’s this? A flat, tissue-wrapped stone bears the fossil of a finger-polished, hundred-million-year-old tubeworm she’d carried for 25 years in her jeans, after spotting it one day on a cold Scottish beach on the Isle of Skye, where they’d made their home for five years. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My mother died amazed that it was happening: she had so much to do, to see, to taste, to learn, and suddenly, she blinked out. A poem she loved- with just 6 lines- reads: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> Life </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> Innocence? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> In a sense- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> In NO sense. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> Was that IT? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> Was THAT it? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> That was it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Oh! Here’s a vivid magazine picture of a gorgeous, fully dressed, delectably thick hamburger. In a margin she’d written, “Frame this!” <br>Heavens-- I know why! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One summer lunchtime, at a craft show in the little Welsh town of Abergavenny where she and David sold their beautiful, handcrafted, hand-painted clocks, mother shaped a three-quarter-pound hamburger paddy from butcher-bought ground beef (the British say ‘minced beef’) and cooked it on a nearby communal grill. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">On a plate, she laid out slices of onion, Double Gloucester cheese, and a respectable hunk of crisp lettuce next to a generous bun. Ketchup and English mustard stood guard. A small gathering watched, fascinated. One amused Welshman couldn’t resist a comment: “M’love, tha’ overweight meat pile canno’ stick together withou’ cereal and additives…” (The British decided long ago that ground beef can stay ‘formed’ only with the help of ‘binders’ like these.) <br>Mom looked up, astonished, then grinned. “Why ever not?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The vendors and browsers stared at her, then settled back to watch hamburger ruin happen. This silly, deluded American didn’t have a clue. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She popped the naked burger on the grill, adding seasoned salt and freshly ground pepper. It sizzled happily. A quick flip, for a minute or so, to cook the other side to medium before she slid it onto the toasted bun, added the condiments, and downed it triumphantly, chasing the burger with a chilled, local beer. <br>Quiet reigned. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Suddenly, late-comers edged forward, proffering bills, saying, “Eh, I’ll have one o’ those…” The bewildered grillmaster stood, open-mouthed, amid the clamor of futile shouted orders. Licking her fingers, Mom reclaimed her spatula, thanked him, and strode off, replete. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Americans may be brash,” she gloated, “and wet-behind-the-ears, but, by golly, they understand how to make proper hamburgers!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The cottage's ringing phone jars me out of my reverie: I’m laughing!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/54017952018-08-25T22:57:51-04:002018-08-25T22:57:51-04:008/26/18: Bryn’s Shriek Fest<p><span class="font_large">Never mind the Cherry Festival, Film Festival, Beer Festival- Bryn has attracted quite an audience with her very own 15 minutes of fame- a Shriek Fest! <br>Here’s how things went down. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Happy families sat or lay on the sunny beach at Sunset Park, enjoying their children’s delight and their dogs’ antics. This place, located along Grand View Parkway, is aptly named, as, like the road, it’s located at the base of Grand Traverse Bay within easy walking distance from the city’s downtown. Lake Michigan’s beautiful coastline, to the north, east and west, also boasts lovely sunsets easily seen on summer evenings from this pretty beach. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn, Joe and I arrived a little before five to stake out a spot to enjoy a light meal with two dear friends and another fun couple who’d arrive in 15 minutes or so. A bottle of wine, smoked whitefish, shrimp and sauce, chips and nuts, and maybe a swim in the warm lake would round out this fading day. Then the six of us would carry our light beach folding chairs to the huge promenade that juts out into the lake at the Maritime Academy next door, to watch the sun dip beneath the rolling hills. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn-dog sat quietly on the park grass, watching as Joe and I positioned the tablecloth on the picnic table and laid out provisions and glasses. (Wind was a bit of a problem, as it gusted enough to topple the empty glasses.) She wanted to play fetch with her orange bone, but sensed it wasn’t time yet. <br>After we’d all dined, Joe looked over his shoulder to check on her. That big fat bone was still waiting patiently between her paws. She caught his eye and glanced toward the park grounds and lake. <br><em>‘Hey, Boss, can we play now?’ </em><br>Those large brown eyes were hard to resist. Joe threw the bone toward the middle of the grassy playground. Bryn dashed gleefully after it and pounced, much as a cat will nail a mouse. Joe repeated the tosses until she began to pant. Ha! Time for both of them to cool off in the lake. He took off his sweatshirt and jeans and ran through the warm golden sand to the water in his swimsuit. <br>Bryn ran alongside him, then up and down the water’s edge as Joe leaped in and swam out a decent distance. (She remained silent, as always. Bryn rarely speaks, except with her eyes, and that wonderful tail. And then, only one- maybe two- wags...) <br>Carrying the bone I stopped at the shoreline and shouted, “Ready? Here it comes!” <br>Our guests watched, knowing what was coming... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Out it flew, about equidistant from Joe in chest-deep water, and Bryn on the beach. Splash! It floated, waiting. She did the geometry in a flash! The advantage was probably hers, as Joe had made no attempt to swim toward it. She flung herself in, zeroed in on the bone, and paddled without strain, even ramming through some largish waves. <br>But suddenly, as Joe launched himself with powerful strokes toward the prize, Bryn, calmly pumping along, noticed, and uttered the most penetrating shrieks, howls, barks and growls as she doubled her speed! Those operatic shrieks alerted picnickers; some folks ran out on the sand to see what was up. Was someone being attacked?? Heavens, what a Din! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I laughed at some confused, concerned people and shouted; “Our doodle is <em>incredibly</em> competitive! She’s just cheering herself on! Think of them as battle cries!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn swam full throttle now, screaming, pumping, ------Snatch! She’d got it! Glancing toward a disappointed Joe she paddled triumphantly toward the beach and was boosted to shore by some bigger waves. She kept looking over her shoulder the whole way to make sure he’d truly given up. <br>She will not retrieve if the bone lands too near Joe. Why bother? <br>But when we introduce competition, Oh, Lordy!! <br>She’d probably swallowed half the lake with all that hollering and being partially submerged at times, but not once had she gagged or coughed. Dropping the bone at my feet she shook vigorously and waited ‘til I heaved it out again. Her blood was up, now! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The beach crowd had risen from prone positions to watch the fun. Bryn didn’t fail them. Again those ghastly shrieks and howls and wails, deep or high barks and piteous cries rang over the water as she cut through it, laser-focused. Her vocal range was simply amazing. <br>This time, though, Joe barely managed to snatch it one second before she could. As she wilted with disappointment he threw it away again, parallel to the beach. <br>Whoa! Another challenge! They were at an invisible starting line out there. She swam for it so fast her chest rose high; he couldn’t quite keep up, though he tried. She snatched it up and swam jauntily to shore, yielding the bone to my palm signal immediately after clearing the water. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A little aside: Bryn Will. Not. Yield that bone while swimming. Nothing we did- no command- no trying to wrench it away, or attempting to pry open her jaws, worked. When she clamps down, that’s that. All we’ve been getting for our trouble are scratched legs from those clawed paws as she paddles. Bryn finds it impossible, at some deep psychological level, to relinquish her prize until she clears the water. Only then will she immediately respond to the palms-down signal. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This is the one time, as pack leaders, we decided to make allowances, finally agreeing that right-out-of-the-water retrieval would satisfy both parties. (Before the agreement she’d romp all over the grassy park with it, then drop it somewhere far, far away, requiring us to search. It was really irritating to have to leave the water every time, trudge up the large sandy beach past the huge sitting logs, and then into the park to hunt for it.) <br>So, this new arrangement suited everyone. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sometimes Bosses can, and should be, flexible. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After a string of ‘shriek-fetches’ we called it an evening. Bryn even won a smattering of applause for her Pavarotti-like demonstrations. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We six carried our chairs out of the park and right to the promenade’s end and settled down to watch the sun’s final descent. It was nearly windless now; bats fluttered by as darkness fell. Bryn sat quietly between Joe and me on a thin ground pad, eyelids drooping. She’d be upside down tonight in her bed, howling softly, dreaming orange bone dreams... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">P.S. About 9:30 p.m. I took her out to do her business. Normally she pees for about six seconds. This night it took nearly <em>thirty</em> seconds. I was deeply impressed that her tank could accommodate that much lake... </span></p>
<p> </p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/53932252018-08-19T02:04:54-04:002018-08-19T02:04:54-04:008/19/18: Broom Wisdom<p><span class="font_large">I, a dedicated gardener, do declare there are three constants: death, taxes, and bad brooms. <br> <br>I find myself pondering what would happen if I vanished today. Who’d understand my garden’s intricate needs, its subtle tweaks, and why and how decent Brooms should be used? Gardening isn’t rocket science, but still… <br> <br>Take sweeping skills, for example. People vary. There are sweepers, and Sweepers. Sensibly, therefore, there are brooms, and Brooms. Mostly, both sorts fall into the first category. Usually, brooms are wielded in a desultory manner. Trash feels unthreatened. Crisp, finished edges are unknown. The broom is NOT master of the situation. <br>Proper Brooms are perfectly designed to whisk away objectionable debris, but their controllers often haven’t a clue about how use them to achieve that end. <br> <br>Sweeping properly is extremely important. If I interviewed an apprentice gardener, the first thing I’d do is put a Broom in his hand, and ask him to have a go. I’d immediately grasp what sort of worker he’d be. Would he sweep with authority? Would he maneuver the Broom to cleverly clear cracks and clean up sidewalk edges? Would he use broad sweeps, and not crab along with useless, no-pressure ‘little old lady’ motions? <br>I demand a Broom Commander! <br>What I see most often are broom wimps. <br> <br>Let’s examine the tool itself. <br>A common kitchen broom offers sleek nylon bristles, which don’t frighten trash, do bend easily, and are usually clipped at a rakish angle, reminiscent of a skinny model wearing a shimmer-y Sassoon haircut. The slim, bright blue, green or even crackerjack-red plastic handle is often screwed/glued into its holding hole, which goes wobbly after just a few jobs. The annoyed operator winds up re-securing it over and over. <br>It shweeps. <br>Trash yawns. <br> <br>Other brooms <em>look</em> traditionally built. These might have the usual long (but subtly skinnier) wooden handle that fits nicely into the receptacle located at the top of its business end. The straw is cut straight, and feels- o.k. But, like thinning hair expertly blown dry to appear thicker, these bristles go limp when asked to perform. <br> <br>Alas, a test run is never done. People see a reasonable-looking broom, snatch it up and trot to the checkout counter. Only later, lured by the red stitching and traditional look, do they realize they’ve bought a schroom. Their hands know something isn’t right; the tool feels oddly- inadequate. Hushing their ‘little voice’ they’ll shweep dutifully, secretly annoyed by the lackluster result. Their tool will quickly develop ‘broom-bottom-sag,’ which is incurable. <br>The baffled operator shrugs. <br> <br>I own Brooms. Each is well made. Hefty. The long handle, thicker than its doppelganger, is made of hardwood. No cute color has been applied. A stout screw insures there’ll never be bristle-wibble. <br> <br>The business end is heavy. If a fascinated buyer holds this Broom up against a wimpy one, the difference is instantly obvious. This Broom’s got muscle. Substance. Its plain stitching is iron-hard. There are many more densely compacted bristles cut thick, straight and even, flaring to a stiff skirt. Its stout, thick bristles resist sag. <br>This. Broom. Sweeps. <br>It’s a work of art, perfected after centuries of tweaking. <br> <br>Lastly, because these Brooms are constantly used, their bristles will shorten a bit sooner. Wise operators retire these exhausted workers, and then march out to farm or hardware stores for another, which, of course, they’ll test-sweep first. <br>Experienced operators keep bristles protected when the tool is resting. Some even store their tool upside down. <br> <br>I’ve worn out many a stalwart Broom. <br>Trash trembles; edges gleam. <br>Together though, we make clean sweeps! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Visit www.deeblair.com for recent columns, garden pictures and music.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/53840682018-08-11T22:51:59-04:002019-12-11T03:32:33-05:008/10/18: Julia’s Cabinet- A Love Story <p><span class="font_large">Standing at our ancient Hoosier cabinet I folded freshly dried clothes. The cabinet is perfect for this task, as it has a porcelain pull-out front, as well as lots of cupboards for housing various laundry room essentials. (It had also lived in our farmhouse kitchen for thirty years, serving me well as a changing table for our children, and as storage for utensils, spices, hand towels and pots and pans before that.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It also has a wonderful story. I’ve been asked to tell it again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One lovely July Saturday 50 years ago Joe and I went rummaging. Bridgeport, a small town near Saginaw, Michigan where both our families lived, displayed lots of items on a big, shared lawn that fronted three small, comfortable older homes. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Small children played around fold-out tables displaying tidy stacks of clothing, linens, knick-knacks, and tired paperback books. Serviceable sofas and chairs were sprinkled about, perfect for furnishing startup homes and apartments. Potted red geraniums and bright daisies decorated two generous front porches. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">On the other side of the road, a man was pulling out ancient farm machinery and interesting old furniture from a large, ramshackle barn. A hand-painted ‘For Sale’ sign was wedged into a wringer washing machine placed on their lawn. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">For Joe and me, newly married and nest-building, that barn’s contents looked promising. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Another extremely old, bent man waved his cane to acknowledge our arrival. He didn’t speak. His son (no spring chicken himself) grinned and adjusted dusty, well-worn overalls. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“We’re selling lots of goodies. Look around…” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We stared at furniture he’d dragged into the sunlight. A thick film of dust covered press-back chairs, a generous, well-scrubbed kitchen table, and two 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. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">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, and then spoke for the first time. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Today’s my 94th birthday, young lady, and I asked my son Ethan to clear the barn. Funny sort of present, but it’s what I wanted.” <br>A pause. <br>“You like this cabinet.” <br>It was a statement, not a question. <br>I nodded. Oh, I coveted it. I’d sell my <em>soul</em> for that cabinet. But could we afford it? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“I’m tired. It’s past time to clear out things I’ve been holding close for too long. Like this beauty.” <br>He sighed. <br>“Sixty-five 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.” <br>His toothless smile flashed briefly. <br>“I was considered a good catch back then, young lady, as I was able to offer her a small farmhouse, land, and dairy cows. 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 for a little while, then continued. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“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, not for a long time.” <br>He rubbed his eyes. <br>“Eventually I married again, and my wife and I had Ethan, here. But I’ve never allowed her to use this cabinet…” His voice trailed away. <br>Another sad silence. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then- he brightened. “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, eyes closed. Nodding to himself strangely, he slowly leaned toward me and looked deeply into my eyes. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“It’s yours. IF- you promise never to sell it, and promise to tell your children its story. You <em>must</em> promise me.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Stunned by his generosity, I promised. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">His lined face was suddenly serene. Then, very quietly, he looked at me and said, “Julia is pleased.”</span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He walked slowly toward his house, cheeks wet with tears, but <em>not</em> from grief. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We both knew that something wonderful had just happened. </span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/53751952018-08-05T00:14:55-04:002018-08-05T00:14:55-04:008/05/18: A Trashy Tale <p><span class="font_large">Sometimes I inadvertently set myself up for foolish mishaps- most of them garden-related. This particular mini-embarrassment still triggers a red face. Now that I’m old, though, I don’t mind telling on myself... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One day I wrestled with a hose, which insisted on remaining kinky. After wasting thirty minutes trying to coax that elderly rubber snake <em>not</em> to revert to its twisted behavior so I could pump my pond water properly I gave up, unscrewed it from the bilge pump, dumped it in the rubbish bin, and stomped off in disgust. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But, the next day, while throwing out bagged kitchen garbage, I happened to glimpse a high-quality spray nozzle I’d e-mail-ordered the summer before sitting way-y down at the bottom of the big bin, still attached to the dumped hose. Stupid me! In angry haste I’d tossed out too much… hmmm. How to get the nozzle out again without tipping out lots of rubbish, too? Putting it all back again would be a royal pain. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I stepped on the bin’s foot-bar, leaned in… reached down… Nope. Not even close. On my tiptoes I tried again, bent double now into a tight V, extending my arm an impossible distance down …my fingers almost brushed it and, encouraged, I wriggled and stretched a tiny bit further- further- raising my feet off the support— That did it. I lost my balance and tumbled in. As I fell, a rib cracked. Worse, the lid dropped back down to the not-quite-closed position, framing my shod feet posed stiffly outside the big bin’s mostly shut rim. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What a total idiot! Here I was, upside down in the malodorous semi-dark, my head partially sunk into a bag crammed with chicken fat, coffee grounds, butcher paper, and other sundries, along with lots of branches, leaf litter and garden rubbish scattered along the bottom and sides... Phew! Ancient stinks wafted all around me...But my hand closed around the nozzle. <br>Somehow, with much painful gasping and groaning, I managed to grab the bin’s yucky edges and gradually raise myself inch by inch, enough to push the heavy lid completely open. It flew back with a loud Bang! I was just able to painfully extract myself, rising inch by inch until my shoes found purchase far below, while still clutching my prize. <br>Thank heaven no one was around. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Imagine if someone passing by had happened to note my lower legs sticking out, rush to investigate and find me stuck down there, seemingly discarded along with the other rubbish! <br>I’d never hear the end of it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">How might I explain my cracked rib to Joe without appearing a complete fool? Oh, well. I’d have to take my licks- and just tell him. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Eventually, I cleaned up and re-assessed. Could I still garden? A gentle examination reassured me that I could, but much more slowly. The rib objected when I moved just so, but generally I could still function pretty well, supported by an Ace bandage. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The lesson? Angry, impatient and reckless, I’d been dumb, and dumber. But, always looking for a pony in the poop, I congratulated myself on my narrow escape from public ignominy. There’s usually some little detail one can salvage or be grateful for when reviewing one’s foolish behavior… <br>Laughter. (Ouch!)</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/53660852018-07-28T23:22:16-04:002018-07-28T23:22:16-04:007/29/18: Tall Tales <p><span class="font_large">Midsummer. The secret garden wants water, debugging and cleaning every single morning. Plant poop is a constant reality. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My very tall Asiatic lilies are done. After their huge, gorgeous flowers emerge from the candelabra top of each thick stalk, individual blooms last three or four days. Then, exhausted petals begin to drop. The challenge is to spot those flowers that are <em>nearly</em> done, and snap them off while they’re still hanging on. If I wait too long, cleanup gets trickier, as I must weave my arm between the stalks to pluck withered petals off the ground, or tease them from leaves further down the plant. It’s much better to stand on tiptoe, arch my arm, carefully reach deep into the bed, snap off the dying flower, then back off without disturbing nearby blooms. It’s a workout that involves balance, judgment and coordination, as I must s-t-r-e-t-c-h to reach flowers <em>without</em> falling into the bed and wreaking everything. That’s what we gardeners have nightmares about. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There are lots of other ways to ruin a lily’s few days of life; I can mis-align my armpits and snap off a stunner as I reach up and over, or incorrectly position my elbows, or feel around <em>behind</em> other lily flowers to pinch off a dead bloom, only to discover I’ve taken the live one next to it instead- <br>Ah, I hate that mistake! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But now I try to hide my sin by walking the broken flower to clean water, pooled inside a giant decorative honey-gold clay flower ‘petal.’ There it floats, colorfully serene and scented, causing oohs and ahhhhs from admirers. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But what can one do when not a single lily bloom is left? Their long stems must be left for eight or ten weeks to ripen to yellow. Eeee! What can one do with a forest of thick, tall green stalks wearing nothing but their candelabras? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Some gardeners scatter a few lily bulbs here and there in the garden, making the big ones’ future nakedness harder to notice. <br>Not this girl. Obstinately, I mega-group my lilies for a jaw-dropping show, and so, of course, I must eventually pay the piper. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, a few years ago, I hit on the idea of making the many clumps of leggy, topless stalks serve as support poles for annuals and perennials that love to twine and climb. <br>-Annual Mandevilla, for instance, which boasts delightful red or pink flowers, can be trained to scramble up and around them. Just as the lilies are finishing the mandevilla will have grown sufficiently to clamber in and around their stems right up into the candelabras, to dangle <em>their</em> blooms. Everybody’s happy. <br>-Perennial Type II (summer-blooming) clematis is also happy to dress their bareness. <br>-Perennial Crocosmia makes a great statement, too. Their fat, sword-leaves’ flame-red flowers look stunning as they rise as high as their slowly ripening neighbors. <br>-Annual silvery licorice, when fed and watered regularly, can grow to astounding lengths, and so be trained to weave its silver vine-arms between the stalks, and even blanket the garden floor. Plus, it sniffs of – well, you can guess. <br>-An annual dwarf tropical canna lily’s wide bronze or green or outrageously striped leaves and bright flowers, set among lilies, are ready to distract the eye exactly when needed. <br>-The annual, graceful fronds of purple fountain grass blur those naked poles, which return the favor by serving as support for that grass’s graceful, arching fronds. <br>-And morning glory is glorious as it winds in and of lilies’ ladder-y stalks. <br><br>My most time-consuming task is to deadhead (an awful name for a vital job). Every dying flower and naked stem must be culled every morning. <br>I trace exhausted daisies’ stems until I find tiny leaflets or buds that hint that a new daisy might form there. Ha! I cut just above that promise. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Newborn <em>day</em> lilies (so named because each flower lasts exactly one day) look so very much better when their dead brethrens’ withered blooms are snapped off. <br>Perennial geraniums (cranesbill) easily take twenty minutes of deadheading. (But- when more than half the plant needs this, simply grab a scissors and cut a third off the whole thing. New growth and flowers should happen, only shorter. <br>-Annual geraniums and balloon flowers take just seconds to clean. <br>-My few remaining roses (which stab me for my trouble) must be cut to the closest 5-leaved formation, and their dead petals cleaned away. <br>-Then there are pansies, violets, bellflowers, sage, and on and on, all wanting daily assistance. <br>-Even coreopsis and the butter-yellow evening primrose don’t escape my fingers. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The result, though, is enormously satisfying. Cleaned and spiffed up, the garden looks fresh and vital to its many visitors every day. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">How much time do I dedicate to all this? Well, about two to three hours every morning at this easier time of the season. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">If I don’t deadhead, cherished plants stop producing flowers and simply sit there. <br>Finally, in early September, I stop cleaning and pruning perennials. They’re allowed to rest until next year. Annuals will still need daily care until it gets too cold. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I dread the appearance of the gorgeously carapaced Japanese beetles, which are nearly impossible to dislodge from favored flowers. They’re voracious eaters. A giant canna lily, for example, can be destroyed overnight. <br>I’ve stopped smacking the beetles between my palms. They don’t crush, and my hands get too sore. Sometimes I try to pick them off every morning and drop them into soapy water, but it takes hours on a high ladder, and frankly, it’s not effective. There are just too many. Water blasts and chemical sprays make them yawn. <br>EXCEPT for one. <br>Bayer has created a spray guaranteed to kill Japanese beetles. I tried it last year and was richly rewarded. Piles of beetles dropped away. So I’ll use it again, on the hibiscus, roses, and English and Boston ivy. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">‘Spray days’ must be windless, and not super-hot later. I spray very early, to avoid killing bees. These beetles are as adaptable- and prolific- as cockroaches, and will probably develop immunity to this product in a few years, but right now, Bayer’s spray will save my garden once again. <br>(One reason I chucked out my magnificent alley rose garden six years ago was because this wretched, beautiful insect had all but destroyed every bloom.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Oh- and I also try to remove every yellowing, saggy leaf or limp, broken frond from everyone. <br>‘Dirty plant underwear’ is never an asset. <br>Did I mention weeding? <br>It never ends. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Plants like my thirsty meadow rue, which has seven-foot tall, completely hollow purple stems that grow delicate, perfect blue flowers- happily gulps gallons of water every three or four sunny hours. It’s probably stupid to grow rue, which loves to frolic in bogs, but I’ve stubbornly persevered for years because I love the darn thing. It always arrests attention. So I water. And water. When every branch stands straight up and out, with no hint of a droop, all is well. For a while. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When my chores are done, this cooler weather and light breezes encourage Bryn-dog and me to greet guests and lie back to enjoy the beguiling scent of plants like purple basil and the nine-foot tall Oriental lilies, now in full bloom. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Our summer-at-the-lake air effortlessly wafts other gardeners’ wonderful plant perfumes through Traverse City’s big-treed neighborhoods, lightening every heart.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/53571912018-07-22T00:18:40-04:002018-07-22T00:18:40-04:007/22/18: A Sad Tail<p><span class="font_large">Bryn, Joe and I were eager to drive to the nineteen-mile-long Torch Lake to join four dear friends on their pontoon boat. Their three-year-old labradoodle, Lucy, would be there, too. She’s much smaller, weighing in at 27 pounds, while Bryn weighs 53 pounds. The two dogs bumped noses casually to exchange greetings. Lucy-dog showed Bryn how to hop onto the pontoon, and both dogs settled in for the ride. It was a stunning day. The calm, emerald water suddenly transformed into a rich dark blue color, marking a precipitous 68-foot drop into the abyss, from just 15 feet of water. A giant, glacier-carved, shelved canyon lay underneath, allowing for many gorgeous watercolor changes as the sun shone! Stunning Torch Lake is aptly named. <br>By the way, it’s nearly 300 feet to the bottom in some places. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After about 15 minutes we’d reached a much shallower area - about 5 feet of water- and they dropped anchor. Everyone (but me) would be able to touch bottom. Lucy watched intently, knowing that very soon her dry world would become a water wonderland. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Tim opened the pontoon’s aluminum gate and gave Lucy permission to dive in. As a shocked Bryn stood back and watched, the little dog leaped joyfully into the water, made a big splash and then swam in a large circle, thrilled. <br>Lucy LOVES water. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn yipped and moaned as she stood on the pontoon’s brink, trembling with the need to follow Lucy’s example. But she’d never jumped like this before! All six of us urged her on. She howled, tried, lost her nerve at the last second- and so Tim gave her a little push. Whee! In she went, joining Lucy in the 72-degree lake. Then Tim threw in a well-used wooden stick; Lucy moved efficiently through the water to retrieve it. Bryn paddled close by and watched, filled with admiration, as Lucy made straight for the ladder, got a light boost from Joe and climbed up the rest of the rungs. On the pontoon she shook herself vigorously before leaping back in when Tim threw the stick again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But this time Bryn, still swimming, saw that stick coming. Howling and shrieking with glee she swam hard, reaching it seconds before Lucy did. Triumphant, she paddled to the ladder, accepted a boost, and climbed up to the deck, sozzled and triumphant. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">All went well, until, a few leaps later, Bryn somehow caught a respectable bunch of long white hair near the tip of her tail in a tiny aluminum crack in the ladder just above the water. She tried to swim away but was unable to break free. Baffled, she continued to try, but began instead to lose ground and sink. Tim and Tammy noticed she was in deep distress, and just as Tim rushed to reach down to try to free her tail, she tore it away. We helped her climb the ladder to the deck, where she shook herself and coughed a bit. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But then, she saw Lucy jumping in and wanted the same, and so the leap and fetch games went for a good while. Eventually though, we wore them out. Both dogs rested on deck while we enjoyed a light meal with iced tea. <br>After much laughter and chat, we made the twenty-minute journey back to the boat launch area, located right at the northern tip of Torch Lake. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn lay quietly, enjoying the easy motion of the boat, and upon arrival she hopped off easily. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But then- <br>She stopped in her tracks on the dock and looked back at her hind end. Her tail seemed to be –well, gone. She looked for it between her legs, puzzled and increasingly upset. What was happening? It didn’t feel ‘there.’ It was as though it had vanished. She couldn’t take two steps before looking behind her. Confused and alarmed, she looked up at me. I realized that it was hanging down, straight as a pencil, lifeless; the tip dragged along the ground. She couldn’t wag it. For her, there was nothing to wag. <br>When she peed she didn’t- couldn’t- lift it. <br>Alarmed now, I felt it carefully all the way down; she made no sign that it hurt, or that I was even touching it. I held it up, let go, and it dropped. Clunk. Her poor tail was totally numb. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She stood all the way back to Traverse City, as sitting without her tail in its accustomed place felt wrong. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">OMG. <br>Home again, I offered dinner but she wasn’t interested. She continued to look at her behind, and couldn’t settle anywhere for more than a minute. In case she was experiencing pain now I gave her one 81mg aspirin. <br>After 30 minutes she was finally able to lie still without restlessness. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The next morning at 7 o’clock I rang Tim to get the full story, as he had been right there from the start. After detailing what he’d seen, he told me that their golden, Ollie, had had this same presentation years ago. For nearly a month her beautiful tail had hung straight down, inoperative for unknown reasons. Then, one morning, Tim witnessed a dramatic change. Ollie held her tail gracefully; it was functioning again! <br>So, there was hope... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Armed with this detailed information I took Bryn to the ER and explained what had happened. The vet felt along her tail; about halfway down its length Bryn looked back at her. <br>“There’s definitely swelling here,” said the doctor, softly. “I could do a scan, but that’s costly, or I could offer pain meds for the discomfort she’s experiencing now, and we could await developments. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“She probably has ‘Drop Tail.’ We see this presentation sometimes in Goldens and labs when, say, a toddler pulls and yanks the dog’s tail as it unsteadily walks behind. All that tugging causes soreness or numbness as nerves are stretched and stressed. The tail will hang limply. ‘Drop Tail’ is a pretty good description of what’s happened here. Bryn immediately noticed its apparent ‘absence’ yesterday- I think the entire area has gone numb. Perhaps the nerve bundle was under too much pressure from her powerful attempt to free herself...It might take days or weeks for feeling to return, or she might never recover sensation.” <br>She continued to feel along its length. <br>“I don’t feel any breakage, though.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I felt sick. Bryn’s lovely tail might never curve again, or express itself! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We settled on mild pain medication to be given twice daily for three days. I would monitor Bryn and the vet would ring me in a couple of days to check on her progress. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was awful to watch her move outside and down the block on our walks. Her tail dragged. I had to clean the end frequently, as it attracted mud, twigs and leaf bits. She never noticed. When other dogs barked from their porches her tail remained motionless. When I’d approach her as she lay sleeping she’d merely lift her head to say hello; not one wag could be summoned. <br>I despaired. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, four days later, she and I went outside early on a lovely morning. And, to my great joy, her tail slowly began to curve! When she did her business it obediently lifted a fraction; a day later it had resumed its lovely curve at the tip. The ultimate test? When two dogs barked at her from behind their fence it rose to flag status! <br>She had recovered! And so fast! You can imagine my enormous relief! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What a great ending for this tail, eh?</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/53469052018-07-15T02:32:04-04:002018-07-22T00:04:07-04:007/15/18: Some Night Magic <p><span class="font_large">There is something about the pre-dawn hours, some natural magic out there that always enchants me. I stare through the kitchen window at outlines, trying to separate myself from exactly what they represent. It’s more fun to simply sail on the garden’s silhouette sea. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Long slivers of light emanate from the distant glow of the alley’s security lamp, which highlights the new, curvy wooden alley door seventy feet south of the kitchen. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The big secret garden fountain, which dominates the area in daylight, seems slightly blurred and insubstantial in the dark. The clean pool water surrounding its base is utterly still. A single pale, floating leaf appears to be eerily suspended. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The cool, still air is thick with anticipation, with promise, with scents that only a garden can create. An open window over the sink invites them to waft into this room to mingle with the rich aroma of Eight O’clock coffee and freshly grilled bacon. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In springtime the energy emanating from the damp earth is almost palpable as my perennials push up through softened soil, impatiently waiting for Nature’s signal that it’s safe to display their glory. But now, in mid-summer, I sense a Pause, as though the garden were thoughtful; it is the apogee of the season, when growing things are exactly between coming up and going down. It is the beginning of Mother Earth’s slow, inexorable exhale. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The tall, sheltering wall, vined and solid, like the one featured in the story of ‘Rappaccini’s Daughter’ (a brief, but frightening fantasy penned by the dour Victorian writer, Nathaniel Hawthorne), separates me from the unpredictability of the less ordered world that exists outside my garden’s gates. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A black wraith-like cat silkily glides along the fence’s flat-board top; the creature’s head and long back form a nearly horizontal line finished with an exclamatory tail. It smoothly traverses the long, high planks, confident that his claws, youth and speed are at their apex. Full of hunter-lust, he soundlessly patrols the territory below. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I let myself out. There is no moon. No breeze. Just occasional cries or rustlings, as sleep-thick, light-responsive birds shift position in snug, still dark nests. That nearly invisible feline notes the most interesting sounds, and moves closer to investigate. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My eye catches a tiny movement; it’s a mouse, standing alert in a newly weeded bed, nose twitching, whiskers at attention, probably smelling the cat nearby and high. His nose knows where not to wander. He begins to move in short bursts among the forest of huge lily stalks, foraging for mousie morsels, careful to keep owl-radar from locking onto his small body. Enormous hosta leaves and house-shadow function as shields. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In the alley there’s a scream; the neighborhood owl has snatched a life to fuel another life, as the world turns. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Birds begin to tune up; their songs enhance the dawn and lift my heart. Seagulls shriek roughly as they fly high scouting for breakfast. Their presence always signifies that a large body of water lies nearby. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">All my life I’ve loved the coo of mourning doves; now their soft melody floats through the fresh, crisp morning air. I hear my late mother’s voice. “They’re saying, ‘I love you...you, you’…” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> Light begins to creep powerfully over the landscape, crisply defining colors and shapes. Car and screen doors open and close in our alley, human sounds that signify the start of a workday morning. A bicycle wheel’s whirr faintly shifts the air. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">With a flick of my finger, my garden fountains power up and burble gently. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My coffee is cold; I’d gotten lost in thought, in sounds, in Quiet. It’s time now to center myself, organize the nascent day into minutes and hours- time to make plans. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A fresh new day, with no mistakes, has begun.</span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/53358082018-07-07T21:08:40-04:002018-07-07T21:08:40-04:007/8/18: Twiggy's Story<p><span class="font_large">Lots of interesting people visit Sunnybank’s secret garden, especially during the Traverse City Cherry Festival. One man, especially, will always remain bright in my memory. Tall, about fifty and in good shape, he rang the garden bell one mid-morning and wandered in-- wearing a smallish dog. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A homemade open carrier was secured to his lederhosen-like suspenders. Comfortably arranged in it was a mostly brown fifteen-pound mutt with floppy ears who was fitted with a special harness secured to the carrier. White fur encircled one bright eye, giving him a clownish appearance. His nose twitched as he surveyed the landscape. Though dogs are never allowed in the secret garden, I made no objection to this arrangement. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The man sat down carefully beside me on the big bench, moved carrier with doggie inside onto his lap, and we exchanged introductions. He was Jason, and his bearded charmer answered to Twiggy. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“I found him late last year lying on a state forest dirt road miles from anywhere, and managed to get him to a vet, who speculated he’d been flung from a car. The poor guy had a broken back. I visited him every day while he mended. That took a month. I really admired his spirit. It was ‘touch and go’ for a while, but he finally healed. Twiggy <em>can</em> walk, though it’s not that comfortable for him. He prefers to stick close to me, and is happiest up here, where he can view the world safely. I don’t mind toting him around; it’s good exercise.” He looked thoughtful. “I think the vet was right—he <em>was</em> abandoned, and the experience haunts him. He worries that it could happen again. Sometimes he has bad dreams.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He shook his head. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“He was so happy when I kept coming back to visit that I had to adopt him. He chuckled. “Hell, he’d already adopted me! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“The vet thought Twiggy was about six years old. In his opinion his age, plus his special needs, would have made placement unlikely.” He shook his head. “I knew what that meant...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The little dog looked up at his master and sneezed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Things have worked out just fine. I make outdoor furniture at home, so we’re always together. He just curls up on his blanket and watches me work. I named him Twiggy because he was so skinny, and was mixed in with branches and twigs when I found him.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Twiggy’s stumpy tail wagged. I stroked his head. But there was one particularly strange thing--every now and then during the narration he’d look up at Jason and howl softly. <br>Not bark. Howl. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Why does he do that?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Jason thought for a bit. “I think the bark was knocked right out of him when he was thrown away. The vet guessed that he’d probably barked for help for days before finally giving up and howling, which is what got my attention when I drove by looking for fallen timber. When he has something to say he howls, sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly. In all the time we’ve been together I’ve never once heard him bark.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A nervous rabbit peered out from between two plump spirea bushes. All three of us noticed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“He smells that rabbit, but in strange territory he’s never tempted to chase one. Moving faster than a walk is tough anyway, because his back is cockeyed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“I’d never considered having a pint-sized mutt. Bigger dogs are more my style. But he’s my buddy. We stay together, thanks to this carrier. He’ll climb out for his toilet, but he’s happiest right up against me. I can’t leave him home alone, worried I’d never come back.” He sighed. “I doubt if he’ll ever feel completely secure.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He fondled Twiggy’s ears affectionately. “He even sleeps at the foot of the bed. And he snores, which took some getting used to. But, hey, maybe I do, too. <br>All in all, I feel lucky to have him.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bright-eyed Twiggy, riding high, front paws curling over the basket’s rim as the twosome left the garden, polished his black nose and nuzzled Jason’s neck. <br>Henry David Thoreau once noted: <em>the most I can do for my friend is simply to be his friend. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here it was, in its purest form. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Visit www.deeblair.com for recent columns, garden pictures and music. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">To unsubscribe, send a blank email with 'unsubscribe' in the subject line to ecblair@gmail.com.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/53266012018-06-30T23:47:30-04:002018-06-30T23:47:30-04:007/01/18: Coping with the Furnace <p><span class="font_large">The last few days have been scorchers! It’s important to soak the ground very early in the morning, especially around sunnier, hot spots. I have two grassy areas right at the huge maple’s drip-line, on the front lawn, that are yellow; put simply, I wasn’t watering nearly enough. The tree’s rootlets were stealing the lawn’s moisture. It looked half dead. That’s changed. Tripling hydration seems to be working. I see little green shoots amid the straw, but these 96-degree days are a reminder that constant, massive support is vital for garden and lawn survival. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(How DO golf courses survive?) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn walks very slowly, panting. She finds the pavement too hot for comfort, so we stick to grass as she does her business and hurries back to cool Sunnybank House. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I will close the garden during this intense heat wave. So many feet on the lawn in the main secret garden stresses the already gasping lawn, which, by the way, I always leave quite long- 3.5 inches. Keeping the edges trimmed neatens up the picture, without stripping the lawn of protection from the furnace. (Imagine being in the desert with a butch haircut, as opposed to having longer hair…) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The big hydrangea and my thalictrum (a bog plant whose tall, completely hollow purple stems must stay filled to the brim with water to support the developing flowers) will need intensive help. I’ve developed a new method of coping; a directional sprinkler will bathe them gently, but constantly, for the four hours the plants are under the spotlight; I think I can keep them alive. The best time to begin is very early in the morning. Moisture penetrates, instead of mostly evaporating, giving me a head start. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Have you noticed how water rolls off the parched garden earth, instead of sinking into it? But because I’ve mulched deeply in June, this isn’t happening. NOW is when using cocoa shell mulch pays off. Water is completely absorbed by the soil underneath; my plants stay moist longer. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There are two full months of flower-cheer left, IF the garden survives the next 3-4 days. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ll keep you posted on how they, and I, have coped. </span></p>
<p> </p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/53140802018-06-23T20:27:51-04:002018-06-23T20:27:51-04:006/24/18: Love, Lust, Hunks and Hooey <p><em><span class="font_large">My advice to girls is: first, don’t smoke—to excess; second, don’t drink—to excess; third, don’t marry—to excess. </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Mark Twain </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">As I patiently weed in the secret garden, a young, handsome couple chatting with me suddenly link arms and say to each other, “Let's get hitched.” Turns out they’d dated only three weeks, but “sometimes you just know.” Hugging her, he proclaims, “You’re gorgeous. We’re in love. Nothing else matters.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Huh. Is it love, or lust? Only the “L” is shared. Lust is inadequate glue. Feelings often fall away because lovers try to bond forever using its cheap adhesive. Do these two really <em>know</em> each other? A chemical reaction—thumping heart, shortness of breath, weak knees—merely signals an overwhelming need to possess. (I sometimes wonder if people take longer to choose their cars than their mates.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Wait a minute,” I joke. “What’s his favorite color?” Startled, she thinks hard, then gives up. “What is it, Jack?” We three laugh, but I’ve made a point. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Today, as I line up at the grocery store’s checkout aisle I spot that rag mag, The National Inquirer, lying in wait amid candy and fluff, for bored shoppers to gasp at- and take home- its latest riveting news: a plump-lipped, paper-thin, top-heavy movie star has chucked her third husband for another, richer man. <br>Marriage is really the only legal form of pickpocketing, I guess. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Immediately after perusing that pronouncement I read that a hunky male rock star has traded in his current wife for a younger model with a more pleasing arrangement of facial bones, and—very important—longer leg bones. <br>Jeez. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Fans avidly follow these peoples’ confused lives via TV, the Internet, and similar tell-all magazines. Plastic surgeons around the country are busily re-sculpting perfectly good bodies to more closely resemble a star the client envies— a star who makes millions pretending to be someone he or she’s not. <br>A visiting E.T. alien would throw up his tentacles in confusion. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And why do folks wish to read about what he/she had muttered when dying, or which one has chucked whom for new ‘love,’ anyway? What’s happened to embracing some semblance of privacy? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Lee Marvin, an oft-married actor, once commented that “if your house burns down, you gotta rescue what’s important: the dogs. They know all about loving, and are unconditionally faithful.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Unconditional love is allergic to “or.” (You’ll do this, think that, be this, gimme that, or, I won’t love you.) Most parents I know are experts at truly loving. (A few though, confuse mothering and smothering…) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">People today seem so cynical about relationships. “Never waste time crying over a divorce or dumped lover,” one wag commented wryly: “just yell ‘Next!’” <br>A friend once commented that the only difference between a man and a municipal bond is that municipal bonds eventually mature. <br>And how about the guy who wasn’t a bit impressed to learn that swans mate for life. “If you’re a swan,” he said smugly, “you’re probably not gonna find a swan that looks much different from the swan you’ve got, so why not mate for life?” <br>Awww... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The rules seemed so much clearer way back when. A half-century ago, fifty-year-old women wouldn’t dare have babies because they’d probably set them down and forget where they left them. <br>Today, fifty- and even sixty- is the new thirty. Boundaries have faded. (Inseminated grannies have successfully given birth to their barren daughter’s baby...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Oh, boy... I read over my musings, ruefully. I’m a pontificating old dear who still likes to recall one of (ageless) Zsa Zsa Gabor’s outrageous comments: “Of course I’ll return the ring, dahhhling—but I’ll keep the diamond.” <br>But hey: when toupees are removed, when our teeth are in a jar and our busts come off with our bras, what then? Does love remain? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Rising, I brush myself off. Lots of weeds are banished, the temperature’s down a bit and- I may finally have sorted out what’s really important: <br><em>I shall pursue and happily lust after flowers, and promise to love every single one I bed. Forever.</em></span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/53006552018-06-17T08:09:34-04:002018-06-17T08:09:34-04:006/17/18: I Dream a Dream <p><em><span class="font_large">Dear readers, this column is a repeat of one I wrote a few years ago. This weekend is devoted to our 50th anniversary and my birthday- a big bash- leaving zero time for my usual reflections. I did tweak it, though... </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Lots of brochures and phone solicitations from aspiring politicians are starting to pour in, triggering a weird dream one night, where I find myself with the huge, temporary power to dee-cree American changes. And make one world change. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It went like this: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I (a little old lady who likes dirt and the stuff that grows in it) possess a smattering of hard-earned common sense, which has inexplicably morphed into a Marvel Comic-like ‘Power-To-Change-Things-By-DeeCree’. I could make massive political and social changes, implemented by my scrawled signature. Bling! All Dee-crees shall immediately become reality for the United States of America. <br>(Oh: I’m allowed just ONE <u>world</u>-sized decree, though. See #8.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here They Are. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">1. Presidential campaigns shall last precisely six months. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Candidates (representing a maximum of four parties chosen in state and local elections) will be granted a budget of one hundred million public dollars each- and not one penny more- to map out and present their platforms. All major television news stations, as a public service, will feature each state’s chosen candidates on the first Sunday of every month, for three hours. Voters will dine on the ‘meat’ of their debates, arguments and proposals, which shall be presented concisely. (A disinterested committee will fund each candidate’s submitted ‘vote-for-me’ ads, using the money drawn from the aspiring politician’s hundred million dollar fund. (No one has to be wealthy to run, or win.) <br>The American public shall mine for talent and innovative ideas, and listen to- and debate- every debate. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">2. Candidates caught in a lie (via ads or out of their own mouths) shall immediately be eliminated from the competition. A committee of eleven respected people dedicated to Truth, Honor and the Reasoned Way, will thoroughly check their veracity, then decide, based on collected verifiable evidence, if a lie exists. (Note: solid, reliable politically untainted statement checks will make honesty popular again.) The committee shall be paid well for this service, which shall last the entire six months. <br>Their decisions are <em>final</em>. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">3. If one single ‘rotten’ ballot is discovered (ballots will be randomly reviewed to weed out dead voters and non-citizens from anywhere) then ALL of that particular county’s ballots shall be rendered void. Losing so many votes because someone tries to sneak in ringers would go a long way toward stopping dishonesty. <br><em>If an idea cannot survive without cheating to promote it, that idea should be chucked out. </em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">4. Part of the oath every elected official must take shall include these words: <br>‘I am a public SERVANT, not the public’s Master. When a government fears the people, that is Freedom. When the people fear their government, that is Tyranny. Thus, the Lesson, repeated: I am a public SERVANT, not the public’s Master. The citizens I represent are my Masters. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">5. The nation’s press shall report only fact-based news of the day. The awful ‘filler’ inclusions of death and psychopathic horrors that greet a soul over morning coffee encourage depression and despair. (Dozens of instances of character assassination, bear-eats child, woman tortures horses/babies, etc, offered as a steady diet every single day encourage reader despair and poor mental health.) Only factual research for the most up-to-date information shall be printed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">News readers shall read the latest regional, national and world news. Simply that. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Condemnation, expressed horror over what is reported, etc, shall happen in a forum designed for that purpose. All statements and declarations of horror and disgust shall be based on factual knowledge, and not attributed to ‘unnamed sources.’ No implants of erroneous ideas of why a behavior happens- “ perhaps he’s beaten his children, so that’s why they dare not look up” is permitted. That is Malicious Gossip, junk food for unwary brains... </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">6. The President and Congress shall serve six years, with no second term. Thus, their entire time in office shall be spent actually running the country, undistracted by fundraising or pandering to his or her base. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">All presidential decisions, congressional bills and subsequent votes shall be posted weekly, in plain English on one page, for the country to read. The author of the bill shall be prominently printed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">No riders- ‘remora eel’ attachments- are permitted, ever. Only the bill, with a ten page-limit. The bill writers must KISS (Keep It Simple- Succinct). </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">7. The very first word learned in school shall be <u>ignor</u><em>ance </em>- a big word (though not nearly as big as supercalifragilisticexpialidocious) but one of the most dangerous to <em><u>ignore</u></em>. Ignorant people, stuffed with ideology, religiously inflexible precepts, or just plain pigheadedness, regularly say and do awful, unthinkable things to other living beings. Children shall learn, for example, that not one single human being has ever been able to <em>choose</em> his or her skin pigment, height, eye color, hair texture, parents, sex, or place of birth. So, hating people for something they have zero control over is, by definition, the very <em>essence</em> of ignorance. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(When one learns to reason, and becomes skilled as a ‘devil’s advocate,’ that is, a person who can grasp the <em>other</em> side of a plan, ideology, or platform to aid in understanding the other person’s reasoning, which makes it possible to minimize the number of times he/she makes an idiot of him/herself. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bonus: tolerance and flexibility are thus nurtured.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Information, gleaned from verifiable facts (never from consensus) shall be given out freely. Questions, especially at school, must be encouraged. (Teachers may never teach for tests.) When updated and verifiable data about any subject is discovered, students shall celebrate the updates. After all, a better, more complete grasp of ideas or theories is always a good thing. <br>After basic reasoning skills are mastered, there’ll be more time to luxuriate in love, compassion, generosity, fellowship, fun, and the gentle art of accommodation and compromise. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">**8. THE WORLD RULE: There <em>will</em> be time to indulge in the things listed above because- Wars anywhere, big or small, will be <em>extremely</em> unlikely. Why? <br>The sitting president, his/her staff and Congress shall <em>physically lead</em> any war they declare or provoke. <br>*This same Dee-cree shall apply to <strong>every world leader</strong>- prime ministers, ayatollahs, mullahs, dictators, kings, queens, emperors, princes, etc., including his/her staff and their congress, politbody, rubber stampers or whatever these groups might be called. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><u>Put simply: Leaders, whether old or young, must lead- and fight- on the Front Lines</u>. No desk warriors allowed. No excuses. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">9. The first book read to toddlers- and to all new American citizen adults- shall be <em>The Sneetches and Other Stories</em>, by Dr. Seuss. Children will ponder Sylvester McMonkey McBean’s Star-On and Star-Off Machines, and who was what, and why it seemed important…. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The other three stories, <em>Too Many Daves</em>, <em>The Zax</em>, and <em>What Was I Scared Of</em>? are- well, just <em>perfect</em> for helping to sort out life’s vagaries early. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">10. Everyone shall pay for doctor visits. Cash, checks and credit cards accepted. This method of payment is offered in hardware stores, clothing shops, food stores, airports, dry cleaners, etc. so everyone already knows how to do it. Just pull out the wallet and pay for the service. Second, third and forth party government bureaucrats are not allowed to interfere in a doctor-patient relationship. </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">RESULT: </span></em></p>
<p><u><em><span class="font_large">The price of health care will plummet. </span></em></u></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One’s private health information shall once again be private. <br>Comparison-shopping will blossom. <br>Word will quickly spread as to which physicians, clinics and hospitals excel, and which are sub-standard. <br>The price of every test, and all medicines, shall be posted. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">11. Congress: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- shall NOT have a Separate, Special Health Plan. They shall receive precisely what they mandate for the rest of the country. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- Terms shall last 6 years, with a good salary- better than what they’d been earning in their regular jobs, to compensate for uprooting their regular lives to serve in this way. A nice bonus at term’s end shall be awarded to those who have served their constituents with integrity and honor, and have <em>not</em> left Congress 1000% richer. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">12. All Americans shall purchase Mandatory Catastrophic Health Insurance to cover any medical disaster, using the money they earn. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Anyone</em> genuinely needful- people who just can’t pay for these awful health situations-either temporarily or permanently- will be assisted using a generous federal, state or local government fund set aside to fully cover their medical expenses. Prospective people in need will be carefully checked to root out fakers. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">13. Lawsuits shall be filed with great care. Frivolous filers will incur a mega-fine for tying up court time. If a civil lawsuit goes to court, the losing side shall pay both bills. Nonsense will cease as offenders’ wallets become emaciated. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">14. Elementary schools shall teach reading, mathematics, unredacted history, geography, English, logic (critical thinking) writing skills and a foreign language. A maximum of FIVE hours daily shall be dedicated to these subjects. Homework shall be <em>rare</em>, because home time shall be reserved for family interactions, after-school jobs, and play. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Furthermore, the above subjects shall be offered all day. So, if a child is naturally most alert, say, after lunch, he/she shall attend school then, during their personal best learning time. No more dragging children out of bed at 6:00 a.m. to present them at school half asleep, unable to absorb facts. No more forcing a child to learn in the afternoon, if he/she is naturally most alert and receptive during mornings. Understanding circadian rhythms greatly helps a brain absorb knowledge. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Parents may drop in <em>anytime</em> to quietly observe their child’s class, from a small one-way glass room, so as not to distract. Teachers, on the merit system, shall be tested periodically to insure professional competence, and to insure they teach only the subjects mentioned. Everything <em>not</em> academic shall not be mandated. Schools shall have sign-up sheets for sports, music, art, driver training, shop, etc. All are free. All shall be offered all day. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Large bonuses will be awarded for teaching excellence, as determined by the learning demonstrated by pupils. Older childrens’ reasoned, written evaluations of their teachers’ performances at years’ end shall be encouraged. Constructive criticism especially from children, is always valuable. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">As chief Poo-Bah I make all this happen by signing a special paper- and Presto! The above dee-clarations become the new reality. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Smiling, I sigh and drift off again, perchance to imagine even more improbable profundities- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dreams are still free, eh?</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/52870332018-06-10T00:59:46-04:002018-07-22T00:05:34-04:006/10/18: What Bryn Knows... <p><span class="font_large">Joe and I have shared the last 4 + years with our labradoodle, Bryn. She’s brought us much joy, and even more wonderment, truth be told. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn understands a <em>lot</em> of English- I mean <em>sentences</em>- whole thoughts- that Joe and I express in her presence. I notice her ears moving smartly toward us, even as she gazes contemplatively out the window, her back to us. When we plan our day, including the fun stuff- biking, hiking, relaxing after lunch in the Commons forest alongside that wonderful brook, she’s all ears. After we tentatively settle on where to go with her, she’ll turn her head to look us straight in the eye. <br>Her tail will move approvingly, just the once. <br>She knows! <br>How though, can we really be sure we aren’t deluding ourselves? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After our daily meal she’ll allow a decent space of time to pass, then softly bump Joe. He’ll look at her; she’ll glance out the window, then back at him. </span><br><em><span class="font_large">‘Ready, Boss? Let's go...’ </span></em><br><span class="font_large">She’ll walk with deliberation toward the front hall where we keep her leash and collar, and sit. <br>Yes, she knows. <br>This behavior doesn’t happen when it rains. She’ll do her business, sigh and drag herself back inside to wait it out. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After her early morning walk I’ll prepare her first meal. She’ll wait outside the pantry until I announce; “Your dinner is ready, and there’s a cookie in it...” meaning dried tripe, the lining of a cow’s stomach, packed with vitamins and minerals. (Thanks to its inclusion in her diet she’s given up the habit of occasionally eating other dogs’ poo. The tripe people had mentioned this benefit, and they’d been right.) She takes her tripe ‘cookie’ to the dining room and eats it quietly and with pleasure, before tackling her meal. (By the way, meals are always ‘dinner,’ even if it’s morning.) After finishing most- or all- of it, she’ll come into the kitchen, and bump me once. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Ah, you’ve eaten? Let me look.” </span><br><span class="font_large">I get up and do exactly that. Her gleaming bowl is almost always polished. (I don’t mind the odd little bit left in there to save until later. She’ll still get her treat.) <br>“Well done, Bryn.” I’ll pull out a bully stick; she’ll sniff it carefully before escorting it into the dining room to eat. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">BUT. Sometimes she’ll test me. She’ll eat a few tiny bites of her meal, bump my knee gently, then sit expectantly, hoping for her bully stick. Bryn believes in dessert first. <br>I say the same words as before. <br>“Ah, you’ve eaten? Let me look.” <br>I go look. <br>No go. 90% is still in there. <br>“Hmm. I guess you’re saving your dinner ‘til later, Bryn. No problem. But the usual rule applies: <em>First</em>, your dinner. Then your treat. <br>I move back to the table to work. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She’ll follow and summon a pathetic expression, knowing full well I won’t change my mind. <br>I casually repeat The Rule. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She’ll stand by me doing her ‘statue,’ in case I weaken. Not a whisker will twitch. She’ll remain motionless for perhaps five minutes... <br>I continue to tap at my computer. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The Boss had spoken. And that’s that. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ghost-like, she’ll finally give up and move back to her bowl to devour every kibble. Soon I’ll feel a second soft nudge. <br>“Oh. You’ve eaten your dinner? Let me look.” <br>I knew her bowl was empty; I heard it happen, but the ritual is important, so I’ll smile and say, “Good girl. I’ll get your treat.” <br>I’ll produce a nice long stick from her drawer. She’ll sniff it, accept the gift and trot off to devour it. As she’ll begin moving away I’ll sometimes offer her a choice. <br>“Do you want to eat it outside, or stay in here?” <br>She’ll pause mid-step, glance outside, then toward the dining room, and make her choice. It could be either place. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Her eyes, facial expressions and where she positions her beautiful tail, convey a mountain of information. It’s simply amazing <br>1. how much Bryn knows, and expresses, and <br>2. that I’ve managed to learn so many of her eloquent, subtle signals. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We’re effectively communicating, any way you look at it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I think Bryn has a sense of humor, too. <br>I rise very early- could be anywhere from 2:30 to 4:30 a.m. A sensible doggie, she’ll remain in her bed upstairs for another three hours or so before coming downstairs to begin her day. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But that 55-pound canine can move as silently as a ghost. <br>Sometimes she’ll come downstairs hours earlier than usual. Making <em>no sound whatever</em> on the creaky kitchen plank floor she’ll glide into the big kitchen, select a spot on my blind left side- and switch to ‘statue’ mode for as long as it takes. It might be an hour, if I’m deeply engrossed in what I’m doing... She is stone. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It’s worth it, though, when I gasp, jerk in shock and eek out shaky laughter at finding her there, a mere inch away! (The first time she did this I nearly fell out of my chair!) Yawning hugely, she’ll pretend surprise at my surprise. <br><em>Gotcha, Boss! </em><br>It’s a hoot for both of us!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/52725652018-06-02T22:53:21-04:002018-06-02T22:53:21-04:006/03/18: Thoroughly Watered! <p><span class="font_large">Last Sunday afternoon Bryn needed a shampoo; she’d run through the really dusty dog park in hot, dry weather, so her fur was dust-coated and decorated with dirt clods and twigs. In the garden I used the hose to wet her coat, soap her up and rinse her clean. It registered nearly 90 sunny degrees, so the cold water felt good. But- there was a problem. The hose yielded only a tiny flow. I found a kink, but after sorting it, the water’s volume was still feeble. Rinsing Bryn took much longer than usual. This reminded me of........ <br>OH, NO!! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">With a thrill of horror, I dashed into the house and down the basement stairs. Disaster! Torrents of icy water were pouring from the southwest corner of the ceiling. An elderly galvanized pipe had burst some hours ago. Water was everywhere! I ran back upstairs and outside to shut off the faucet on the house wall, then close the lever leading to the hose. The peculiar vibrating sound radiating from the outer wall ceased. I flung on my wellies and thundered back down into the basement. Two inches of water covered the floor and everything on it. I rang Les, who came straight over and shut off the impossibly placed interior valve, which I couldn’t ever hope to reach. <br>The flow stopped. <br>In December of 2009 my mother’s cottage in England had flooded. Burst overhead pipes ran amok for two weeks bringing it to near ruin in 2009. I’d moved there for a total of 12 months in appalling conditions to renovate. And now, Sunnybank’s basement was drowned by a split overhead pipe. Rugs were submerged, or floating; boxes of office papers were ruined. Three of the four rooms off the main area were soaked. Only the laundry room was spared, because we’d poured a 6” high cement barrier across the doorway, rather like a ship’s galley (because in the 1990s the city sewer overflowed in a storm and the entire basement was full of –well, poop. Never again. Our simple fix would stop poop from encompassing the entire basement.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Even the carpet in my little music room at the far end of the basement was completely soaked. The main area’s exercise machine, a large Victorian trunk filled with my music, a ten-foot long filled bookcase, thirty or so cans of half-filled paint, and 14 large cardboard boxes of dried food that would last for 25 years, were bottom-soaked. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I shifted what I could, lifted porch cushions out of the water, and put things on the stairs or in the laundry, hoping I could salvage them later. Then, for nearly an hour, on hands and knees, I used my little shop vacuum to suck away water, but found I couldn’t get the lid off the machine to pour the collected water down the laundry room’s sink. I finally noticed the overfilled tank was spewing it out the other end, undoing all my work! <br>Murphy’s Law (Whatever CAN go wrong WILL go wrong) was in full bloom. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So I grabbed a sturdy kitchen broom to shepherd water into the tiny main drain, which was soon overwhelmed. Unable to lift the big waterlogged rugs, or hefty stored furniture, I rang Les, a dear friend. We managed to raise most of the really heavy stuff to push bricks underneath, but had to stop after an hour or two of hard work. We were knackered. I rang my insurance company, and they put me on to ServPro, a firm that sorts flooded homes so well that ‘it’s as though it never even happened.’ They came immediately, emptied as much water as possible with their big water-collecting vac, then brought nine huge fans down and set them up everywhere while a giant dehumidifier roared. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Fortunately, there was no drywall down there, but lower brick walls were peeling paint, and the ancient cement floor oozed earth and water... <br>It was too soon – and too late at night- 10 p.m.- to do a thorough damage inspection, so I told the men to go home. Memorial Day was hours away. There was nothing to be done until we got it dried out, so I’d see them Tuesday afternoon. <br>For over 48 hours the fans roared; it was impossible to find a quiet place in the house. But they did make a difference. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(The danger, of course, is the rapid growth of black mold. Fans help prevent this dangerous curse, so it’s essential to get them going right away. In England it took me two months to get the insurance company to respond. They simply ignored what was promised in their contract!! By then, though, black mold had covered <u>every</u>thing, necessitating much more ripping out of walls. Only when I screamed at them in frustration, threatening a huge lawsuit, did they finally dump enormous fans outside the cottage in the middle of the night and stomp off. As they weighed more than I did, I couldn’t move them until I found help...but that’s another story. I don’t believe I’ve ever been so frustrated and outraged.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Anyway, ServPro’s equipment roared. The men returned Tuesday afternoon to monitor progress, and decided the fans/dehumidifier should keep working for another 24 hours, just to be sure. <br>But then (there is often a ‘But then,’ courtesy of Murphy) on Thursday, the music room’s white Berber carpet’s center had morphed to a rusty, ugly red. The vivid stain (maybe from the pad, or emanating from mineral deposits in the ancient cement floor) was huge- as big as a six-foot circle. The guy sprayed something on it. Voila! The ‘blood’ began to vanish- and we began to cough. I backed out, gasping, and went upstairs, but kept coughing. He did, too. Something in that spray had irritated our lungs. <br>He eventually left, after saying we’d know in a few days whether such a big blemish would stay gone. I doubted it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So then, I decided to do a load of laundry. In stocking feet Thursday late afternoon, I brought down the filled laundry basket, took some minutes to maneuver the full basket past heaps of stuff blocking the laundry room’s raised doorway---- and found myself wading through icy water! That floor was thoroughly flooded, too! A 9x12 indoor-outdoor grass ‘carpet’ was trying to float, and two huge old wooden cabinets were standing in an inch of water. <br>And it was rising.... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I let out wails of despair. This was a blow. WAY too much bad stuff was happening too fast. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s the skinny. The ServPro techs had set the drainage hose for the dehumidifier down into the deep laundry room sink, but at some point it had managed to dislodge itself and slither to the floor. All the water drawn from the main basement’s wet air emptied onto that floor. Cursing Murphy, I stuck the hose deep down in the sink again and weighed it down with a wet towel. <br>ServPro came soon after, acknowledged they’d messed up by not securing the hose, and so would not charge to put that room right. <br>OK. These things happen. <br>But now I was frazzled to breaking point. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But Murphy wasn’t finished yet. No sir. <br>For almost 40 years I’d kept a $1,000 deductible on our house insurance. But now, when I rang to confirm that all was well in that regard I was horrified to find that our actual deductible was $4,818.00!!! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Why? In 2013-14 the insurance company had included an extra notice in the semi-annual bill, that, <em>unless they heard from me</em>, the deductible would be raised to 5% of the value of our home. Here’s the thing: every regular monthly bill – phone, water, heat, light, etc. includes reams of extra paper crammed with various ads, notices, privacy assurances, and various legal blah-blah, all of it delivered in very fine print. Rarely bothering to read those tiny info junklets, I just recycle the paper. So, of course, I didn’t notice that an important part of my insurance policy was different. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">To be fair- I’ve saved a good deal of premium money during the four years that have passed- until this disaster, so I hadn’t noticed, up close and personal, the radical change. Now, faced with such a huge deductible, I canceled the claim. This bill would not be quite that expensive, but it would be a big bite out-of-pocket. I rang the insurance people to ask that they get rid of that enormous deductible and put it back to $1000,00. I would pay the higher semi-annual premiums. <br>But. This must be submitted to The Committee, who might well deny my request to change back. So I wait. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Meanwhile, one basement fan still roars; the air is too moist, my nerves are frayed, and my temper is noticeably shorter. Life is a trial right now. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But (Take that, Murphy!) there are huge bright spots. One is upside down in front of me, twitching and paddling as she dreams. Bryn-dog is the essence of quiet cheer and pure love. She brightens every aspect of my life. There is Joe, the love of my life for 52 years. There is my beloved secret garden, with all its nooks, crannies, and little delights. Spring has arrived, and there are fresh babies of every kind to love and admire. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When I have the sense to take in these ‘calmers,’ they raise me up as high as I care to be...</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/52601232018-05-27T12:15:28-04:002018-05-27T12:15:28-04:005/27/18: That Sinking Feeling… <p><span class="font_large">A passionate reader, I recently learned an astounding fact about England’s ancient churchyards. Bill Bryson’s fascinating book, <em>At Home, A Short History Of Private Life</em> (Doubleday, New York, 2010) offers an earthy revelation. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryson, a prolific, popular author, lives with his family in an old parsonage in Norfolk, England. One day he and his archeologist friend Brian looked out his second story window at the gently mounded landscape surrounding the medieval church just outside his home. Brian remarked that there are 659 ancient village churches in Norfolk, alone; all seemed to be sinking, as he put it, <em>“like a weight placed on a cushion.”</em> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Are they, really? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This church’s foundations, he pointed out, were at least three feet <em>below</em> the churchyard. When asked the reason why, Bryson had no clue. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">His friend commented that the church wasn’t sinking; the church<em>yard</em> had risen. Bryson, when asked to guess the number of souls likely buried there, thought there’d be eighty? A hundred? </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">“I think that’s probably a </span></em><span class="font_large">bit</span><em><span class="font_large"> of an underestimate,” Brian replied, with an air of kindly equanimity. “Think about it. </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">A country parish like this has an average of 250 people in it, which translates into roughly a thousand adult deaths per century, plus a few thousand more souls that didn’t make it to maturity. Multiply that by the number of centuries that the church has been there and you can see that what you have here is not eighty or a hundred burials, but probably something more on the order of, say, twenty thousand.” </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">This was, bear in mind, just steps from my front door. “Twenty thousand?” I said. </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">He nodded, matter-of-factly. “That’s a lot of mass, needless to say. It’s why the ground has risen three feet.” He gave me a minute to absorb this, then went on. “There are a thousand parishes in Norfolk. Multiply all the centuries of human activity by a thousand parishes and you can see that you are looking at a lot of material culture.” He considered the several steeples that featured the view. ”From here, you can see into perhaps ten or twelve other parishes, so you are probably looking at roughly a quarter of a million burials right here in the immediate landscape— all in a place that has never been anything but quiet and rural, where nothing much has ever happened.” </span></em><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Heavens! For forty years I’ve enjoyed these lovely, peaceful places, but never questioned why British churchyard landscapes always— well, billow. (American graveyards are mostly flat; we are, after all, a very young country.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ve enjoyed pondering local churchyard epitaphs not yet claimed by earth, time and weather. Occupants composed a few of them. Usually, though, family and friends ventured thoughtful, and sometimes humorous comments that often date back centuries. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In St. Mary’s churchyard in Ross-on-Wye, one stone displays two hands, palms up. It reads: <br><em>She Gave With Her Hands. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This one, in Cornwall, remembers a tin miner: <br><em>Gone Underground For Good </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And, etched in marble in 1690, a droll farewell to a friend who could afford good food: </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">Here lie the bones of Joseph Jones <br>Who ate while he was able <br>But once overfed he dropt down dead <br>And fell beneath the table <br>When from the tomb to meet his doom <br>He arises amidst sinners <br>Since he must dwell in heaven or hell <br>Take him- whichever gives the best dinners </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, I offer some last words of my own regarding those countless graves embraced throughout the centuries by the rising ground: </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">So many dear souls have abandoned their bones <br>To fly to heaven’s glory <br>Tho’ Mother Earth hath reclaimed their stones- <br>God always knows each story.</span></em></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/52450142018-05-19T23:23:33-04:002018-05-19T23:23:33-04:005/20/18: Continental Differences <p><span class="font_large">As I work in Sunnybank’s secret garden pulling little weeds that constantly try to establish, I often ponder the sometimes startling differences between the European and American way of life, just to keep from perishing from boredom. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A German friend who’d married an American and relocated here would nervously creep up to signaled intersections for months, horrified by our heavy, dangling stoplights, which sway on windy days. Even a year later she still hadn’t fully adjusted. In Europe, traffic lights are bolted onto sturdy poles on streets’ edges. The American arrangement seemed irrational to her, especially in “tornado alley,” because the heavy streetlights are unguided missiles in high winds. <br>Tornadoes are vanishingly rare overseas. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dry cereals seemed to her like eating colored paper. She couldn’t bring herself to try cornflakes with milk. In Germany, a slice of bread and coffee or tea starts the day; the big meal happens in late evening. <br>Here, most restaurants serve all day long and offer endless coffee refills. In Britain, one pays anew for every cup. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In England, renovating my cottage in 2009, I’d often forget the time, immersed in a task that required my full concentration. But then, at around 2:45, I’d realize I was ravenous. There was no food in the cottage: heck, there was no kitchen. It needed a complete redo after being ruined when overhead pipes had burst in record cold weather-- so I thought: ‘I’ll pop down the hill to the Axe and Cleaver and indulge in a pub lunch!’ <br>But then I’d realize I was well over an hour too late! From 12 to 2 o’clock restaurants and pubs offer hot food. The cook, hired for <em>just those times</em>, cleans up right at 2 o’clock, and then goes home for the day. <br>Restaurants open again after 5 and remain open until 9 or 10:00 p.m. I eat one meal, usually around midday, so losing track of time over there carried a stiff penalty for me. Apples, or cheese and crackers, tightly sealed in a tin that even clever rodents couldn’t open, were a comfort when I forgot the time. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One miserable afternoon early in the renovation I really needed a decent meal; I popped into a local hotel nearby, explained my circumstances, and asked for a sandwich, and tea. The receptionist discussed this shocking demand with staff at length, and with much waving of hands before they were finally persuaded to bring me a tiny ham and cheese sandwich and a small pot of tea. The bill for that scant fare was a whopping 21 pounds. (Thirty-five dollars) Horrified, I inquired why. “Madam,” the desk clerk said stiffly, “food is served beginning promptly at noon; staff are not accustomed to feeding people after 2 o’clock. Come back at 6 for our evening meal.” I felt about an inch high. But I knew it would be useless to show anger. I paid the extortionist price, but never went back there. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The Brits love their dogs and their pubs. Pubs in Britain have generous windows and lovely, truly ancient interiors. Their thick, deeply worn, blackened wooden floors and ceiling beams might be over 800 years old. Flower baskets hang everywhere. Often, pubs come with a resident ghost. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Families enjoy steak and kidney pie, or fish and chips or stew, or steak or lamb, as well as fancier meals. Children and dogs are welcomed. They sit or lie quietly at their owners’ feet at the bar, or at their tables, content to wait for as long as their masters wish. Mostly they snooze, or enjoy pats from patrons. And sometimes fries (called chips) might slip off plates and land under delighted canine noses. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here in America, there are no cheery pubs; instead, we offer windowless, secretive bars, many of which are dark and broody inside. Having loved the real thing for 50 years I can never go in them. (Dogs, children and families are rarely found there.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When I visited Paris many years ago, leashed dogs would enter various little shops with their owners. Nobody thought a thing about it. I never witnessed an unruly dog in a shop. They just kept quiet and padded along, sniffing delicately. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In France, women frequently wear only swimsuit bottoms. When traveling through France in the late 1980s Joe and I would bike along lovely streams bisecting the countryside, and noticed everyone from very old grannies to lovely women and girls enjoying the briskly flowing streams. Most were topless. Men of all ages, and boys who were often naked, thought nothing of this. Everyone sat on blankets spread out on the grass to enjoy lunch, all the while keeping a sharp eye on littler ones splashing about in the shallows. It was close to 100-105 degrees every day during that July and August, so, during the intense afternoon heat, villagers would abandon field or housework and gather wherever there was water to gossip, nap, and chat. Though initially startled we soon adapted, and, like the French, ignored the nudity. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">British cars are 98% standard shift models. People are nearly undone when confronted by automatic shift cars. They find them too difficult to manage. One of the workmen offered to move my (automatic shift) car so he and his mates could unload timber to renovate our flooded out cottage. The guy unraveled when he tried to back out, and then drive it forward. He had no clue how to proceed, and got out cursing and flinging his hands, so I had to take over. The workers were incredulous that I would want to drive such a complicated car! <br>I found their shock fascinating. <br>Personally, standard shift driving is much more complicated to learn. It’s all about coordination. <br>With automatic shift cars, though, all one does is press the ‘Go’ pedal or the ‘Stop’ pedal. With the right foot. <br>That’s it. <br>When I travel there and need wheels, I must reserve an automatic shift vehicle from car rental agencies. And, this, of course, means paying extra, partly because it can take a good while to find such a car. I like ‘automatic’ because I tend to gape at the scenery- Britain is gorgeous- and refer to maps. Thought I drive standard shift perfectly well, I like to keep tasks simple, especially when driving on ‘the wrong side of the road,’ which requires great concentration. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In Britain one sees long aisles in grocery stores big and small, which hold hundreds of stacked eggs nestled in cartons. They are <em>never</em> refrigerated. I was openmouthed- and yes, horrified- the first time I saw this, but, thinking about it, I couldn’t remember that newspapers had ever reported people sickening or dying because of this practice. Still, it seemed unsafe. All sorts of bacteria might grow inside a room temperature egg. I constantly wondered how long the ocean of eggs on those shelves had been sitting there. How could one keep track? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Properly attired men fishing for trout in lovely streams wear suits, vests and ties, and, of course, chest-high boots, and a special woven basket is strapped to their shoulders to hold their catches. It was those tweedy suits that always grabbed my attention. Who would think? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Part of visiting another culture is learning to adapt- and even to appreciate- these intriguing continental differences. </span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/52317702018-05-13T10:57:28-04:002018-05-13T10:57:28-04:005/13/18: Weather- or Not<p><span class="font_large">What odd weather we’ve been having! First it was really warm, and then, suddenly a big wind blew in a bigger snowstorm and icy air, and then, it rained; all the snow went the way of all things... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here it is, May 11, and we are greeted by freezing weather again, after days of delightful warmth. It’s 26 degrees in Grayling! Anyone who planted annuals recently will be upset: they don’t survive this sort of shocking change. Just before this sudden turnaround, a huge wind had taken down power lines, branches, and even trees, here in TC, and in southern Michigan. The power was out for a good while in Saginaw; school was canceled. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Even the birds, who wake us every day with cheery chirps, were dead quiet this morning, too busy trying to keep their eggs from turning into lumps of ice to sing, or defend their territory. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I remember other years of weird weather, too. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Saginaw, March 10, 2012, 2:30 a.m. Joe and I were asleep in our small 1870s brick farmhouse where we’d raised our two children, and where he still maintains his cardiology practice three days a week. Because he was covering Covenant Hospital that weekend I’d driven down to Saginaw to be with him. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">‘Wah! Wah! Wah!’ Our alarm shrieked, rudely signaling its switch to battery power. We shot out of bed and into a pitch-black world. Looking out our bedroom window we realized everyone in our area had lost electricity. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Uh-oh. Could <em>another</em> storm be approaching? A dangerous one had hit the Tri-City area at dinnertime. The Weather Channel had confirmed a tornado in the northern part of Saginaw, exactly where we lived. Massive lightning had continuously ripped the black sky: a 30-second mega-wind had followed. Then – nothing. The main storm had roared by not two miles east of us. At bedtime the weather was calm. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sleep was impossible, so we dressed and drove into town for coffee and light, and recalled another terrifying Saginaw weather event 32 years earlier. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">August, 1986. The afternoon sky, dressed in shades of sickly yellow smeared with green and black, looked decidedly ill. An eerie quiet blanketed the three acres of wooded land surrounding our home. Birds and insects were mute. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Nervously we gathered our two young daughters and went inside. Ten-year-old Jen watched the sky upstairs while my husband monitored the TV. Five-year-old Lisa soothed our skittish puppy in the kitchen. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Suddenly- a huge <em>WIND</em> screamed in. Large trees moaned under the assault. Windows rattled. County sirens wailed. Joe ran out, looked up and his face registered shock. Dashing inside he yelled, “Basement! NOW!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We snatched up the children, grabbed the pup and rushed down there. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Seconds later there were tremendous BOOMS!! Then, loud CRREEAKS! Large trees were splitting, groaning, and falling. One truly deafening CRACK!! Lightning had struck the huge elm near the living room. (The pungent stink of roasted sap would linger for days.) Then, THUMP! THUMP! Over and over. Trees and chimney bricks were falling, flying off… going… gone. The wind raged and howled for another age--- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">An eternity later, it was over. Calm reigned. Only persistent rain remained. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Our house had survived. But our vast, treed lawn had completely disappeared under a carpet of huge, flattened trees. What an incredible sight! Nobody said anything. We simply stared, blown away. Sixty- three downed trees tidily faced east, showing what tremendous straight-line winds can do. Rain and dime-sized hail still pummeled shocked leaves. Weirdly, two giants elms very close to our home had toppled mere inches from it. Parallel <em>to</em> it. But, incredibly, not <em>on top of</em> it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Some mortar-weak, heavy chimney bricks had been ‘shuck-plucked’ gone, like random kernels of corn pried off a cob. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I wish I had a nickel for every gawker who drove by for the next three weeks. We’d be rich. It took five <em>full</em> days for a crew of ten men armed with chainsaws and tree-eating machines to clean up. Other people lost entire roofs: cars and sheds were overturned or crushed. We’d experienced an EF-1 tornado. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Just two years later, in September, it began to rain. Hard. Steadily. It stopped <u>32 days</u> later. Much of the Saginaw valley area within a couple of miles of the Saginaw River was under water. Frantic sandbagging commenced half way through the deluge as everyone tried to help the residents save their homes nearer the river. Our efforts didn’t help much. Our home was completely surrounded by foot-deep water. Buck, our Golden Retriever, jumped into it from the front porch and swam to the road 150 feet away. I will never forget that amazing sight. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It took a week for the river to retreat. Lots of people lost everything. Our basement had just been redone to create better drainage; we had only an inch down there. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In 1953, when I was in elementary school, a twister dropped briefly into Saginaw and inhaled our apple tree along with various dish-y clutter from our dining room table, which it also tried to suck through the partially open window. Then that EF-5 monster roared south to flatten Flint, where 113 people were killed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ten years ago, here at Sunnybank House in Traverse City, I hastily herded six garden visitors into the kitchen one biliously dark afternoon. Everyone watched a funnel cloud form as it moved west to east- but <em>not</em> touch down- just south of us. It was unnervingly close! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So, during this weird, hot-and-cold spring I’ve begun monitoring the weather at bedtime, just to make sure we are up-to-date on forecasts. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ve seen, first hand, how quickly people can be snowed in, or their homes drowned in waay-above-flood-stage river water, or how everything can be blown away in mere minutes. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Michigan weather: if you don’t like it, wait fifteen minutes. </span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/52192902018-05-05T23:08:06-04:002018-05-05T23:08:06-04:005/5/18: Act Now, or Moan Later!<p><span class="font_large">This recent snowfall should be Mother Nature’s last icy huff. Spring-blooming perennials aren’t fazed by her little fling. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Today I’m working away, raking, picking up sticks, weeding--and thought I’d share some garden wisdom, and even a few warnings. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Squirrels love to dig up tulip bulbs, or, they’ll wait ‘til the flower is up and open, and scissor its lovely flower off just under the petals. This makes my blood boil! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The population’s high, so I employ humane traps. At first, though, I leave the cage doors propped open. A squirrel will tiptoe inside one, grab a gob of cheap, crunchy peanut butter, and then escape, triumphant. Two or three visits later he’ll relax his vigilance. <em>Then</em> I set the trap. Outraged captives, if driven to a forest at least 6-8 miles away, won’t be back. Squirrels have a built-in GPS, but its effective range is limited to within 5-6 miles of home. (A dab of white paint on squirrelly backs lets me know if I’ve underestimated.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Grass, the largest plant in the garden, loves to mingle. Vigorous blades that have sneaked into my beds, or sprung up from recently seeded areas, must be pried out immediately. If I wait, they’ll grow amongst the flowers, creating a blurred, unkempt look, and become almost impossible to remove later on without my disturbing the plants they’ve intertwined. (Removing them from rose bases down the road is painful when the plant’s in bloom, so I’m highly motivated!) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Roses may be pruned now. I check their ends. If they’re black or withered, I cut that part away, at a slant, or just above the healthiest bud further down the cane. I trim these shrubs well back anyway, always to fat buds, and always tie climbers’ canes to fences or trellises <em>horizontally, with zip ties</em>. Vertical canes will grow one lovely rose on top, leaving an embarrassed, naked cane below. Canes secured <em>horizontally</em> clothe themselves in multiple flowers. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Cleaning Lamb’s Ears (<em>Stachys byzantina</em>) is a major job each year, mostly because I have a huge population; two giant Lamb necklaces edge the alley garden. All winter lamb’s ears have been busy making more, and, of course, the oldsters are always dying, so I must sit in the alley and laboriously snip away every limp, gray ear. A ten-foot strip 8 inches wide can take a full 4-hour morning to clean. The remaining soft, new silver-green ears soon plump out and look wonderful, so I consider all that work worth it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I clean lamb’s ears about once a month. Again, regular maintenance always enhances their delicate appearance. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Weeds love the moist spring earth: I try to pry them out carefully, as their roots often descend as deep as the Marianas Trench. If one breaks because I’ve stupidly hurried, another weed will develop from the tiny stump immediately. Now is the time to do this irritating task, as nothing’s up yet, so I can work deep within beds without injuring flowery treasures. Besides, these weedy wretches are so much easier to spot early in the season! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Some weeds are adroit at hiding or disguising themselves as cherished plants, then growing into huge structures armed with thin, sharp needles that pierce my palms when I finally realize I’ve been duped, and try to pull them out. With their roots wedged deeply this is a miserable job, requiring thick gloves and a sharp shovel. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I chainsaw big perennial grasses as close to the ground as possible, trying to cut only two inches above the earth. But first, I gather and hold the (usually collapsed) middle together with stout rope to make it easy to haul last summer’s remains to the compost heap. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ve inspected all irrigation lines. A fallen, jagged maple tree branch had pierced one line; repair was easy, as the garden’s still semi-bald, making access to plumbing a cinch. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I won’t mulch yet, not until early June. Oh – and I won’t even think about planting annuals until then. We’ve had frosts as late as June 4. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now’s a good time to spread Slug-go pellets around. (All local nurseries carry this expensive, but safe, effective deterrent.) Young, 100-toothed slime-balls have voracious appetites. They’ll devour an entire hosta in one night! (Slug-go dissolves the creatures, leaving only their teeth behind. I need to spread just a few pellets here and there, near hostas...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Daylilies (Hemerocallis) really appreciate being divided every three years. I’ll dig up a clump – it’s easy, as they’re shallow- rooted – and pry/pull them apart after dipping each clump in a bucket of water to get rid of the mud. Only the strongest ones are replanted. But if they refuse to separate, I’ll give up: they’ve effectively strangled themselves anyway. I’ll have to replant. Daylilies aren’t the brightest plant in the garden, preferring to crowd themselves to death instead of spreading outward like a more sensible plant. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Irises love being divided, too. They’re happiest when situated in part sun, and planted shallow. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’m trimming my four spirea shrubs down to about eight to ten inches. They’ll soon grow madly. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Lavender appreciates a good short cut, too. Otherwise, it’ll go woody. I trim mine about five inches from the ground in a roundish salad bowl shape. Lavender has a relatively short lifespan- normally about 6-8 years. Allowing it to ‘go to pot’ –or thicken- shortens its blooming life. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hydrangea bushes can be pruned now, too. I cut all dead branches away- the ones with nothing on (i.e. those with no buds). Deadwood is pruned right down to the base of the plant. (Long, pale dead sticks that poke up through healthy stalks make the hapless plants look awful.) Then, I go to the bottom of every remaining budded stick and prune it to two fat buds from the plant’s <u>base</u>. If a budded stick will chafe or rub its neighbor, I’ll remove the offending one. The bush will grow huge and plump. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I try to keep each stem about the same height. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Another chore: I must dig out the uninvited flowering garlic (Allium) every two or three years. I neglect this chore at my peril; they multiply rapidly, depending on how happy they are in their site. If regularly monitored and controlled, alliums offer a delightful show without overrunning the garden. (I planted five fist-sized bulbs a decade ago, and woke up four springs later, horrified to find so many garlic children everywhere. Arghhhh!!! It took two weeks of hard labor to save my garden from being totally enveloped. Thousands of allium were dug up.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My spring allium motto: </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">A Chop In Time Saves Nine hundred Ninety-Nine Later…. </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I always add tool-sharpening to my list. Maintained tools make every digging job out there much easier on my back. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I used to cherish the stunning, poisonous lily-of-the-valley (<em>Convallaria</em>) but realized it was almost impossible to kill, once established. It’s also dangerous to little children, who love its heavenly perfume, lush leaves, and fairy-tale bellflowers. Eating any part of it would create a medical crisis. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(Miss Lily’s happiest in woodland areas where she can feel free to multiply without condemnation.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A final task: I check every branch of every little garden tree for branches that rub another, or are growing toward the trunk now, when they’re bare of leaves and flowers </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Errant ones are pruned gone.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/52080952018-04-28T23:05:51-04:002021-09-23T13:29:06-04:004/29/18: Unchained Marvels!<p><span class="font_large">Late winter blues have attacked Joe and me, and even Bryn-dog. Blea! The fickle weather would warm to a shocking heatwave temp- like 55 degrees- for a few hours, and then a rising, irritating wind would usher in a blanket of very cold air to confuse the mind and scatter the seeds of frustration and discouragement throughout our home and mostly frozen garden. Heavens! It’s almost <em>May</em>! What’s up with this?? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Anyway- we love to watch great astronomy and math programs on Netflix in the evenings after busy, active days- mostly spent indoors- but now, we needed something different, something to distract the mind from this lengthy winter. We wanted to travel from our armchairs to another time, preferably in Europe. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Amazon Prime dangled some programs that might resonate... Ping! One caught our eye. ‘The Renaissance Unchained.’ Catchy! Huh. Never heard of this fellow- Waldemar Januszczak. But we liked his name, and were intrigued by the title of his Renaissance history series. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It’s a doozey! This guy, a highly respected art critic and historian in his 60s, is rotund, fond of open-collar black clothes. His shortish dark hair is combed straight up into a high peak. There are three sparkling piercings in one ear. The ‘peak’ and piercings suit him. He’s a character! <br>His Polish parents fled to England during WW2, and he was born there in 1954. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Of course, I looked him up. Whew! Mr. J is a very busy man! He’s done many art commentaries. Here’s what Wikipedia says: (and it’s spot-on) </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">Januszczak has been described as "a passionate art lover, art critic and writer. His presentation style is casual but informed, enthusiastic, evocative and humorous. He bumbles about on our TV screens, doing for art what David Attenborough has done for the natural world," and is someone who acts out of "a refusal to present art as elitist in any way. He makes it utterly accessible and understandable." </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe and I delight in his amusing, passionate presentation of mostly unfamiliar artists who lived in a period that is poo-pooed- or mostly ignored- by today’s art world. He slapped down a book in front of the camera titled <u>Flemish Primitives</u> (that is, art created 50-100 years before the official Renaissance had begun). Those two words made smoke come out of his ears. “Rubbish!” snorted Januszczak. “Wonderful <em>art</em>–stunning and original-and often better, happened well before the Renaissance! Come with me- I’ll show you some leading lights!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So, off we went on a tour of artistic marvels, nestled in Italy and in Belgium. We ventured into special rooms where few have been allowed, to view glorious art up close and personal. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Oh! Such beauty and realistic detail! One of the wooden sculptures, of life-sized people reacting to the dead crucified Christ, is riveting. It is so magnificent I was rendered speechless- too amazed to remember who created it. I have never, <em>ever</em> seen anything remotely like their individual expressions of shock and despair. <br>The motion!!! <br>The <u>E</u>motion!!! <br>They aren’t in Renaissance art books I have studied. I think I would remember. <br>Just that One incredible sculpture would make a stone gasp. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But alas, some sculptures are done in (sniff)- wood. Can’t have that, the critics huff! Has to be White marble (like Michelangelo’s ‘David’)! Maybe that’s why the Christ one isn’t seen often. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Well, gaze at that scarily realistic, passionate group of people frozen in an instant of Time. Gaze, astounded, at the brown-gold glow of 800-year-old wood; gape at their wind-ruffled robes, and tell me this isn’t better than great. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It’s easy to be captivated by his irreverent bluntness and humor. We now understand why artists painted or sculpted the masterpieces Januszczak presented. These men- and the population who viewed their work -were constantly reminded by the Church of Hell and Damnation, of the Devil, always in disguise, who never ceased tempting and hunting down sin-filled human beings. They were terrified by the plague, which would kill 75% of the population practically overnight; of murderous wars by neighboring city-states ... <br>Art reflects the turmoil- the political tumult- of the times. It was tough to live a reasonable life then. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One more thing; he (and we, by proxy) climbed a big hill to view a </span><span class="font_xl">GIANT</span><span class="font_large"> Giant (seen in episode 4) leaning back against a huge rock to ponder the spectacular scenery in the valley below. That incredible sight, like so many others, made us want to run to the local library’s collection of huge art books to linger over these treasures... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Janusczcak is an extremely prolific filmmaker who offers lots of historical adventures we plan to follow. All have intriguing titles, like these in ‘The Renaissance Unchained’ that we’ve finished: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">1. Gods, Myths and Oil Paintings </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">2. Whips, Death and Madonnas (lots and lots of them) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">3. Silk, Sex and Sin (in Venice) WOW! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">4. Hell, Snakes and Giants (such snake-y intrigue!!!! Serpents are everywhere, even set in pottery!! Who Knew!!! Check out that pottery! OMG. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Our teacher thinks everyone way back then was in a constant state of nerves, fearful and vaguely depressed... Just look at what weird Hieronymus Bosch - a soul who defines strange- painted. People flocked to see his work, vaguely reminiscent of weird Disney cartoons, even comic book-like, or, rather like an off-the-wall graphic novel. ‘Weird’ hardly expresses what <em>that guy</em> produced. You need a week to take in one triptych, of The Garden of Eden, Paradise, and Hell. What the viewer sees is ghastly, amazing, horrifying, STRANGE, disturbing stuff. <br>People in pieces. <br>Lots of bizarre nudity. <br>Nudity is rampant- <br>Naughty nudity... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So. There is everything---- from Glorious, to off-the-wall, long before the Renaissance began... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Each episode so far is fascinating. My blinkers are off; instead of looking straight ahead I now am open to a vast, panoramic view of the various forms of artistic expression in the pre-Renaissance decades, and even why they happened. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Fix some popcorn, pour a glass of wine, throw in some nuts, and settle in for enlightened evenings!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/51950692018-04-21T23:57:28-04:002022-05-09T22:18:11-04:004/22/18: Best Friends<p><span class="font_large">Spring, in spite of what you may see from your kitchen window, is almost in the door. Just a little more patience...Meanwhile, here are a couple of gardening books you might want to check out. <br>I love to reference a book that dispenses with blather, lyrical descriptions, and poorly organized, useless information, but instead, goes straight to the point. Rodale's <u>Encyclopedia Of Perennials</u> is a book every aspiring gardener needs. It’s packed with essential information that can save you money, time and misery, because it addresses what’s important for building a garden that’s easy to manage and lovely. <br>Let's look at it more closely. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">First, note the layout. The book and its print are large; pages are colored differently depending on topic, and photos and drawings are clear. On a scale of 1-10, with 10 being the best, this presentation definitely earns a 10 from me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">For those truly impatient gardeners, skip immediately to Part 3- ‘Perennial Encyclopedia.’ Each photographed plant is allowed a brief space, often less than a page, to show it, describe its size, how to grow it, as well as how to fit it into your particular landscape. Its Latin name is pronounced (i.e.Clematis- KLEM-uh-tis), as well as its common name(s). Sometimes no common names exist, so it's important to know the Latin names, or at least be familiar with them, as lots of plants have the same common names, and it can be confusing for you AND the nursery staff, as they try to locate what you want. For years I hauled this book everywhere I went, showing the photo to garden staff. As I became more sophisticated I learned early to ask for its Latin name. After a lengthy learning period I mostly knew what I was talking about. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Everything in the ‘encyclopedia’ is in alphabetical order, BUT- filed under the Latin name first. Don't despair; simply go to the index in the back of the book and look up the common name. Eventually you’ll pick up the Latin lingo. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Note the zone; the very first listed plant, Acanthus, lives successfully in zones 7-10. This is important. We, in Northern Michigan, live in zones 4-5, which is much colder, so if you grow this plant, be prepared for it to die as winter approaches, unless you are prepared to dig it up and bring it inside for seven months. Some gardeners love it enough to buy it anyway, and enjoy its beauty for the 4 months or so that the weather is decent. Note its tendency to spread... not relevant here... but this sort of information is vital. Once an invasive plant is introduced to your garden you’ll have it forever. Read EVERY word of Rodale’s description carefully. A huge amount of information is crammed into a small space, so it's easy to miss tipoff trigger words, like ‘enthusiastic’ grower, ‘aggressive’ in too much sun, etc. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Speaking of placement- It's tempting to put the plant you’ve purchased in too much sun/shade, or dry/wet ground, hoping it will adapt. After all, you have that space, and you love the color: surely you can make it work. <br>But no. <br>Plants can't be persuaded. Do your homework. If it wants poor soil, dry conditions and full sun (as plants like California poppies and Artemisia do) and you try to sneak it into rich, moist soil in part sun, it will flop, refuse to bloom. It’ll sag; the roots will rot and then, the poor thing will sigh and die. <br>Bang! There goes twelve bucks. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Another thing to note- the book lists plants as being happy in sun or part sun. In my experience the <em>first</em> choice is the preferred one. Learn what is meant by 'part-sun.' How is that different from part-shade? Sun times are important. Take the time to really study how long your relevant area actually HAS full sun (7-8 hours is on the lesser edge of ‘full’ sun. <u>Think 8-9 hours</u>.). The more information you have, the higher your success rate will be. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Lets go back to Part 1-‘Designing the Perennial Garden.’ <br>Now, some people may consider this next suggestion as a desecration, but I get out my pen, a yellow highlighter, and a pencil, and I underline, make margin-notes, circle relevant data, and generally USE the book. The pencil is for personal notes, ideas, or comments. My entire book is crammed with scribble. For example, if a plant doesn't work for me, I’ll write a brief note in the margin describing why I think it failed. If I think the information provided is nonsense, I say so.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In Part 1 there are pictures of the same garden in the various seasons, to show how garden plants evolve. <br>Gardens best suited for various house styles are intelligently discussed. <br>And there are wonderful charts listing plants for shady and sunny areas, with fine drawings, and even tips about what deer hate. (Deer are a problem in Northern Michigan; the suggestions offered here are worth the price of the book.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bulbs, herbs, color, foliage, and a wonderful list of plants for the 4-season garden are offered. I offer an caution: squirrels love to snip off the heads of tulips, just for fun. If you have a big rodent population, your lovely spring tulips might be lost to this behavior. I finally gave them up, as squirrels took great pleasure in killing them for no reason. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Part 2 deals with ‘Growing Perennials.’ Plants that do well in each area of the country are listed and discussed. This is valuable for those who migrate to Florida, or Arizona in winter, where conditions are radically different from northern Michigan. Take Rodale with you, and your garden there will be lovely. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I've read Chapter 10 so often the pages are falling out. It offers a quick reference to the 161 plants listed in the encyclopedia section, (in part 3), with each column giving concise information as to culture, propagation and problems. You’ll love this convenience. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There is a section on how to choose quality tools that last a lifetime. One paragraph began with this intriguing statement: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">‘You can have a wonderful perennial garden with only three tools; a trowel, a garden fork, and a bucket.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This might be a slight exaggeration, but it’s generally on the mark. I would have added ‘with only three WELL MADE tools.’ With information about handles, sockets, blades, metals, size and shape, I bought wisely, looking for tools that fit me, a small woman (it hadn't occurred to me that this would be important), and today, having used them hard for nearly thirty years, my selections are still in excellent shape. And so am I. <br>Diseases, insect problems and their solutions are set out in columns, so that at a glance you have important information about control and eradication. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Rodale, now shredded and dirty, but still cherished, lived on the porch steps for ten years as I slowly built Sunnybank’s secret garden. I made far fewer mistakes because I referenced it constantly. It’s the single most influential book in my collection. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I found another book that helped shape what I have today. <u>The Romantic Garden</u>, a paperback book by Graham Rose, helped solidify what I’d envisioned. The second most read book I own, it’s peppered with scribble and highlighting. Mr. Rose offers a stunning number of suggestions that have greatly influenced my designs, but he’s also made a few statements I’ve dismissed as rubbish. For example, he touts the usefulness of laying black plastic sheeting for weed control, a practice I find appalling, as it eventually comes back to haunt the installer. Further on he shows a photo of a 'romantic' bridge made of collected stones and boulders that is simply awful. My vision blurred, my toes curled and I found the whole thing ugly, totally UNinviting, unnervingly narrow and incredibly BUSY. It was ‘bouldered’ to death. I imagined my feet walking on that path and bridge....ugh. <br>Clutter by any other name is still Clutter. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In another place he says, ‘Paving, when used in the garden, mustn't bear any resemblance to paving in the streets.’ <br>Rubbish. My street boasts a 150-year-old reclaimed paving brick, and so does my garden. I salvaged 1000 paving bricks from The Old Iron Works rubbish heap, cleaned them up, and now there is a lovely marriage between the front and back of my home. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The point of all this is to remind you not to accept everything as 'gospel', simply because it's in an otherwise stellar book. Keep what seems sensible and toss what is not. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I own many books on gardening, but these two have truly been my 'best friends.' I've trolled the bookstore's gardening section recently and discovered that the Rodale text has been updated. The cover is different, but the information inside is still cogent. It's now available in a soft cover edition, as well. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Mr. Rose's book is harder to find, and may be out of print. If you are contemplating the creation of a romantic English garden though, hunt it down. <br>It's worth the search. </span></p>
<p><br><span class="font_large"><em>One more thing: I went to the Commons Farmers Market today, Saturday, and found the booth where the children’s charming greeting card drawings are sold. I wrote about them last week. Oh- and their dad proffered a little card that says: Old Hundredth Farm, Tim and Monica Scott, Kingsley, Mi.49649. Their email address is: </em></span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">OldHundredthFarm@gmail.com </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">I bought 24 more, including some new presentations. Their dad said they’ll be at the Commons one more Saturday, but after that, they’ll move to the downtown Farmers Market for the summer. </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">Right now they do market sales only. </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">I hope you’ll look them up! </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Visit www.deeblair.com for recent columns, garden pictures and music.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/51824182018-04-21T13:39:51-04:002018-04-21T13:39:51-04:004/15/18: Little Jewels<p><span class="font_large">This week I want to share a special discovery with you, dear readers, most especially if you live in or near Traverse City, Michigan. (Those in other cities or towns may also come upon exquisite surprises at <em>their</em> local farm markets that might also be faintly ‘cloaked,’ except to discerning folks...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A few weeks ago Joe and I visited the gorgeous, towered 1880s Building 50 at The Commons, part of the huge complex of lovely structures that comprise the visually stunning former Traverse City State Hospital complex, closed in 1989, then gradually, sensitively transformed into lovely condos and locally owned small businesses. We always enjoy wandering its arched brick basement halls, where the indoor farmers’ market is set up on Wednesdays and Saturdays in winter. It’s fun, too, to peruse its many little shops that feature books, jewelry, clothes, and other various handmade items. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We happened upon a booth where a handsome, very tall man in his 40s was selling farm-fresh eggs. Joe bought 6 beautiful brown beauties to have for breakfast the next three days. Then, while he waited for his change, he noticed another understated display at the same table. A quiet young girl stood very still behind the table, watching people move by without noticing what <em>she</em> was selling. He poked me and pointed. I looked down at her display- and gasped. Joe whispered, under his breath, “What marvelous art!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I picked up one of the stationery cards and stared at its fresh, detailed depictions of Shire horses and children. This young girl and her <em>twin</em> sister had apparently created the pictures, and their admiring parents had decided to feature them on greeting cards. But no one seemed to notice. She stood so still against the wall, not promoting, just waiting...hoping... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Have a look. There are more, but just look at these... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/b4268f6dc2e640da69dfda51170dae0fa7d7c69b/original/img-3961.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/af029bf921d22b125cf8a7b97ab8f7c88663e34c/original/img-3962.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/c07de22bdee3847f87761f841df5019ac13c534d/original/img-3964.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/44722a25c8582f75ac03e83a8703bb42be13c648/original/img-3965.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">I loved them, and promptly bought 3 cards. She was so glad that I’d noticed her work. (Once seen, they <em>arrest</em> one’s gaze...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I couldn’t get such talent out of my mind, so we went back the following weekend. No girl this time. Instead, two young boys were standing there just as quietly, just as hopefully... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I saw a new depiction- of a girl in rainboots holding her collapsing umbrellas as she walks away from us through rain and wind. It is <em>perfect</em>! Not cluttered, just exactly <em>right</em> in every way. Her red coat or dress, teased by the wind, is a delightful splash of color, warmed by the street lamp’s gentle light. <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/6eb87c7ed38b078cb225d1e75e540c85e79a9c76/original/img-3966.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Delighted, I bought it and 4 more cards. The two boys were as happy as their sister had been, not only by the money I proffered- ($3 per card,)- but also by my fulsome praise. <br>I was awarded two shy smiles. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The stationary is bare of words. <br>The sketches are not signed. <br><em>The art Shines. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This time Joe had a very brief exchange with their dad. His 11 children help work the farm, where their horses are clearly loved and appreciated. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">If you like The Commons farmer’s market, perhaps you could keep an eye out for this booth. I can’t remember exactly where it is, as the halls wind and turn. <br>The eggs, by the way, were delicious! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Right after all this happened I was amazed to receive a <em>hand-written</em> letter from my younger daughter, Elisabeth. She has decided to go back to the old-fashioned way of communicating her thoughts to people she’s close to. (Often my readers, or visitors to Sunnybank’s secret garden, write snail-mail thank-you notes, which I love to receive.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Lisa wrote, <br>“I find it hard, and tiring, to write emails. But letters written by hand help slow me down, help focus me, and when one can’t delete a sentence without it showing, one becomes so much more thoughtful in how one goes about the writing business...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Exactly so! I loved the idea, and knew at once how I would respond- with one of these extra-special cards! </span></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/711fdd0ce9865a372ba75a0fd9291a0fbb5298ff/original/img-3963.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Funny how things work out, eh? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I HOPE their affectionate spontaneity, instinctive composition, exquisite detail and uncluttered settings remain free of adult ‘nudging.’ (Sometimes, well-meaning art instructors can stifle, or conventionally corral young, malleable artists.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Next week I’ll return to the Commons for more of their work. In fact, I plan to purchase a roll of slim red ribbon to bind together groups of 4 cards (with their envelopes) to offer as gifts to cherished friends. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Discovering little jewels certainly enriches my life!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/51705022018-04-08T09:20:17-04:002018-04-08T09:20:17-04:004/8/18: Alzheimer's- the Ultimate Terror<p><span class="font_large">That one word is a synonym for the ‘long, slow goodbye,’ as people we love are ravaged by this awful thief- of memory, time, joy, sorrow, knowledge, of <em>everything</em> that makes us part of the human family. <br>It’s the only disease among the nation’s ten most common causes of death that has <em>no</em> effective medicines on offer. A diagnosis of this scourge is devastating, not only to patients but to their families. It has beaten the world’s best neurologists. Billions have been spent testing drugs that fail. In fact, most potential treatments never get past the testing stage. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now comes the wonderful part. <br>Dr. Dale Bredesen is a neurologist who has worked decades with his colleagues to fix that. He’s just finished a book detailing what’s been learned. <br>I couldn’t put it down. I’ve read it twice in three days. <br>Bredesen et al have made some giant strides toward killing this killer. It’s called: </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large"><u>The End of Alzheimer’s</u>: The First Program to Prevent And Reverse Cognitive Decline </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The book marks the beginning of a research and treatment <em>revolution</em>. Its most important realization? Alzheimer’s ...*’isn’t a <em>single-cause</em> disease, but one with many potential contributors.” *(taken from chapter 5) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">His paper, published in September of 2014 in AGING, announces the magnitude of the problem. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">‘Recent estimates suggest that AD has become the third leading cause of death in the United States, behind cardiovascular disease and cancer... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A woman’s chance of developing AD is now greater than her chance of developing breast cancer.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Most of the other diseases happen due to environmental factors, dangerous lifestyles, or a single molecular failure. That’s how Alzheimer’s has been tackled in the last 40 years. The hunt was ‘for the cause.’ <br>This new way of thinking- from ‘identifying the cause,’ to ‘identifying the causes’ has yielded huge advances. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bredesen likens previous research failures this way: think of the brain as a house that stores everything that is precious to its owner. Roofers have been trained to recognize- and fix- one hole in its roof very well, but they don’t address -or recognize- 36 other holes that need attention. The result: too much rain gets in for too long; the house is eventually awash. <br>Today, though, new technology has made possible a much more complete understanding of how to identify those other ‘holes’- the molecular mechanisms responsible for potential ‘roof’ (cognitive) failure. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The number 36 isn’t pulled out of the air. Bredesen and his team have identified 36 different contributors to eventual brain neurodegeneration to date. He thinks a few more will likely be found. Lab tests are learning to identify how dangerous each of the ‘holes’ is. (If most are fixed, the ‘house’ can still be maintained and habitable.) <br>It is yet to be determined how many ‘roof holes’ a person can safely live with. More research will lead to new revelations. Bredesen and his team will continue to improve the EnCODE treatment, tailored to each individual’s metabolic needs.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The patients’ <em>dramatic</em> responses to Bredesen’s ReCODE program- a combination of pills, diet changes, reduction of stress, minimization of inflammation, especially of the bowels, as well as many other therapeutic changes - are incredibly heartening. They knocked me over. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Honestly, there is so much to learn and ponder in this tome that it’s impossible to get into it all, here. The man can write clearly and well. His smooth, natural delivery is never boring. Read, too, about the obstacles he’s had to contend with over the years. I was often floored, and frustrated. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Kindle has the book, but I’ve ordered a hard copy so I can carry it everywhere, underline, make notes and bend page corners. It isn’t a thick tome, by the way; there are 12 chapters packed with the most riveting discoveries/information I’ve read about in years. Begin with the introduction. I jumped around the chapters for the first reading, but read it much more carefully the second time, not skipping anything. The next read will concentrate on the science. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The patients’ accounts of their personal battles with this insidious monster, and what they’ve experienced on Bredesen’s ReCODE program, leave me awed and excited. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">If you’re curious- if you want the <em>very latest information</em> on what is being done to diagnose and then beat back this terror, read the book. <br>At long last, the bright light at the end the tunnel IS NOT an oncoming train. </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">(And no, I don’t have Alzheimer’s. I’m just immensely interested in keeping up with medical advances. </span></em><br><em><span class="font_large">For me, this one tops them all.) </span></em></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/51585232018-03-31T21:45:57-04:002018-03-31T21:45:57-04:004/1/18: Over The Rainbow<p><span class="font_large">It’s Sunday, March 25, 2018. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe and I are standing ‘way above the chimney tops’ under a vivid blue sky, looking down upon a magnificent rainbow as it gradually materializes 100 yards away, in the middle of Horseshoe Falls, in Niagara Falls, Canada. <br>Its sun-lit colors grow more vivid as it forms, until the entire shimmering arch completes itself, terminating at the American and Bridal Veil Falls area, about 500 yards up the road. Imagine that! A full rainbow, directly in front of us! <br>Magical! </span></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/6c78838601d3bf11dbff01a5de0caf952d10398a/original/img-3940.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/a4f4498a7d7a7b1a49f3fec1e859b55433071b9e/original/img-3942-1.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Birds fly over and under it, soaring effortlessly in the cold, crisp air: any cries they make are drowned out by the Falls’ thunderous power. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">From our huge window we watch as this ephemeral wonder hovers just above a white horse pulling a white carriage full of visitors leaving the American Falls for Horseshoe Falls. (Remember that white horse and carriage in Oz, collecting Dorothy?) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Thirty stories up we feel the earth tremble as mega-tons of water roar down the cliff. <br>The scene is surreal. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We are literally ‘over the rainbow.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ahhh, this one’s fading... fading... gone.... but, dream-like, <em>another one</em> is gradually becoming visible through the mist. Its primary colors glow for a minute or two before it dematerializes, a feat reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat’s mischief above Alice, in Wonderland. <br>This ‘here again, gone again’ enchantment continues for nearly 45 minutes. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">How did we wind up here? <br>We were idly wandering the Internet, investigating hotels near interesting places no further away than a morning’s drive from Saginaw, Michigan. (No dogs, please, they all said.) Suddenly, up popped an ad from the Embassy Suites Hotel. The photo was a gasper. <br>‘Come visit- and enjoy the best view ever of Niagara Falls.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Oh, Lord! The sight was fantastic! <br>We’d come here with family and friends over the years, but had never stayed in a posh hotel. This one was tall (42 stories) and slim, shooting straight up from a small footprint. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">As if it heard our skepticism voiced, it offered another photo- of a suite that sleeps six (two double beds and a sofa bed). One wall was a huge window, high above the ‘Big Picture.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“No way this price is legit,” we scoffed, as one. <br>‘Way!’ said the ad. ‘This suite can be yours for <em>$71.00 American Dollars</em>.’ <br>(Two little caveats: <br>-Only on Sunday night, as it’s the ‘off season.’ <br>-No dogs allowed.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hmmm. We decided guests probably leave in droves on Sundays after breakfast, especially during the school year, leaving these lovely rooms vacant. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The hotel’s incredible offer was beginning to feel -credible. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We debated about 2 seconds, then booked online. Nervous that we might wake up the next day and back out, the hotel threw in some ice cream with the cake: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-A $30.00 voucher if we’d dine at the Keg Steak House on the hotel’s ninth floor. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-Plus, we could have one free alcoholic drink and free munchies during happy hour. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-Plus a free breakfast with lots of fresh, hot coffee. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">These three enticements (and three more we ignored) secured the hook and reeled us in. </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">I can hear you asking, “What about Bryn-dog?” </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">Well, to keep myself from noticing how cold I was in the dog park two weeks ago, I struck up a conversation with a personable woman- formerly the head of a prestigious Arts and Sciences high school, whose three biggish dogs were now romping in the park with Bryn. Long story short: I chatted about having viewed a tidy boarding kennel that morning. (We were beginning to accept that we can’t take her everywhere.) The kennel was quite nice, but the cacophony of barks was deafening. Quiet Bryn would find that extremely unsettling. Another thing; the dogs- often up to 40- are left alone all night, though there are cameras, and an alarm.... </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">This year we’re celebrating our fiftieth wedding anniversary by planning short jaunts to beauty spots. Janet smiled and said, “Well, why not consider a live-in dog sitter? I highly recommend mine. Janie’s a reliable, educated young woman who loves and understands dogs. My three guys love her. She even has a key to my home.” </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">She came to our home to meet us. Bryn took to her immediately! Joe and I liked her, too, and the price was less costly than to board Bryn. So, Janie is in our home this Sunday, all day and night. She’s sending us short texts, photos and even a brief video of Bryn playing happily outside with her. </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">She’s going to work out just fine! </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Back to the narration: <br>Throwing a few things into a little backpack at 7:45 a.m. Sunday morning, we motored to Port Huron and through Customs (which took all of 2 minutes), then drove Canada’s QEW highway to this National Heritage Site. <br>Total travel time: exactly 5 hours. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The check-in lady clicked her computer keys for a few seconds and then said, with a smile, “I’ve upgraded you to another very nice suite at <em>no extra cost</em>, with an even <em>more</em> encompassing view, as it’s on a higher floor. You can move in right now, at noon, instead of waiting until 4:00 check-in. Is this acceptable?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Yes! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We rode up 30 floors, opened the big door and walked to the window- and--Oh, My God. <br>Before us was one of nature’s most spectacular wonders. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When our growling stomachs gave up hinting and began to shout, ‘Starving!!’ we finally went down the elevator to The Keg for an excellent meal (which wasn’t cheap) and the same stunning view, just much lower down. Our coupon helped reduce the bill. $30.00 off is not a small thing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here are some astounding statistics offered by the Niagara Falls National Park: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- 3,160 <u>tons</u> of water flow over Niagara Falls every second. The huge carved out bottom is 170 feet deep. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- 75,750 <u>gallons</u> of water per second pour over the American and Bridal Veil Falls. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- 681,750 gallons per <u>second</u> cascade over the Horseshoe Falls. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- The water falls at 32 feet per second, hitting the base with 280 tons of force at the American and Bridal Veil Falls, and 2,509 tons of force at the Horseshoe Falls. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- Niagara Falls is capable of producing over 4 million kilowatts of electricity, which is shared by the United States and Canada. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- Four of the five Great Lakes (Superior, Michigan, Huron, and Erie) drain into the Niagara River before emptying into Lake Ontario. These five Great Lakes make up almost one-fifth of the world's fresh water supply. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now the sun is low. Mist continues to gather at Horseshoe Falls, smudging the upper rim outlining its deep curve. I remain glued to our huge window for hours, looking, writing, while Joe sits next to me practicing blues chords on his electric guitar. (He’s brought along a little para-acoustic mini-amplifier and headphones, so I hear nothing.) </span></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/8c29215477730bbe90be7d4b253ebdd40edae1b6/original/img-3935.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">Much later I glance up- to find the sky a deep, starless black. I’ve been so immersed in trying to capture all this verbally that I hadn’t noticed. Without my glasses the lights from the downtown buildings and signs are blurred jewels of red, green, gold, white and blue. The effect is lovely. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It’s bedtime. Spotlights flick on. While the American/Bridal Veil Falls are still well defined, the Horseshoe Falls has entirely disappeared behind mist. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After opening the window a few inches we are soon lulled into sleep by that deep, constant roar, a sound that’s existed here for over 10,000 years... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/ce685fd12931056c22b62aa06518cba52d5fc8ce/original/img-3944.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Visit www.deeblair.com for recent columns, garden pictures and music. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">To unsubscribe, send a blank email with 'Unsubscribe' in the subject line to ecblair@gmail.com.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/51466962018-03-24T23:30:32-04:002018-03-24T23:30:32-04:003/25/18: The Thinker<p><span class="font_large">3/25/18: The Thinker </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> In the last, bitterly cold week Bryn-dog <em>really</em> wanted our attention. Alas, we were otherwise occupied. So, she developed a very interesting way to divert our minds – and bodies- to <em>doggie</em> matters. <br>Here’s how it went. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn is normally undemonstrative. Her tail will rise slightly to form a more pronounced comma, and wag once when she greets us, often with her orange musical snake dangling from her mouth. She’ll toot it in various interesting ways while her eyes light up. Today though, she really wanted to <em>play <u>with</u> us</em> outside, not just make her snake sing while we watched. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In our defense, it was really cold outside, in the teens, with lots of snow; her humans clearly preferred art’s gentle pursuit near the fire...Bryn, though, loves snow. She loves us <em>in</em> the snow, dashing about along with her. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She began asking for our attention in the usual way, with a very gentle nose bump on Joe’s leg. He glanced down, smiled, fluffed her ears, and carried on demonstrating how to work out an intricate chord on the guitar. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She sighed. Moved to me. Nose-bumped my knee almost imperceptibly. I responded the way Joe had, knowing she’d eaten, done her business, and enjoyed a bully stick for dessert. Anything else could wait a bit. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn disagreed. <br>I watched her move to the window to think. <br>How could she move our complacent, too comfortable selves outside...?) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She sat, staring out the window. <br>Thinking. <br>Strategizing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Remembering where she’d hidden something we valued, a long time ago... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After a good while she came back to Joe, bumped him gently again, and captured his gaze. <br>Her eyes moved east, to the front door. </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">Please, Boss; I want out. </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>That</em> look is easy to interpret. Joe got up and opened the door. Bryn raced out and bounded through the snow to somewhere behind the garage and workshop. <br>We took up where we’d left off, working out chords. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A few minutes later I felt her eyes boring into me through the glass front door. Bryn wanted in. <br>I got up and opened it. But instead of entering, she remained just outside- to drop her long-lost Frisbee at my feet. <br>She looked up at me, hopefully. Her tail twitched. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What?? That thing had vanished ages ago! She’d hidden it somewhere out there early last December, after we’d tossed it just once, hoping against hope... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn isn’t keen to retrieve. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now I examined it. After being stashed in deep snow for months it still looked fine. So, I flung it out, as requested. She dashed after it- and brought it <u>straight</u> back again to drop right at my feet. <br>I was shocked! This had never happened before! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Hey, Joe!” I called. “You won’t believe this. Bryn’s resurrected her ‘lost’ Frisbee; she wants us to throw it!” <br>“What? Why bother? She <em>never</em> ever brings it back!” <br>Well, she’s doing it now. Come see!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe came, saw, and, looking baffled, tossed it to see for himself. Bryn galloped away, pounced on it with great enthusiasm, then raced back in double time so we wouldn’t close the front door, thinking she wasn’t coming back with it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Plop. It was placed at his feet. She sat, enjoying his astonished reaction. Her tail wagged once. </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">Again, Boss! </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My Lord! What was happening here? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We stood in the open doorway holding our breaths, too flummoxed to remember to close it, too surprised to shiver, or even don our coats. Our mouths hung open. We found ourselves applauding as she fetched and then delivered it right <em>to</em> us, time after time. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><u>But</u>- and here’s the topper- after ten or so perfect retrievals she began to place it one porch step down- then two, then all three steps- still directly in front of us, mind you, but jusssst far enough away so we’d be lured down onto the sidewalk to retrieve it, so <em>she</em> could... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Whoa! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My hair prickled. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally snapping out of our stupor, we belatedly shrugged on our winter gear, and flung that cloth Frisbee over and over from different areas of the yard, then cheering her on as she charged after it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn was absolutely delighted! She ran and jumped and plowed through the snow for a long time, happy to bring it back. Once she even snatched it out of mid-air! Not a few times we pretended to chase <em>her</em>, or threw the Frisbee to each other while she tried to get it. We froze, but had a rollicking good time. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Later, watching her sleep upside down in her nest, we quietly reviewed, in properly awed voices, how cleverly we’d been manipulated. <br>-She’d known all along how the ‘fetch it’ game worked, but simply hadn’t been interested before today. But she knew what game we liked. <br>-From deep within her brain she’d retrieved the memory of precisely where that Frisbee was buried. <br>-It would be used to lure us outside, one step at a time... <br>-She’d set her plan in motion. <br>It was wildly successful! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hmmm... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sometimes our doggie blows us away...</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/51345402018-03-18T09:28:05-04:002018-03-18T09:28:05-04:003/18/18: Mucky-Muck Delight <p><span class="font_large">Bryn, Joe and I stopped at one of Bryn’s favorite bark parks two days ago. The thermometer registered 38 degrees, just warm enough to encourage a half-thaw. I opened the second of four gates- and gasped. The much larger ‘big dog’ park was a quagmire! The earth had softened into black glop. Muck, two inches deep in places, was everywhere. Doggie paws would pound it into thicker treacle. Bryn would be filthy in seconds, not to mention cold and wet. And how on earth would we cope with that amount of mud when she entered our car again? <br>So, we backed off and opened the ‘small dog’ park gate. This area is used much less in winter, as little dogs cope poorly in deep snow. So, its ground had remained semi-firm. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After a few minutes watching Bryn sniff its perimeter we noticed another couple had driven up. Their two pre-teen girls led a middle-sized hound into our area, remarking that they’d be crazy to let Samson play next door. Cleaning him up would take forever, and after that they’d face mucky-muck on their car seats. <br>No, thanks! <br>The two dogs sniffed each other, but didn’t care to romp yet. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then- another car drove up. It sat there for a long time, but we noticed that its chassis moved and swayed, as though a very large animal was moving around in there. <br>Finally, a woman wearing an attractive fur pillbox hat and fitted winter coat got out, then struggled to extract three leashed, handsome, rambunctious golden retrievers wearing expertly combed, shining off-white coats. They looked fresh from the groomers. She finally managed to lead them past the first two gates- a tricky business, as their three leashes, connecting to one main lead she’d anchored to her wrist, kept tangling as they scrambled over each other in excited anticipation. The resulting confusion made for quite a spectacle. <br><em>(Why hadn’t she removed them from the car one at a time? <br>Oh, well...) </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">As I moved closer to her she glanced my way, trying to keep her balance. <br>“Hi!” I said, cheerfully, speaking through the chain link fence. “You might want to re-think going into the big dog area; it’s a lake of mud. Come in here where it’s nicer...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She shrugged, too busy coping to smile. “Doesn’t matter; my guys love all that room; we’ll be fine.” (Only yesterday it <em>had</em> been fine- about 29 degrees. A couple of inches of fresh snow had fallen, producing a white, clean, hard field. But today’s considerably warmer air had utterly changed that topography. <br>Couldn’t she see??) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Okay. Fine. <br>She’d been warned... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I backed off and all of us watched, riveted, as she eventually managed to unhook each dog’s leash and then open the fourth and final gate. The three animals fell over themselves to be the first to charge inside the big park. Barking happily they skidded through room-sized puddles of brackish muck. One gorgeous guy actually <em>lowered</em> himself to roll around and around in one before turning upside down to wriggle deeper! <br>In seconds he was unrecognizable. <br>We groaned in unison. <br>He stood upright and shook mightily. Black water and mud- and the inevitable bits of poo that hadn’t been picked up over the previous icy weeks- clung tenaciously to his once-gorgeous coat, or flew off to splatter the lady’s. <br>She seemed unperturbed. <br>It was surreal. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The other two retrievers raced up and down the long field on long, pale, fringed legs that kicked up, and collected, dirty water and mud paddies. Their bellies were coal-black strings. Their softly bannered tails were now soaked black poles from which dangled so much clotted mud that wagging was all but impossible. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But wait! This show wasn’t over!! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">That lady left them to walk back to her car, where she leashed, then extracted (with much difficulty) two <em>more</em> biggish, short-haired, enthusiastic tan dogs of uncertain vintage, and led <em>them</em> into that park. <br>Both gleeful animals were transformed in seconds. <br>We all gaped in disbelief. FIVE?? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Was she a dog walker/sitter? Were they were out for their afternoon exercise? But how could this be? She couldn’t return them to their owners’ homes in this state. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Or, were they all hers, and she truly wasn’t worried about practicalities? <br>Her car’s interior was probably doomed... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">None of us had ever seen such drastic transformations- from svelte, groomed calendar-gorgeous dogs to ‘creatures from the black lagoon,’ as the two children dubbed them. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The woman’s fur-lined boots sank deeper as she stood out there cheering on her charges as they ran happily about, or wrestled. She even tossed ice crusted, blackened, shredding tennis balls for them to fetch. Her mittens turned black. <br>But. <em>Never</em> <em>once</em> did we witness distress or annoyance in her voice, or on her face. She stood out there enjoying her dogs’ enjoyment, seeming to live for the moment. Everyone was having <em>fun</em>! <br>Her motto could be: Don’t worry; be happy; there’s only now... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Twilight was morphing into darkness. We began to shiver and decided to go, which meant we’d miss their eventual departure. <em>That</em> would be fascinating theatre, lasting a long time. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe warmed our car and we and the other couple collected our reasonably clean dogs and drove away, shaking our heads. The woman would be up half the night trying to make those five animals acceptable. <br><em>Where</em> would that happen? Inside her house? Surely not. Her shower would gag, then cough it all back up. <br>Outside? How? Garden hoses were shut off for winter. <br>Could she hope to resurrect her car’s interior? <br>How about her own spattered winter coat and boots? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So <em>many</em> questions... <br>The work she faced tonight simply boggled our minds. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Huh! I admit that, looking past my amazement and wonder, I <em>did</em> feel a sneaking admiration for her chutzpah. <br>There was probably a lesson here, somewhere... <br>But, just perhaps, it had been taken that one step too far...</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/51221652018-03-11T00:38:50-05:002018-03-11T00:38:50-05:003/11/18: Meadow Brook Hall <p><span class="font_large">England often nibbles at the edges of my mind. For almost 40 years that country was an integral part of my life. I wore out 4 passports to go there to be with family, and to admire its lovely gardens and classical architecture- early, middle and late Gothic and Tutor styles, especially- the best examples of which are found in ancient, ancestral homes and thousand-year-old cathedrals. I sorely miss these structural wonders. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">England’s traditionally delicate winters make for stunning scenery. I loved how snow would gently collect around mullioned windows, or enhance primeval forests. So when Joe wandered into the kitchen one day and set his iPad in front of me, I gasped. A stunning old- home? castle? -was pictured, featuring wonderful carvings and graceful archways built with stone and brick. The building radiated warmth and comfort in the late afternoon light. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Where IS this place?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He smiled. “Only an hour and thirty five minutes away by car. It’s the entrance to Meadow Brook Hall in Rochester Hills, just north of Detroit. Isn’t it gorgeous?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was, for me, a deeply pleasurable reminder of England. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">During Michigan’s often difficult, long winters we’ve taken to driving around America for a week or so- to Tennessee, Florida, Arizona, New Mexico, Utah and southern California, to explore their natural wonders. But I rarely see human architecture that captivates me as completely as it did in England.. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We are a very young country, preferring to be- innovative. Modern steel sculptures are featured on huge, grassy knolls that front imposing mansions or museums or important buildings. Some homes are mostly giant windows and have lots of angles. Most don’t appeal to this traditionalist. Buildings erected with an absence of curves, with little appreciation of the warmth of wood, are, for me, empty of soul. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now I was gaping at Tudor Revival architecture created in the early twentieth century, that was practically on our doorstep! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So, of course, we loaded Bryn into the car and made a day trip there last Friday. Joe booked an hour-long tour, starting at 1 p.m., through this American beauty, born from the imagination of Matilda Dodge Wilson, wife, then widow of, John Dodge. She later married Alfred Wilson, a lumber baron. She was, by the way, one of the richest women in the world in her own right, at that time. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><a contents="Read about Meadow Brook Hall here." data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://www.mlive.com/news/detroit/index.ssf/2015/10/historic_estates_inside_meadow.html" target="_blank">Read about Meadow Brook Hall here.</a></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We arrived at noon, and took Bryn for a walk on a paved path that wound through a freshly fallen snowy forest, a lovely part of Meadow Brook Hall’s landscape. A large bridge arches over a wide, burbling stream near the house, and every tree and bush was coated with icy snow. The effect was magical. Bryn wandered along sniffing deer tracks while we absorbed its quiet serenity. (Matilda’s adopted daughter, a famous horsewoman, rode all over this 320-acre property.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The house is splendidly appointed inside. The stunning chimneys outside, and their corresponding fireplaces inside, arrest the eye. Each fits the room it’s in, but none are cavernous. A nice fire would heat the room without roasting its residents. And oh, the wonderful, wide, thick doors! Each is a work of art, beautifully decorated with hinges and carvings. Even the door handles are handmade. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Matilda traveled extensively through Europe admiring its spectacular architecture, and thus developed an eye for <u>detail</u>. She brought her knowledge back to Meadow Brook- and her instinct to ‘do’ –but NEVER ‘overdo’- yielded spectacular results. It took three years to build Meadow Brook Hall. Though her home comprises 88,000 square feet of living space, I never once felt uncomfortable or lost. The layout makes perfect sense. She designed this ‘castle-house’ to be warm, welcoming, and accommodating, instead of immense, imposing and ostentatious. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Her Tutor ballroom could have been gigantic, but is better described as welcoming, without being vast. I thought it delightful. By the way, there is an air of mischief, too, incorporated into many of the carvings and stone gargoyles scattered about. Many depict events they’d experienced, or are medieval-type caricatures of Matilda, her husband or her children and friends that depict lots of subtle silliness, if you know how and what to look for... Matilda had a fine sense of humor. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">That ballroom and the garden room are among my favorites. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The wonderful floor-to-ceiling leaded windows in the bedrooms are set into oriels, to better view the gardens. Their fragrant flowers would perfume these rooms all summer. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Castles and giant homes in England often possess ceilings so high -20-25 feet- that one’s voice would echo. (Oh- and because heat rises, the medieval V.I.Ps below would always freeze in winter unless they stood right next to the fireplace. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Meadow Brook’s are lower- perhaps 15-18 feet high- and frequently supported by huge, carved timbers. Some ceilings, though, seemed to float suspended; -for example, in the dining room- and the beautifully done plasterwork up there doesn’t detract from the room’s lovely walls and flocked paper. Everything is the epitome of Taste. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She was truly gifted. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There are secret passageways, secret doors, intriguing, narrow circular stone staircases leading to the highest ramparts, or to the upper floors- she thought of <em>everything</em>. Every little thing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There are two changes I’d make if I owned this jewel: marry ‘Meadow’ to ‘Brook.’ Meadowbrook Hall. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It seems to flow better.... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And I’d remove the (three or four) huge steel abstract sculptures that sit on the hills as one motors in and out of the estate. They simply don’t fit. Not one bit. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There’s one more wonder: the basement. Perhaps my favorite of the three floors. I’m sitting here trying to find the right words to help you picture its gorgeous cathedral ceilings- the incredible bathrooms, the game rooms, the tiles, the wonderful little gargoyles— </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Michigan has other architectural marvels like this to explore. We plan to. (By the way, Meadow Brook was donated by the Dodge-Wilson family to Michigan State University- now Oakland University- in 1967, when Matilda died (while still living there). The campus is close, but you’d never know it.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The courtyard, the stables, that wonderful bridge, the ramparts--- the entrance door and its handle and a <em>thousand</em> other details- Ah, I’ve sputtered and run out of descriptive adjectives. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One has to see this place to understand how special it is. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Fascinating facts: </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Meadow Brook Hall, a national historic landmark, has: <br>23 bedrooms <br>24 bathrooms <br>5 staircases <br>24 fireplaces <br>110 rooms in total <br>It is the fourth largest historical house in the United States. <br>The National Park Service maintains its vast, hilly grounds and wildlife.</em></span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/51100852018-03-04T00:38:09-05:002018-03-04T00:38:10-05:003/04/18: Deliverance - part 2 <p><span class="font_large">(Dear readers: last week’s column began this saga. You may wish to review it before reading this second part.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Every day meant another bureaucratic battle or three. The insurance people were extremely resistant to even coming out to <em>see</em> the flooded cottage. It took <em>two months</em> to receive the industrial strength fans I should have had within 48 hours, to dry out the cottage. The horrible part of months of stalling? Black mold stealthily crept up the walls of the library and insinuated itself into every cupboard in the kitchen, expanding an inch a day. By the time the fans were finally operating, mold had blanketed almost every damp, vertical surface in the cottage. So <em>now</em> the insurance company would face a much bigger repair bill. (I’d <strong>get</strong> that money from them eventually. It was fairly <em>owed</em>, and I am, by nature, a bulldog.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My lawyer read them their own contract, which stated that fans had to be provided in a timely manner for flooding disasters ---or else they would be sued for <em>massive</em> damages. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">They’d lose, and they knew it. (I’m not the sort to sue, but their haughty refusal to respond for <em>so</em> long brought out the fire in me. I’ve rarely been so shocked and angry!) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The fans were delivered without notice one evening while I slept. I didn’t realize their van had crept up the long driveway until morning. What petty defiance! It took me an exhausting half day to get the huge machines inside the cottage using two long, heavy planks dragged from David’s workshop so I could inch them up the path, then up the three steps to the main entrance and finally into the sunroom. Only two outlets worked in there- sometimes. But at least I had <em>something</em>, now, to shift the wet air outside and could return the small fans I’d borrowed from Gaynor. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The huge ones ran day and night for over two weeks, but it was too late. Most of the walls were gone: the mold had won. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was so unnecessary. The insurance adjusters had simply needed to inspect first thing, install the fans immediately and begin funding the restoration as it progressed. We’d paid big premiums for 30 years and had never once made a claim. But. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I was not British. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I was not David or my late mother. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">If one is not British, one has no credibility in Britain. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Zip. Zero. Nada. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The rats were being addressed, though. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dilbert loved his work, and, eyes shining, he tackled this formidable job with enthusiasm. It was a true rescue. I was exhausted, and, after despairing that I’d ever get the insurance company- and implacable English utility firms- to help me, I longed for a champion. Dilbert was a modern knight. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But now, having laid the traps, he sighed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“This poison works wonders- slowly. I highly recommend that you find lodgings in a hotel in Ross-on-Wye for a wee while- four or five days. I need time to do what must be done. It’s not safe to sleep here just now. You are overrun. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Believe it.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I refused! No rodents would evict <em>me</em>! Besides, every night spent in a hotel meant I’d have to part with more of the money my lawyer retrieved when he closed David’s bank account. (David would never again be independent, but would need full-time care.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The next morning my friend Aaron (who’d found David collapsed on the bedroom floor in December 2008 and summoned help, thus saving his life) offered his services again. I’d decided to clean out the big, water-soaked attic, a herculean task. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Aaron opened the ceiling’s trap door, lowered the heavy ladder, and ascended. I began to follow, but suddenly he stiffened, backed hastily down the ladder and feverishly re-secured the door, but not before I’d peered up to see a dozen large, red-eyed rats positioned in a ragged circle around the open hatch, glaring down at him. They. Were. Furious. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Aaron is a farm lad, rarely ruffled by anything, but now he turned to me, white-faced and horrified. “Leave <em>tonight</em>, Dee. Those rats have established their base. They consider <em>us</em> invaders and will <em>not</em> hesitate to protect their nests from attack. Dilbert is so right! Listen to him!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Still mutinous, I went into the back bedroom to make the bed- and froze. Its walls were <em>alive</em> with gnawing noises radiating from multiple <em>new</em> places. Muffled squeaks filled the air as the rats urged each other on. I realized it would be stupid, and yes, <em>dangerous</em>, to stay here. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There are times to hold the line, and times to fold up one’s tent and temporarily retreat… </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I gathered up my few clothes to wash in town, and motored to Ross-on-Wye and its centuries old Royal Hotel. I was offered a tiny, snug room- more like a closet, really- for a mere <em>token</em> fee (twenty pounds), because sympathetic management knew my story. (I would sometimes eat a simple meal there and chat with the staff when I came into town to visit David and shop for essential supplies.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">That first wonderful night is enshrined in my memory. I showered for ages, savoring the hot water, and then crawled between the crisp white sheets and thick blankets and welcomed the best rest I’d had in weeks. A hot English breakfast in the hotel’s lovely dining room, under its 15-foot high ceilings, was truly memorable. And to think I had at least three more days to anticipate! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Fortified, I motored the six miles back to Bryn Garth cottage to carry on. Wearing masks, the workmen and I ripped down ceilings, steamed off rotting wallpaper and applied full-strength bleach to salvage walls not terminally moldy. The rest were torn down, exposing centuries-old vertical beams. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A few pictures:</span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/23cb3d50c012aaa9974d6167c3c1a85734b83110/original/cimg0282.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/c4f6ac0def1673538dbcac4f61a5a3e307d1c841/original/cimg0187.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/e93ed91d7b22dfdcd344219b29a61e4cdad9128a/original/cimg0188.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/85c9da3dd59033d14e4c46d52c4a442e07ae226d/original/cimg0194.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/11c037857cc5f6945c2b4c5194032551930947f4/original/cimg0239.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/83716509785f90e8adffc43b88f1d275bbb5698d/original/cimg0238.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Rat droppings showered down, blanketing the floors. I kept busy loading the mess into huge buckets to empty into the forest. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Starting on the third day after my move to the Royal Hotel, bodies began turning up among the scattered tools and bags of lime and plaster. We found dozens of corpses under freshly cut replacement timber. These were tossed into heavy black plastic construction bags, which were then tied off, hauled outside and heaved into one of the huge dumpsters. It was hard, satisfying work. (A big moving van had packed and removed dishes, upholstered chairs and sofas (which went to people who knew how to dry and restore them), the dining room table, boxes of salvaged books, framed pictures and assorted bric-a-brac, giving us space to work. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The roof crew sealed the holes at the roofline, redid the foundation, and tore out all the cupboards. New ones were ordered. Joe sent funds via Chase Bank in Traverse City, directly to my lawyer, who deposited the money in <em>his</em> account, which kept me going. I was not allowed to open a bank account. So this was my way around that obstacle. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Chase Bank management in Traverse City, by the way, was <em>wonderful</em>. Knowing my situation they maneuvered through innumerable international regulations so that I could survive, and eventually pay the builder in full. (I reimbursed the bank as soon as the insurance came through at the end.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, in March of 2010, I saw light at the end of this dismal tunnel that <em>wasn’t</em> an oncoming train. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I remember when that realization truly hit; leaving the workmen, I ran to the bathroom for a good private cry, overwhelmed with relief and hope, not just helpless rage at the bureaucratic Machine. The rats were bad enough, but to have to constantly fight bureaucratic indifference and plaster-flat immobility from almost every business firm, was so much worse. It took months to shift <em>those</em> monsters even an inch closer to reason. Some government-controlled entities, like the gas firm, were hopeless. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">That word- ‘firm’ -had taken on an entirely new meaning. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">For Example: I was being billed every month for consuming lots of Gas, stored outside in a huge sausage-shaped tank. It was mysteriously diminishing at a steady rate, (so they said) <em>even though I hadn’t been connected for months</em>. No cooker. No heat. Never mind: the delivery man came as scheduled; looked, ‘filled it,’ checked a form, left. No amount of reasoning with him made a whit of difference. Bill after bill was sent to me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I repeatedly rang Calor to ask them to inspect the big tank, explaining over and over why it didn’t need refilling. There might, in fact, be a leak. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">To send out an inspector would take a week or two and be quite costly, the lady declared. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Fine, said I. Just come, to make sure. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">They came two weeks later. Looked. Left. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Billed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">NOTHING had changed. Oh, wait: I was poorer. <em>That</em> had changed. I objected, via cell phone. Here is a typical exchange. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Me: “How can I owe this huge sum when I haven’t used any gas? Maybe your serviceman is diddling the amount he says he’s topping up...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Spokesperson: “Are you Mr. Firks? (David was hospitalized and unable to speak.) No? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Are you Mrs. Firks? No? We are sorry, but, as you are not either, we cannot assist you. Please address the remuneration, or penalties will continue to accrue, and service will, of necessity, be terminated. Good day.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Click. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What service? I had nothing. Nobody was <em>listening</em>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Still, every month the bills, for bottled gas and other services (internet, TV, electrics) continued to pile up. I explained to the electric company that all wires been chewed gone since December of 2008. I had only a torch (flashlight). </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bills came anyway, now lined with red-lettered threats: they would soon cut me off. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Duh... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My lawyer shook his head. He’d tried to reason with them... but the bills kept coming. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">You get the idea. Implacable British bureaucracy made my life almost impossible. Even my lawyer had to admit defeat. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“You’ll have to pay them, I regret to say, unless you stay on to sue all the utilities and the insurance people. I guarantee you’d win, but the legal posturing would take years, and you’d need to live here to address it.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Impossible. I had a life in America. I suppose the businesses knew that... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Anyway, after staying 5 days at the hotel, Dilbert approved my return to the cottage. All the walls were perfectly quiet. Subsequent daily visits by the triumphant rat man confirmed that Bryn Garth was rat-free. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I returned to carry on working in December of 2009 and left in late May of 2010. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In that final week before the massive restoration was completed an amazed electrical crewman yelled and sat back on his haunches: he’d been securing a cover over a newly wired electrical wall socket, when <em>enormous</em> blowflies began emerging from these wire-crammed holes. Ugh! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Aaron solved the mystery. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Some rats had inevitably died inside the walls; blowflies had laid eggs on their corpses. Huge mature blowflies had eventually hatched, and seeing the sunlight through the outlet hole, they’d emerged. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">DISGUSTING! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dilbert confirmed Aaron’s theory. On the bright side, as he’d promised, there was almost no odor. What little there was would resolve within days. The fat, languid flies exited through opened windows and doors. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The cottage was lovely once again, with the perfumed scents of an English country spring to freshen the scrubbed rooms. The professional cleaning crew left dandelions in a fruit jar to brighten the dining table. The sight brought me to tears. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After many months away, everything was delivered back home, fully restored. My sister Kath, and my cousin Nancy, who’d flown to England to help, moved the furniture, wall hangings, bedding, dishes, etc. into their proper places. It took two days, and was so satisfying! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I will never forget that monumental battle to save my home, and will always be deeply grateful to: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- The <u>contractor</u> who’d rebuilt Bryn Garth because he couldn’t walk away from such carnage, though he was sure he’d never be paid. I was not British, and that much money would be impossible to move to England after 9/11. Plus, the insurance company was continuing to resist, hoping I’d give up. Fat chance. They finally <em>did</em> pay, sheepishly, after I quietly told the agent who came a year later that I would visit the London Times and tell all... <em>I would have, too</em>. That wonderful contractor was reimbursed In Full, to his great amazement. (Read previous column.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- <u>Dilbert</u>, with his knowledge and skill in dispatching a most determined, fearsome enemy </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- <u>Chase Bank</u>’s unstinting efforts to supply me with funds </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- My <u>immediate family</u>’s invaluable help and support </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">- My <u>English friends</u> Gaynor and Aaron, and my <u>wise lawyer</u>, the late Christopher P. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The State, and its Titanic Bureaucracy, I left to the English. The best of British luck to them. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Though I’d finally returned to America, I prepaid Dilbert to visit Bryn Garth once monthly for the next six months to insure that all was well. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was eventually sold to a couple in 2013. Bryn Garth cottage and the ancient forest behind it are once again cherished.</span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/9898926c1bf9826d37f102193dc68211c32abe97/original/cimg0304.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/cea5bcec58af5bbdac4ddfdb86490d152cce253a/original/cimg0296.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/44d4e6ca1a1c313acf05844aaae6e9fa0327fbb1/original/cimg0295.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/d59b174022ee142ee8e9e78b6c054eaa37510e5e/original/cimg0294.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/6d031535ccf3e68147036e62492aafb418785797/original/cimg0306.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/9b28596de8b23ce55564c41df035b2c6f2f0b217/original/cimg0266.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/50978512018-02-24T22:53:57-05:002018-02-24T22:53:57-05:002/25/18: A (Twice-Told) Tale of Terror and Triumph <p><span class="font_large">Scene: England: Our lovely cottage on a high hill in the Herefordshire countryside. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Time: December 10, 2008 </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My mother died in England just a few days before 9/11. Her heartbroken husband, David, collapsed from a heart attack in their home seven years later and was taken to hospital via ambulance. As the medical techs left the cottage one helpfully turned off the heat to save on fuel bills. Standard procedure. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But just days later England was slammed with the worst winter in over a century. <em>Feet</em> of snow fell. And stayed. Birds dropped off branches, dead. (I witnessed this.) Pipes froze and exploded. No one possessed snow shovels, or knew how to cope. Not a soul owned snow tyres. Ice covered the country. People who normally food-shopped every day in their little villages, were trapped inside their ice-cold homes. Snow paralyzed everyone. Lorries couldn’t deliver food to stores. NOBODY knew how to handle road ice. Electricity went. Fridges failed. Below zero temps stayed, and stayed……….. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Our cottage's pipes burst, too, but, with David in hospital, no one noticed. Torrents of water roared down from the ceilings and flooded through the structure and out the front door for over <em>two</em> <em>weeks</em> before the disaster was finally discovered by social workers who’d come to the cottage to ready it for David’s eventual return. They were <em>overwhelmed</em> by gushing water. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A full week later Joe and I were finally notified by authorities (David was eventually able to give them this vital information) and we immediately flew there. David would recover in time, but his lovely home was wrecked. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe had to fly back to the States ten days later, but I stayed on for nearly six months to try to save Bryn Garth cottage. One back bedroom was still habitable. While damp, it was still possible to sleep there. The electric shower failed; toilets froze… </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Every night at sunset I gratefully retreated to that back bedroom to fall thankfully into bed wearing four layers of clothes. There were no lights. Only my torch. My hot water bottle, heated from the big kettle on the wood stovetop, was heavenly to hug as I nestled under the musty blankets. Odd noises were discernible as I drifted into sleep, but I shrugged them off, too exhausted to be curious. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Weeks passed as I began to salvage what wasn't flood-ravaged. And slowly I began to comprehend that rats were invading my home. <em>Huge</em> ones. I glimpsed them running along the high, exposed ceiling beams in the library as I laboriously sorted through mountains of damp books. They emitted high, raspy, squeak-shrieks as they explored their new territory. And- I was pretty sure their numbers were increasing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This cottage was <u>theirs</u>; they'd lived in it for weeks. <em>I</em> was an unwelcome invader. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>We'll see about that</em>, thought I, as I motored the 6 miles to Ross-on-Wye to buy poisoned bait. I laid it- and waited. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two days later, while chatting with my new, very nice builder* in the ruined library, a big dead rat fell from the exposed rafters onto my shoulder before dropping to the floor. His crew, tearing out soaked walls and heaps of destroyed wiring and split pipes, was horrified. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But I was delighted! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">More bodies appeared in every room in the cottage. After a few days of tossing the kitten-sized beasts into big rubbish bags I noticed the bedroom walls had gone quiet. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ha! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I slept well for about a week. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, the second wave hit. And it was apocalyptic. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In the dead of night I woke suddenly to loud grinding sounds. Rats were gnawing, gnawing through the <em>bedroom</em> walls! They’d squeezed through chinks in the centuries-old exterior stone foundation to make their way up between the ancient beams that supported the interior walls. I set my ear against the sheet rock: they were nearly through. Every rat in the ancient forest behind our home wanted in. Wherever I pressed my ear I heard them working toward that goal. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My God. The cottage was besieged! I'd be overrun in a few hours! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I banged the bedroom walls with a shoe, which kept them at bay for about an hour. I caught a few winks, but woke with a start when rats ran across the bed. I leaped out, switched on the big torch and screamed at them. Alarmed, the creatures poured back through the hole they'd just made. I was alone again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But it wouldn't last. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Absolutely furious, I dragged in heavy bags of worksite nails to cover the new breach, and then retreated to the destroyed kitchen to add wood to the embers in the little potbellied stove. After downing cowboy coffee and a hardboiled egg I settled down and made a plan. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This was WAR. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One I'd win. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But only with professional help. Right NOW. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I rang Gaynor, a dear friend in Hereford who raises horses, and she immediately recommended her rat man (vital when one owns stables). </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">"He'll sort you, Dee. Dilbert <em>lives</em> to kill rats." </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I rang him immediately, though it was barely daybreak. The guy, alerted by Gaynor to my plight and hearing the desperation in my voice, came straightaway. A tall, whippet-slim, eager fellow in his mid-sixties, with tufts of clean white hair that stood straight up, he was dressed tidily in cords, a collared, pressed shirt and a warm vest. He’d dedicated over 45 years of his life to dispatching rats. (On the phone his wife had assured me that he had a 100% success rate.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">"Don't you worry, lassie;” Dilbert said, cheerily. “I'll get 'em. I’ll need three to five days." </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He hugged me, grinned, and then cheerfully began the hunt. First, he announced, he’d get the 'lie of the land.' That elderly Sherlock <em>scoured</em> Every. Foot. Of. Ground. within 70 feet of the house, and even climbed up to the slate roof to search the eves for entryways. He explored every inch of the exterior stone walls, and investigated every <em>inside</em> place, even peering into the backs of all the mold-slick cupboards. Occasionally I'd hear delighted yelps, or chuckles sprinkled with 'tsks.' </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dilbert inspired confidence. He was thrilled by the challenge, and expressed amazement that I'd been living there while the rodent rogues schemed and plotted how to run <em>me</em> out. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Rats is <em>clever</em>, you know. Dangerous, too…I’m thinking we’ve a major problem here.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then came the tour. I bundled up and we tramped outside. He showed me how the ‘scout’ rats had stepped from the drooping, cedar's snow-heavy branches onto the cottage’s roof and then entered the attic through a crack under the eves that they'd patiently enlarged with their sharp claws and incisors. They'd even tunneled <em>under</em> the stone foundations to scurry up through the walls to gnaw through the backs of the kitchen cupboards. Dilbert pointed to where the earth next to the foundation was packed down, indicating where they’d dug. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Feces and bits of half-munched birdseed provided more clues for this dedicated investigator. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dilbert went to his car to remove six large black plastic briefcases housing industrial strength poison that rats can't resist. There was an inviting passage built into each case that opened onto their own tunnels…. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He explained that when they paused to sample the bait as they passed through his cases- only to die days later- their bodies would be desiccated, eliminating most odor. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He set the big, loaded briefcases on the ground next to well-traveled entrances and winked at me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Inside, he located and plugged rat holes – four were gnawed through cupboard backs- with tightly wadded newspapers. "If these wads are shifted, it tells me they're still coming." </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He paused, then added quietly, "But the papers won't move." His eyes twinkled. "They're done for, lassie." </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What happened then? OMG. Tune in next Sunday... </span><br><br> </p>
<p><span class="font_regular"><em>P.S. *By the way, no firm would take on the renovation; one contractor looked it over, shrugged and told me to plow it under and start over. Others were sure I couldn’t pay; I was foreign, and had no bank account there. Besides, they were overwhelmed by local demands to restore collapsed roofs and rooms that had caved in from snow weight. Business was booming. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Two <u>months</u> later, in mid-February<em>, I finally convinced a contractor to help, and assured him I most certainly would pay every bit, somehow. But he was positive that I would never be able to manage the huge bill. Horrified by my circumstances, though, he couldn’t walk away, so he’d decided to take it on, and write it off. The massive redo took his crew almost eight months, working five days a week. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular"><em>When I paid him every single penny owed, just two weeks after his crew finished the job in May of 2010 (from the insurance payout that took me a year to wrestle from the adjusters), I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a more astonished, incredulous, joyful reaction.</em></span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/50859272018-02-18T09:06:26-05:002018-02-18T09:06:26-05:002/18/18: Changing Landscapes... <p><span class="font_large">Joe, Bryn and I have just swapped Florida’s warmth for Michigan’s deep winter. The contrast is stark. Both states, though, offer their own peculiar beauty. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">For nearly two weeks we took in Florida’s greenery, the odd, deeply whiskered, stumpy trees, the purity of a beach’s snow-white sand finer than cane sugar. That same sand, only a few miles down the road, is a denser honeyed vanilla. The difference is subtle but distinct. The Gulf of Mexico though, has a massive wardrobe of glorious colors that project its mood from moment to moment. When smoothed out and meditative it decorates itself with vivid variants of emerald green mixed with clear, pale blue tones trimmed with creamy magnolia margins. When agitated, its chameleon-like surface changes to an opaque, dull steel gray fringed with snow-white, foamy lace. <br>I find this endlessly changing canvas fascinating. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When at peace the Gulf’s countless, rhythmic, broad tongues of water quietly lap Florida’s vast shoreline, leaving unique impressions that last only seconds before the gracefully curved imprint of each is quietly replaced. Every wave ‘tongue’ has traveled thousands of miles for months, or even years, before finally sliding gently onto this beach. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This rhythm, to me, is reflective of our lives. In between our own formation and dissolution, there can exist a bit more time to make a unique impression, too, before being assimilated into the Great Scheme of Things. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Michigan winters create a pause that lasts for months. That pause can <em>stretch</em> time, at least for me. I have fewer obligations in winter, leaving more time to read, and to note changes- perhaps in me, and certainly in the landscape. <br>Bryn and I quietly observe the Grand Traverse Bay’s ice-lid, which seems strong enough for fishermen to move substantial huts far out there. I love to watch enormous, distant weather systems subtly alter each winter day’s limited color palate. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The recent sudden warmth has affected the ice’s solidity. It seems to <em>stir</em>, ever so minutely. Parts of it are translucent. And yet- lots of people happily fish inside their little huts, or move confidently over the arrested water, pulling sleds. <br>I, though, wouldn’t go out there, now. <br>No sir. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Fat flakes fall to earth. As though equipped with parachutes each perfect flake seems to take its time selecting a landing spot. Dormant brown/black trees, swathed in a soft, white mantle, are striking in their nudity. I walk miles with Bryn, careful to plant my Yaktrax boots firmly on iffy pavements.What a wonderful invention. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn likes to sit in front of Sunnybank’s floor-to-ceiling kitchen window to watch the secret garden’s edging gently blur with snow. Bouncing through drifts she’ll scoop up mouthfuls of snow, copying the street plows. She takes pleasure in every cold minute. Her nose constantly moves, reading the news plainly etched in every drift. </span><br><span class="font_large"><em>My</em> dormant, winterized proboscis, though, is pretty useless. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Florida’s average temperature hovered at around 60 or so, and made Bryn drag a bit. She panted after only a few minutes’ play in the dog park. Though I’d trimmed her long, wavy fur and eliminated her beard, she was still too warm. Only days ago she’d been in 12-degree weather: the change was shocking. Confused, she began to shed in earnest. <br>But her humans loved it, so she kept her opinion to herself and her tongue in her mouth. She didn’t exactly long for long walks and bike trips, but enjoyed them just the same. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ten days later it was time to leave the Panhandle. Using our iPad’s aviation weather maps we wove between systems to slip northward just ahead of huge, ominous black clouds that eventually dumped great quantities of water on Florida and Alabama, literally washing cars off the roads we’d traveled just hours before. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now and then we’d visit a rest stop to stretch our legs. And at every one, beginning in mid-Alabama, the temperature dropped ten more degrees. We used our van’s large interior to swap lightweight tee shirts for long underwear and turtlenecks. By the time we entered Michigan and approached Ann Arbor, fat flakes had begun to challenge our windshield. It became very difficult to see- and stay on- the snow-covered, icy I-75 freeway. Cars, who’d whipped by us too fast just moments before, flew into ditches, turned over, or crashed into other cars. It was quite a sight. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">About 15 miles from Saginaw, wind-driven snow had greatly lessened. It was the only fearsome weather we encountered during the 22-hour trip. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Back in Traverse City Bryn is happy to sniff all the news imprinted on every huge mountain of dumped snow deposited in the Central Elementary school’s front yard. She’ll add her own scent, then trot to the next spot, sniffing deeply, processing mountains of information I could never hope to learn...(How tall, how old, which sex, each canine’s personal scent, its master’s mood.) The answers are parked right there, in thin air. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Her delight in winter and my own memories of the Gulf’s wild beauty mitigate any sadness I might feel about returning to winter’s landscape. <br>Besides, now that it’s mid-February, I’m beginning to anticipate what’s just around the corner...</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/50736112018-02-11T10:26:02-05:002018-02-11T10:26:02-05:002/11/18: Some Florida Goodies <p><span class="font_large">Once again Joe, Bryn and I packed lightly, hopped into our van and drove to Florida’s Panhandle, and Panama City Beach. These last three years of intense cold, deep snow and cutting winds, things I normally find invigorating, were becoming too much. For a few days, Florida’s warmth would make a welcome change. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe and I enjoyed biking with Bryn-dog all around Conservation Park, located about 12 miles west of Panama City Beach. It provides long wooden elevated paths through extensive wetlands, as well as wide asphalt paths to allow visitors easy access to that fascinating territory. Some of the gorgeous birds there took our breath away. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sawgrass (which isn’t actually a grass, but a sedge) growing thickly on either side of the paths, is aptly named. If touched, the leaves’ sharp, serrated edges will cut into unprotected legs, arms and hands. Sometimes, in the right conditions (i.e., lots of standing water most of the time) this nasty, attractive, sturdy grass can grow 9 feet tall. Birds enjoy its seeds, and alligators use it to pad their nests. (Of course, <em>their</em> hides are impervious to its sharp blades.) Sawgrass is one of the earth’s oldest plants, and has learned some pretty awesome survival skills over millions of years. It shrugs off fire, intense summer heat, hurricanes- and humans who may try to chop it gone. Its well-established underwater roots quickly grow new blades. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It is always unsettling to note alligators noting us. They’re everywhere. We visited another state park and wisely left Bryn in the car while we strolled 70 feet to the elevated observation deck near a small, quiet sunlit lake. Nearby, three big dinosaur-like beasts just floated, watched, and waited. I saw a little dog bouncing and barking before the annoyed owner shortened the leash so it wouldn’t fall into the water. That cockapoo would have made a quick snack. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We walked some steep, hilly, sandy trails near the small lake that had wild, tangled vegetation on both sides of the paths, which were, by the way, studded with long tree roots half buried in sand. It was easy for walkers to trip. Joe forged ahead, vanishing into narrow side paths, but I was uneasy, and kept to the main one’s exact center. Alligators- and snakes, too- can move at lightning speed, and could easily be parked in amongst the thick sawgrass and vines. Big signs warned that we were in THEIR territory, and to Stay On The Trail. Oh- and report to a ranger any alligator that we might encounter along the way. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Gulp. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Smack in the middle of this little lake (or, more accurately, large pond) sat a small mounded island <em>blanketed</em> with scrub trees that were nearly <em>overwhelmed</em> with giant nesting blue herons, who kept flapping in (after dining in the Gulf) to skim above those naked branches before folding their enormous wings to settle into their big, rough nests. The scene was eerily prehistoric. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Instead of a sandy or stony beach, a wide band of bright green lilypads surrounded the island, barely moving when two large alligators languidly swam through them hoping for a silly birdling to tip out, right into their jaws. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I couldn’t imagine trying to raise a family out there. The enormous herons seemed indifferent to the monsters just below. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After awhile we took down our bikes from the van’s back and I buckled Bryn into the very cool Bike Tow Leash. Off we went on a long, exploratory ride, with Joe leading the way. After about 2 miles he cycled back to me with a suggestion: “Ride closer to the side of the path so Bryn can trot on the sidelines. This asphalt looks rough and can be hard on paws for long distances...” <br>Good idea, thought I. <br><em>GREAT idea</em>, thought the horrid little chollas lurking in the rough winter grass. Three of these tiny burrs made Bryn lame within five minutes. Fortunately, I noticed and stopped right away. Dismounting, I lifted her paws. There, imbedded between her toes, were the wicked little monsters. They’re the very devil to pull out. <br>She was happy to be free of their painful grasp, and after that I made <em>sure</em> she trotted only on the tarmac. Better the devil you know... <br>We all moved happily along, enjoying the cool breezes and cloudless sky. The sun made everything green and gleaming, as rain had fallen hours before. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Miles later we finally wound up back at our parking area. Bryn hopped up into her place in the van and we drove to a little place called Fishale, which served the best darn perfectly cooked 8-ounce hamburger (–just that- no bun-) I’ve had in ages. And, the sweet potato fries, cut slim to make them crispy, were to die for. I loved every morsel. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It’s long been a policy of mine to tip a cook who is exceptional. The smiling waitress reported that, astounded, he’d said: “I’ve been cooking meals here for 24 years, and this is the first time anything like this has ever happened.” <br>He was happy for the positive feedback. (Great word choice, eh?) <br>I’ve always thought that, besides tipping staff, cooks who produce a particularly yummy meal should be similarly rewarded. The meal doesn’t have to be fancy, just Delicious. Chefs/cooks strive for culinary excellence, but are otherwise ignored by the patrons they work so hard to please. Their reward: people keep coming back. (Fine and dandy. But they never <em>see</em> them; they’re busy slaving over a hot stove.) <br>It’s fun to thank them another way. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">La Quinta hotels welcome dogs (at no extra charge), and when visits pile up, good things happen. As we checked in, the manager smiled and said, “You’ve earned an upgrade; I’ve booked you a suite for the same price as our regular rooms.” We were astounded! We’d forgotten all about La Quinta’s rewards program when we’d signed up at Zion National Park three years ago. Now we had a suite- a big one- for eight days! Awesome! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">All in all, every day was wonderful: Sun, Sand, Stars, Music, an Ocean gently lapping a pristine beach- and the three of us snug in our Suite. <br>Life just doesn’t get much better than this.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/50602702018-02-03T21:23:10-05:002018-02-03T21:23:10-05:002/04/18: Some Decisions Affect Everyone <p><span class="font_large">Numbing cold and snow helped Joe and me decide to ‘up sticks’ again, just months after last Thanksgiving, when we’d driven down to Pensacola to spend that holiday in relative warmth. Now we were once again fleeing to Florida. At 3 a.m. Wednesday we piled into our elderly low-milage GMC van, with eager Bryn the first one in. She recognized the signs that another adventure was beginning. Bryn loves watching the ever-changing scenery from those big windows. (Very occasionally she’ll see a dog’s head hanging out of a passing car’s window, ears flapping, eyes shut, nose working vigorously to sort out grazing cattle sniffs.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">13 hours later we rested at a La Quinta Inn just south of Nashville (thus avoiding the next morning’s into-the-city traffic jam), and were off again on Thursday by 8 a.m. <br>At 5:30 p.m., Panama City Beach, and our hotel, were just minutes away. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hey!! This particular terrain was familiar! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Dee, remember that great dog park that was part of a large recreational area? Wasn’t it right along this highway?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Yes! And within one minute we saw its entrance and turned into the park, delighted that Bryn could stretch her legs. Checking into our hotel could wait a bit longer... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A funny thing: as soon as we moved through the big gates leading to the baseball/soccer fields- and eventually to the dog park area, she stood, vibrating. She <em>knew</em> this winding road! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And sure enough, there was the bark park- empty now, as it was dusk. But who cared? She rocketed round and round its spacious interior, gleefully leaping into and out of the huge sandpit. <br>Eventually she paused, panting, eyes shining. <br><em>This place is good, Boss! </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After catching her breath she moved around more methodically, catching up on the news. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then a red SUV drove up. Hooray! Company! Bryn dashed to the fence to greet the visitors. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A small, slim young woman sat in her car for a few minutes, thinking. Finally she got out and let her dog into the park. He was a big, sleek mix of black boxer and hound possessing lots of rakish charm. Bryn and he immediately began playing catch-me-if-you-can and wrestling. <br>Watching them, she spoke. “I’m glad there’s just your dog, for now. They’re having fun, aren’t they? Towser needs this. It’s been a while since we’ve been here.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I smiled and moved closer. There was something arresting- even wary- about her manner. This very pretty woman was tense, but determined, I thought. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Her eyes met mine, noting my puzzlement, and suddenly her story poured out. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“I brought him here two weeks ago to play with the other dogs. There were lots- maybe 15- -but then- suddenly, a big golden retriever/collie mix <em>charged</em> me, clawing my face and snarling horribly!” She paused, thinking back. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“I’m so <em>glad</em> I had a coat on: it protected my arms...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I saw healing claw marks marring her smooth, blemish-free face. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“I was so shocked, and so scared! The attack came out of <em>nowhere</em>. That enraged dog was trying to kill me! Lots of other people ran over to pull it off: it took every bit of strength they had. Its owner was horrified, and deeply apologetic, and he took it away. I was incredibly lucky to escape with scratches. I couldn’t stop trembling for a long time. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“The story gets worse. The man arrived at his home, got the food bowl ready, and again, with no warning, his dog murderously attacked <em>him</em>! He somehow managed to wrestle it off, but he’d been bitten multiple times. He chained it to his truck’s bed and rushed to a vet, who found that the animal <em>was in the terminal stage of Rabies</em>, which had rendered it insane. The owner immediately drove to a hospital, where they did a complete exam, stitched him up, and began treatment for that lethal disease. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">His rabid dog was mercifully put down that day.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Her eyes stared into the distance. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Luckily I saw the news and realized I was likely infected, too, so I went right to the hospital, where they examined me thoroughly and immediately gave me the vaccine. If I hadn’t read the papers or watched the local news on TV I would have died a horrible death. I still wonder if the people who helped me were injured, too. I hope they’re all right: they <em>saved</em> me!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She looked away, reliving the nightmare, but there were no tears. This woman <em>was tough</em>. She’d come back here, determined not to let the experience wreak her dog’s happiness, or forever taint her natural optimism. <br>She was courageously revisiting a place where her world had almost ended. <br>I voiced my admiration. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She shrugged, offering a tiny smile. (Spontaneous laughter would take time to revive. But it <em>would</em> return. She was that sort of person.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Can’t look back. I just want to get on with life. This was a rare event, and it’s over with. Besides, Towser loves it here.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Raising her coat collar up around her neck she shuddered. “Oh, it’s getting dark and colder; time to go.” <br>Towser came willingly. <br>Just before shutting the gate, she paused, thought for a while, and, with head bowed, told me one more thing in a quiet voice. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“...Turns out that his four-year-old dog had never seen a veterinarian. Not one time. He’d had no rabies shots. No immunizations of <em>any</em> kind. No monthly pills for heartworm. Nothing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“How can people <em>be</em> like that? The guy loved his dog, but he thought immunizations for rabies, heartworm and other killers were risky! I know parents of young children who would agree with that thinking. They won’t immunize their kids.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She shook her head. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Incredible. What appalling ignorance! His cherished pet died from a horrible, preventable disease, and he and I could have, too. All those other innocent playing dogs were potential victims, as well...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I saw that thousand-yard stare again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She waved goodbye and they left. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">As Joe and I buckled up, a large, <em>new</em> bone-shaped RED sign wired to the fence caught our attention. Black words declared: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> ‘ANIMAL BITE REPORTING IS REQUIRED BY LAW. <br> For all non-emergency dog bites please call the <br> Panama City Beach Police (Number given) <br> It is important that the person(s) bitten and the owner of the <br> dog(s) remain at the dog park until PCPD arrives.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There are rules posted for dog owners who visit bark parks: the list is long, the writing small. <br>One like THIS, using BIG, bold letters, should stand out.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/50479822018-01-27T23:01:58-05:002018-02-22T10:46:32-05:001/28/18: A Former Junkie’s Report- and Update <p><span class="font_large">A few years ago I found myself reading/viewing media ‘information’ simply to have something interesting to think about and look at. Much of it was depressing- in a fascinating way. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I found myself immersed in news about surface-to-air missiles and the reality of nuclear bombs falling into the hands of unstable governments; state-sponsored genocides; dirty bomb threats directed at the US, and the rants of a mad dictator who continues to ignore his starving people. I absorbed stories about awful human beings doing terrible things to other human beings. I anguished about countries that were falling apart. I worried about terrifying diseases in Africa, for which there are no cures. And killer pandemic flu strains that threatened all of us. <br>I was pummeled by the antics of inane, potentially dangerous establishment politicians. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I became an avid ‘information’ junkie mired in a dangerous world. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Each morning I drank in the latest natural disasters with my coffee. There was <em>so much</em> Bad News filling the TV and my computer (a marvelous tool I’d apparently weaponized- against myself) that I became more and more depressed and angry. <br>One day I opened the computer and printed out the day’s Drudge Report, Fox, CNN and other alphabet news outlets, hunting for substantive news. Then I blacked out all stupid, horrible, sad, ridiculous or prurient stories- and those that were </span><span class="font_xl"><strong>n</strong></span><span class="font_large">one </span><span class="font_xl"><strong>o</strong></span><span class="font_large">f </span><span class="font_xl"><strong>m</strong></span><span class="font_large">y </span><span class="font_xl"><strong>b</strong></span><span class="font_large">usiness (i.e.- what Patrick Swayze’s dying words were, or watching/reading about an athlete who beat his wife unconscious in an elevator). <br>(Good God! I’d become a <em>voyeur</em>.) <br><u>90% of the offerings were rubbish- or N.O.M.B.</u> <br>About <u>10%</u> was actual ‘news.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Years ago, TV news was offered for 30-60 minutes daily. Then the ‘powers-that-be’ switched to 24/7 news. <br>BUT. There were not nearly enough substantive, fact-filled reports to fill 24 hours of every day. So info-hungry journalists began to introduce ‘filler’ material - sensational things- about who had eaten someone, or been eaten (by crocs, for example): about bigwigs coping with painful kidney stones or prostates: about disconnected souls who had stored their dead mother/aunt/pet in the broom closet or bedroom for years, about dogs frozen to death on their chains. ...and on and on. <br>Worse, reporters began <em>shaping</em> news reports with their descriptive adjective word choices, thus subtly, gradually shaping public opinion. Fascinated viewers like me absorbed prurient or embarrassing photos or read gossip. Everyone alive- or dead- was fair game, such as singer/dancers with ‘wardrobe malfunctions’ or even gassed Middle East women and children. The Holy Grail? To expand readership. <br>Never mind ‘mind rot.’ <br>Good taste’s ‘red line’ has been tossed overboard. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Take TV ads, for instance. People moan about their hemorrhoids; men fret over drooping fifth appendages; women are victims of toenail fungus, psoriasis or vaginitis. Shingles and cold sore sufferers groan; overactive bladders pull their owners around in crowded bowling alleys and smiling ‘loaded’ pink lower bowels tiptoe daintily through fine restaurants. These sorts of ads, repeated over and over and over, saturate a brain. (Which is exactly the goal.) Today, <em>absolutely nothing</em> is off-limits. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(Remember that <em>appealing</em> ad for a breakfast cereal featuring a delightful child-actor called Mikey, way back when?) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Positive</em> news sells. It does. But the media makes sure it always has an awful beginning- a California bear or puppy severely burned in a wildfire is saved and suffering less in a veterinary hospital because of painkillers, and though crippled, would eventually be placed in a zoo, or adopted. A child with terminal cancer is awarded a trip to Disney World... <br>I’d hold stories like these close to my heart. But they chipped away at my emotional reserve bit by bit. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">More and more bad news registered less and less on my emotional scale, until daily ingestion had dialed down this human being’s sensitivity/revulsion meter to nearly Zero. <br>I knew this because I would watch cartoon bowels moving, or view or read about unthinkable atrocities or incredibly bad political moves- and my meter wouldn’t even twitch. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I noted two facts: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">1. Inevitably, Terrible things were happening every day somewhere, that I didn’t need to know. <br>2. Though I couldn’t fix the problems I was seeing and reading about, I. Was. Absorbing. Them. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Exposure to the soul-killing avalanche of life’s seamy side was obliterating the few reasoned images or comments that managed to surface. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I <em>SO</em> wanted to be happier- and feel cleaner. <br>Was this possible? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I scribbled the name of the worst culprit. <br>Me. <br>There was only one thing to do to save myself: <br>I quit. ‘Cold Turkey.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Television and computer ‘newspapers’- including Drudge, Fox, CNN, MSNBC, CBS and all the other ‘information’ networks (and papers like the Wall Street Journal and NYT) were eliminated for one trial year. I’d use my computer to write articles, check the weather, email dear friends, read science, watch and listen to music on YouTube, watch TED and research questions about anything that interested me. <br>Then I’d see. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I spent the first unplugged weeks deeply anxious, desperate for input and occasionally tearful. I needed my fix! What if I was missing something??? <br>And then, I realized that some things WERE missing!! Helplessness. Despair. Deep sadness. Unfocused Rage. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Gradually, oh so gradually, I began to feel- lighter- for their absence. <br><em>I felt cleaner. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My husband kept me informed about national and world events in a general way. <br>After few weeks my depression and anxiety lessened. But- there were times I was sooo tempted to go back. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Staying clean- and un-manipulated- was going to be <em>hard</em>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Deeper change took much longer. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Exactly a year later, in January of 2017, I switched on a TV. And was shocked. SHOCKED- to find myself knee-deep in the same muck I did not need to know, and could never make better. Rapes. Murders. Molestations. The torture of animals and children. Lies. Endless international horrors and disasters. Oh, and a tiny smattering of useable information. This time, I was <em>repelled</em>, exactly as I would have been thirty years ago. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I had successfully revived my sensitivity button. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">To invite rot into my kitchen every fresh, unsullied morning is now unthinkable. <br>My mental health has hugely improved. Unplugged for two years I’ve slowly relearned our world’s more familiar everyday realities, bumps, little flops and triumphs. I’ve relaxed into a better appreciation of children, who view the world with fresh, optimistic eyes. I’m learning to adopt Bryn-dog’s philosophy of living for now and loving the moment. I go outside, even in really snowy weather, to <em>play</em> and explore. I have more time to <em>think</em>, and I’ve noticed a bounce in my step. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We recently returned two dusty TV connector boxes to Spectrum. One had been connected to a tiny TV that sits in the basement in front of the treadmill (which I’m quite happy to run on while listening to a story); another came from the living room’s flat screen TV that we now use most evenings to enjoy programs featuring classic films, science, history and travel documentaries we can view free, or rent for two bucks from Amazon and Netflix. <br>Only one connector box is left, attached to a very small, out-of-sight TV that will keep us informed during a national emergency. <br>We won’t use it otherwise. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Not</em> involved with social media, the internet’s daily disaster reports, or my iphone’s various info apps doesn’t mean I’ve retired into an elderly Lala Land. I like to ride motorcycles and romp with my dog; I read history, horticulture and medicine, study and try to sing lovely classical and popular music well, and I keep my critical thinking skills honed. A vigorous, reasoned debate about current issues is always fun. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I <em>know</em> what I <em>need</em> to know, <u>with Dirt, Disinformation and its constant companion, Despair, routinely hosed away</u>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Life feels so Good!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/50347352018-01-20T22:55:06-05:002018-01-20T22:55:06-05:001/21/18: A Sub-Zero Invasion<p><span class="font_large">During this winter’s exceptionally cold weather, a friend of ours was staying with us at our elderly (1872) little brick farmhouse outside Saginaw, which sits next to open fields and woodlands. He looked up from his reading, feeling observed. There, on the carpet, a teeny mouse looked up at him. It sported amazing kangaroo-like legs and a very long tail with a tufted tip. The creature couldn’t weigh much more than an ounce or two. When our friend moved slightly, it took fright and disappeared. Hoping for crumbs dropped from our crackers and cheese it would return when we humans had retired to our beds. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Les knew what sort it was, immediately. “Ha- you’re harboring a type of field mouse inside these walls, out of the lethal cold.” <br>A week later it appeared again in the same room, and so I got a good look at it. Wow! I’d never seen such big hind legs. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Curious, I did some research. We were accommodating a common woodland jumping mouse. <br>The creature can jump and leap up to 9-10 feet! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I was (naively) astonished that it could have found a way in. I’d had every brick on the elderly exterior re-mortared, and cracks around every brick sealed before repainting. Furthermore, I’d walked around the house last fall with a box of Brillo pads to seal <em>any</em> other possible tiny entrances that enterprising mice might exploit. I plugged perhaps six more thread-thin ones. Most of them were higher up- at eye height and didn’t go all the way inside. Our home was surely secure. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Not so. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Uh-oh, thought I. There is never ONE mouse. I’d look for evidence. <br>So, the next morning I shifted the living room furniture and, using our powerful shop vac, got down on my knees to vacuum where the couch and upholstered chairs had been. Teeny poop, that looked like black rice, hugged the walls. <br>Yup. This was a favored trail...It had come up through the heating vent. I also found lots and lots of what looked like white rice under the sofa. How was that possible? I didn’t store rice. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">On a hunch, I opened the sofa bed to find lots of prickly field seeds – and other seeds that were prettily colored- - Prettily colored??? I clapped my head with my hands. OH NO! That mouse had scampered up the stairs to BB Birdie’s room to steal her dropped seeds, and store them between the sofa’s steel bed poles. And, right at the sofa’s upholstered corner, bits of stuffing had been removed. <br>RATS! Those little beasts were surely using the filler for their nests. Liberty House was mouse heaven! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Lisa and her birdie had moved to Vermont almost two months ago, and I hadn’t been living here for some time...so, emboldened mice had moved in. I raced up to the tiny bedroom where BB Birdie had lived, and looked carefully around. There, in the empty closet, was Sir Mouse’s main larder. Pyramid-piles of colorful seed were heaped on the plank floor next to the walls. He’s slipped into the tiny space at the door’s bottom to store his food out of sight. And, of course, mouse droppings were there, too. <br>We ordered humane traps, which arrived within 36 hours, but not one mouse fell for the delectable sniff of Jiff. Mice know about traps, and besides, there were large bird food caches to dine on. <br>Another thing that put me off: Joe suggested we find a nice cage with tiny mesh and keep the mice we caught inside it fed and watered until it got warmer, and he could drop them off somewhere wild. No Way! That was taking ‘humane’ too far. There weren’t cages built that way. <em>We’d</em> have to construct it. Again, no way I’d mother mice for months.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Word reached the rest of the field mice. Suddenly, with temps remaining well below zero, we found ourselves besieged. Multiple relatives had joined their scout! They made excited noises all night long. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Defeated, we rang Best Pest Control, a Bay City firm, and the guy came right over. “I hear you about your house being freshly sealed last summer by professional contractors, starting at five feet below the ground- and then checked by you this past fall, using Brillo Pads. But just to be sure, let’s tour the perimeter. Oh, and by the way, mice will also enter through the front door when you do. Believe it.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I donned my thick winter coat, pulled on my boots and mittens, and the two of us waded into snow heaped next to the house. He bent down to peer closely at hidden areas. He pointed. “There.” I saw a tiny crack stuffed with a bit of Brillo pad, which had been flattened by mousy feet, creating a padded trail. When he pried out the Brillo pad I saw that the slit now led all the way inside. <br>(But when I’d done the sealing, there’d been <em>no</em> entrance. That crack had been, at most, a meager shelter from the wind.) <br>The man cut off a small hunk of paper-thin copper mesh from a roll that flashed a brilliant burnt gold color in the morning light. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Brillo pads won’t last past one season. This copper mesh, though, will be effective forever. I repeat: forever. Once you jam it in a space, that space is forever inaccessible.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He pushed it in and used a very tiny screwdriver to make sure it was seated well. We found seven extremely tiny new entrances. All were permanently mesh-sealed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Mice will find a way in using their sharp incisors and claws to gnaw away tiny time-weakened barriers. That’s what happened here. They gnawed through the ‘dead end’...and entered the basement.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He pointed out powdery brick and mortar atop the snow that looked fresh. I had missed this obvious sign. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then he went downstairs into our Michigan basement, pleased that I had not cleaned the mouse poop from the big empty cupboards lining the stone walls. <br>“I need to observe their favorite trails. Do you see the evidence along the cupboard walls and up into the timbers above? Now I can lay these chunks of bait where mice actually are. <br>Wait three or four days to vacuum down here. Wear a mask to make sure you aren’t breathing in the dust and droppings. The population has exploded, responding to your home’s safety from our very cold weather. But, within a week, any mice that enter and eat this bait will dry up and mummify. Most eat and go outside, as usual, to drink the snow, and so they’ll die outside. The rest wither and dry up in the walls. Dried rodents emit no smell. In any case, soon you won’t have a problem anymore.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two days later Bryn and I walked around our property. She stopped suddenly by our fence, froze into a point, and looked down. Cocking her head she listened intently, crouched, then soared high and fell straight down, exactly as a fox does when hunting rodents in the wild! A shocked mouse immediately flipped over and dashed into a snow-tunnel, leaving her confused. When I scrapped away the hardened 6-inch-deep snow with a spade, its hole was easily exposed. Mice had been burrowing through the deeper snow to reach their underground burrows on the other side of the fence. That field hadn’t been planted in decades and was probably crammed with mice. As the weather had become far too cold, even down deep into the ground, if they tried to hibernate they would never wake up. So, they’d moved in with us. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A week after the treatment our home showed no signs of mice. No poop. No noises. Nothing. (Joe found one desiccated mouse at the bottom of an old bucket, but that was it.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I am certainly sympathetic to their plight. The little creatures are simply trying to survive. I hated having to kill them. But not to address this rapid invasion sensibly would be irresponsible, and even dangerous. Mice carry fleas and cause disease. They often gnaw power lines (TV, fridge, computer, and electric wires inside walls) and get into human food stores. In fact, they <em>already</em> had. A five-pound bag of white rice, set inside an under-counter kitchen cabinet with NO holes in back, and no way in, save by its door, which is rarely opened, had <em>still</em> been penetrated. <br>Piles of white rice were scattered all over the living room and were almost impossible to see, as the carpet is also white. I only noticed when, on my knees, I’d used the shop vac’s hose for close work. I was shocked at the <em>quantity</em> of rice and confused as to where it had come from- until I remembered that cabinet. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Drastic measures <em>had</em> to be taken. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Brutal cold created a situation that had gotten out of hand in record time, I mused. Next autumn, though, I’ll ring Best Pest early, and have them thoroughly inspect our home’s exterior once again for potential weaknesses. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Prevention is the best cure.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/50226512018-01-13T22:03:19-05:002018-08-25T22:47:31-04:001/14/18: Lake Michigan’s Power- And Secrets <p><span class="font_large">Bryn-dog and I love to walk along the shore of Lake Michigan’s Grand Traverse Bay, even in winter. There are so many different ‘water colors’ -slate gray, black, vivid blue, pale aqua, emerald green, brown, clean frothy white- that trying to capture them all on canvas must give painters fits. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This huge lake breathes in and out; some years its beaches extend to huge distances. Other years, shorelines vanish. I’ve witnessed both extremes multiple times. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Occasionally we’ve seen unusual things, like a drowned deer floating in deeper water next to the Clinch Harbor Marina, or a <em>very</em> large fish leaping high. Sometimes human-made items wave lazily to me just beneath its surface. Last year I managed to retrieve a once- lovely, rather expensive waterlogged, monstrously heavy king-sized comforter. I dried it out in the garage for months, then laboriously shook out mountains of sand. A close inspection revealed six 4-inch-long slash marks –perhaps from a propeller or knife. The fabric around the cuts was too compromised to fix. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ve found small wads of bundled money, too, resting on the lake’s sandy bottom. One time there was nearly $40. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The word ‘Michigan’ means ‘Great Water.’ It’s the only Great Lake whose border isn’t shared with a foreign country. 307 miles long and 118 miles wide, with 1,640 miles of shoreline, this glacier-created freshwater wonder is the sixth largest on earth and boasts the world’s largest freshwater dune system. It’s the only place on earth that Petoskey stones (fossilized coral) – are found, and then, <em>only</em> in <u>northern</u> Michigan. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I was amazed to learn that its nearly 1000-foot-deep water changes, or refreshes itself, every 100 years or so. And there <em>is</em> a very small tidal effect that occurs, unnoticed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">As pilots, Joe and I flew over America from coast to coast many times, noting that much of our great country is blanketed by thick forests and gigantic plains, most of them nearly empty of people. Villages, towns and cities, though, can always be found close to any body of fresh water. (12 million people, mostly in Chicago and Milwaukee, live along Lake Michigan’s shoreline.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Water is an irresistible draw. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This immense lake contains many unnerving mysteries, too. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A few stand out for me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Over a campfire when I was a girl, a family friend told me about a big schooner that set out to deliver a cargo of logs to Chicago in 1891. It was a routine run. But the ship, its captain and all seven crewmembers never arrived at the port. Frantic searchers found precisely nothing. Not a stick. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And in 1998, right here in Traverse City, I remember a shocking incident that occurred on July 3, the day before the Blue Angels Air Show for The National Cherry Festival. An older Russian jet trainer (a MIG L-39), flown by an expert pilot, took off from Cherry Capital Airport with one passenger, a flight instructor for the Northern Michigan College (NMC) Flight School. The MIG’s pilot wanted to review the part he would play in the airshow by flying over the area where he’d be performing. It was a lovely day. Routine radar contact was maintained- until the jet, on its way back to the airport from far out over the lake, neared the South Fox Island area., where it suddenly disappeared from the radar screen. Not one clue was found. No debris. No aviation gas on the water- no flotsam. Nothing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">To this day, despite repeated attempts to locate it, the lake has yielded precisely nothing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In April of 1937, a big ship had successfully navigated through some of Lake Michigan’s very deep water, where ice floes had been spotted. Finally, having skillfully dodged the danger, Captain Donner turned the bridge over to his first mate and retired to his quarters to grab a nap. When a seaman went to the captain’s quarters a couple of hours later to notify him that they would soon be approaching port, the captain didn’t answer his knocks or repeated calls. Finally, sailors broke down the locked door. The captain was gone. No trace of him was ever found. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And in 1950 the worst aviation disaster ever to occur in the US at that time happened over Lake Michigan. A fully loaded commercial airliner from the east coast was bound for Milwaukee. The big plane vanished soon after passing over the town of Benton Harbor to fly above Lake Michigan’s huge aspect. No distress signal was sent. There was nothing to indicate a problem had arisen. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The plane, and every soul aboard, had simply disappeared. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I suppose there could come a day when the enigmatic Big Water’s depths, still almost as inaccessible as the moon, are penetrated. Lingering mysteries could well be sorted satisfactorily. So far, though, our lake continues to withhold all knowledge of its deepest secrets.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/50108242018-01-06T22:21:16-05:002018-01-06T22:21:16-05:001/07/18: Memories...<p><span class="font_large">This winter, with its bouts of subzero temps, offers much more time to reflect on my long life. The summer of 1967 -50 years ago- still shines. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I was finishing my graduate studies (at The University of Michigan) and had a celebratory dream- to travel abroad. To that end I waited tables, cleaned houses, painted silly slogans on 50 white toilet seats and sold them to the fraternities and sororities that lined Washtenaw Ave. Stuff like ‘Pop, pop, fizz, fizz, oh, what a relief it is,’ ‘Moose poop is purple,’ ‘The pause that refreshes,’ ‘This way out,’ etc., a novelty that went over big. After two years I’d saved $1800 – a decent amount of money, then- and so, flew to Europe in late May to explore it for three months. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was a safer world then, for an independent young woman. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My backpack contained one long sleeved wash-and-air-dry dress (one wore dresses or skirts then, especially in Europe), undies, socks, a spare pair of comfy trainers, a foldout raincoat, a sweater, a toothbrush, a roll of toilet paper, and a hairbrush. Oh-and a much-thumbed, thick Michelin paperback guidebook crammed with advice, regional descriptions and detailed maps. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A money belt holding my passport and travelers checks never left my waist. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I included a slim knife that slid into a sheath attached to my arm. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It would come in handy in France. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Paris was absolutely crammed with gorgeous medieval buildings. In Notre Dame Cathedral a kind old French-born priest who spoke English with a British accent happily answered my awed questions and even showed me rarely viewed rooms. Tourists wouldn’t show up until mid-June, so he had more personal time. I learned so much! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Every morning for two weeks I left my cheap, clean garret, with its lumpy single bed and tiny window, to walk the winding cobblestone lanes to the patisserie about two blocks away for my breakfast- a croissant and French coffee. (That fresh food and delicious brew defined ‘excellent’ for years afterward.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">By the way, in almost every Paris café dogs lay quietly, dozing next to, or under, their owners’ chairs while they ate. No one made a fuss. It was normal. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Most eating/drinking places had little tables outside where I enjoyed a glass of wine and a meal in the cool of the evening. (Vincent Van Gogh captured one of these picturesque cafes; it is so very beautiful.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One evening I finished my simple cafe meal about 9 o’clock, and made my way toward the hotel when I felt- watched. Three twenty-something men I’d passed a bit ago were coming up behind me, making suggestive comments in French, their hands moving, their laughter too intense and high. They’d been drinking, I thought, and picked up my pace. But they did, too. Well, thought I, <i>do the totally unexpected thing....</i>Veering into a feebly lighted close I took out my knife, dropped my right arm into a relaxed, non-threatening position, held my knife behind my back with the other, and waited. They rounded the corner and made straight for me, commenting that the stupid tourist had made a big mistake going in there... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">They stopped suddenly fifteen feet away then, noting how <i>still</i> I stood, totally relaxed, maybe armed, but they couldn’t be sure in the semi-darkness. <i>What</i> might that other hand hold? I looked straight at them and made a very small gesture that said-‘come close, and see what happens.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This behavior stymied them. They gabbled and flung their arms about, deciding how to respond, so I yawned, projecting a trace of impatience and boredom. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(A male friend had advised this approach: Project quiet confidence, <i>and</i> quiet menace. The Polar <i>opposite</i> of what was expected. To attack me was one thing. My casual invitation for them to sample what <u><i>I</i></u> had to offer was quite another. Its- peculiarity- made <i>them</i> wary, and very uncomfortable.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One finally shrugged and said, pseudo-sadly in broken English- “No love?” I didn’t honor that face-saving query with an audible response, but remained relaxed and dead still, keeping eye contact. Laughing (nervously, I thought), they backed away then, to walk unsteadily back down the ancient lane to the bar where I’d seen them first, probably to order another round of drinks and discuss crazy, unpredictable foreign women. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I continued on my way at a reasonable pace, never running. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><i>Prey</i> runs. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Only in my room did I breathe again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This incident was the single time that summer I had to deal with a potential problem. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I left Paris two days later for Amsterdam, having walked a hundred miles through the heart of The City of Lights, drinking in every wonderful thing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I would return in the early 1970s with my husband, to enjoy its glories again.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/50004752017-12-30T22:02:18-05:002017-12-30T22:02:18-05:0012/31/17: The Weather Outside is Frightful... <p><span class="font_large">Bryn and I began our walk around our snowy block at 6 a.m. last Tuesday. Soon the fearsome cold began to seep through my long underwear, snug turtleneck and thick Guernsey sweater. I wore a very long down coat, which soon began to feel inadequate. The arctic temperature was even insinuating itself into my thermal socks and fur-lined, cleat-soled snow boots! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn, who is normally delighted about winter, couldn’t cope with this sort of cold- 9 degrees. Just one minute after locating the perfect spot to do her business she suddenly stopped dead in 4 inches of snow, raised one hind paw high and looked at me, confused. Then, she lifted a <em>front</em> paw. Curled it. Fell over. Righted herself clumsily to stand rooted to the snow-covered earth while holding that hind paw high again. My God. Bryn was beginning to freeze! We’d been outside for less than five minutes. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I strode over and removed a snowball nestled between her pads. But, ten seconds later, as she walked beside me, she was again unable to continue. The other front paw went up. She stared at it, licked it once, and waited, in obvious distress. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Paws don’t work, Boss... </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This was <em>killer</em> weather. My dog was literally stopped cold! I quickly cleaned each paw again, shortened her leash to ‘heel’ length- and said, “let's go!” We ran the half-block back home. She stumbled once, her legs rapidly growing too cold to operate in a coordinated fashion. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Inside, I removed her thick fleece jacket and brought her into the kitchen to thaw. She collapsed into her basket by the fire and I massaged each limb until she warmed. A bit later she walked unsteadily to her bowl of water, to drink. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My nose and cheeks were really red. I couldn’t seem to stop shivering. “Well, my girl,” I mused, “you’ve been flirting with frostbite.” Jeez, Louise! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I dug out thick Velcro-strapped doggy snow boots we’d purchased last year but hadn’t used. After Bryn had rested for an hour I put them on. The boots’ undersides had raised rubber bumps to help her navigate without slipping. Understanding their function, she made no objection. Once outside she soon stopped ‘prancing’ and began to walk more normally. After a much more comfortable stroll she finished her business. I collected her donation (which, by the way, had frozen solid within seconds) and we made our way back home without incident, after perhaps ten minutes outside. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’d worn a balaclava this time; my face was grateful. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then Joe and I got an amazing text. Our younger daughter, Lisa, who’d been on her way to Vermont, had been forced to stop just south of Erie on Christmas Day evening, as the intense snowfall had made travel on I-90 impossible. The expressway, in fact, had vanished. Fortunately, she and BB Birdie, her budgie, secured a room at the Quality Inn. They woke to 46 inches of snow, which soon rose to over 60 + inches. Their car had nearly vanished. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">No one could come (like the morning hotel shift) or go anywhere, as all travel was forbidden. The current staff was trapped at the inn. Roads and highways were completely buried, as were cars, sometimes with people still inside them who urgently needed rescuing, said authorities. (Also, abandoned, buried cars made expressway plowing very tricky.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It could be days, they warned, before the snow stopped. Sit tight in buildings. Ration food. Wait it out. Don’t try to walk to restaurants from hotels. No one would be there. <u>Everything</u> was closed. Wind, intense snow and deep drifts would kill- and bury- a wandering soul in minutes. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This was the greatest amount of snow to fall in Erie in just a few hours, in recorded history. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Every two hours Lisa went out to clear snow from her car as best she could, and start it up to shift it a few feet for plows. Snow weight threatened to collapse home roofs, reported TV news. Batteries froze. But, thankfully, the hotel’s power stayed on. So BB and she were warm. Her iPhone, though, had no reception. We had to ring the hotel’s landline to be connected to her room. The 15 or so people stranded there made do with the hotel breakfast nook’s coffee, cold cereal and toast for two days. On the third morning, we rang to find she’d checked out. Hooray! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She’d been marooned for three nights. But on Thursday she woke to find the snow had paused, allowing the plows, which had worked day and night, to open up at least one lane on vital roads and highways. Lisa managed to drive, slowly, steadily to Vermont, drop off BB at a bird sitter’s home in Montpelier, then carry on to Montreal to meet a dear friend. (It’s easy to bring BB into Canada, but driving the tiny creature out again would take reams of paperwork from the U.S. and lots of challenges by Canadian authorities that might last weeks.) This approach was much more sensible for the week she’d be in Canada. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Winters require much more vigilance near lakes due to lake effect snow, caused by strong wind blowing over warmer water. But normal checks made by us didn’t predict what happened to our daughter. Even forecasters were caught off guard by the enormous snowfall amounts, and by the persistent, deadly temperature drops. And-- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I got a little cocky and therefore, invited trouble here, in Traverse City. Fortunately, home and its blessed warmth, were only a few steps away. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Final thought, especially for seasoned citizens: invest in (inexpensive) snap-on boot cleats, which <em>greatly help to keep one upright </em>when walking pets in arctic snow and cold. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Oh- and I made a firm New Year resolution; I’ll never let Bryn outside to do her business in the back garden <em>unless I remain right there by the window, ignoring phone calls, etc., </em>ready to let her in promptly. It’s easy to become distracted by events and forget she's out there. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In this frightful weather, that error could be fatal.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/49919942017-12-24T00:46:45-05:002019-05-26T00:17:17-04:0012/24/17: Who's The Clever One?<p><span class="font_large">It was cold outside this late afternoon; the rain couldn’t make up its mind to stay rain, or morph into sleet and even snow- so it did all three. I waited for Bryn to do her business and didn’t really notice- or feel- the wet weather, as a thick wool cap, covered by my winter coat’s hood, kept me dry and snug. I strolled around thinking about chord progressions for some music I was working on... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">About ten minutes later we turned to go inside; Bryn picked up her pace, eager to eat her meal. I shed my boots, coat and sleet-crusted headgear and padded to the pantry. Kibbles and a treat were added to her bowl, and I set it in its place, next to fresh water. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">"OK, Bryn. Your dinner’s ready: a little surprise is in there, too...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Exactly then, things began to go weird. She stopped dead about ten feet away from her bowls, went into ‘statue’ mode, and looked at me. Not a whisker moved. Not. A. Hair. 20 minutes went by! I sat six feet away, trying to concentrate on my music, but those lovely brown eyes never once wavered from my face. I could <em>feel</em> them. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What was going on?? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">"Ah, silly Bryn, your dinner is just there. What’s with 'The Look?'” She finally blinked, but never once looked away. <em>Thirty</em> more minutes went by. I grew exasperated. “Bryn! Your dinner wants eating, for heaven’s sake!” Her tail moved just slightly, once. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She continued to look at me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Really annoyed now, I pretended not to notice ‘The Gaze.’ But oh, it was hard. Those eyes do penetrate. And I was more than puzzled! She’d been absolutely motionless, now, for nearly an hour. I actually wondered if she was having a brain seizure. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Wouldn’t it be easier to <em>sit</em> and stare? Why <em>stand</em> and stare? <em>Arghhh</em>! <u><em>My</em></u> brain was seizing! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Just then, Joe came into the kitchen, having finished shoveling the porch and sidewalk. He patted statue-still Bryn- then commented in a surprised tone,Yuck! Got a towel? She’s really wet!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I sat bolt upright. My God. I hadn’t touched Bryn when we’d entered the house. If I’d <em>felt</em> her fleecy white coat I would immediately have fixed things in the usual way. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She’d ‘statue-d’ in that one spot for <u>over an hour</u>, waiting for my realization that skipping a step wouldn’t do. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The normal procedure goes like this: After coming in from wet weather I always fetch her towel, wipe her down thoroughly, then pop into the bathroom for the hair dryer. She chooses a place, then I kneel where she settles and blow-dry her coat, a process she loves. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Only <em>then</em> does she happily eat her dinner. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I jumped up and apologized. Bryn knows what an apology is. I might step on her paws, eliciting a startled yelp, but I instantly make things right. And I’m instantly forgiven. She did that again now, dismissing my faux pas, happy that life was making sense again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Chagrined, I went through the routine, towel-dried her, then used the hair dryer and finally combed her out (a ten-minute job in total), after which she trotted happily to her bowl, ate every scrap, drank deeply, asked me for a bully stick, and settled down to devour it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">How <em>easy</em> it was to speak sharply her, I mused- to lose patience, to assume <em>I’m</em> the superior one. Then, when I discover it is <em>I</em> who is missing a microchip--- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My enormously patient dog is training me well, but the way she goes about it can be unnerving. </span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/49811322017-12-16T23:14:12-05:002017-12-16T23:14:12-05:0012/17/17: Snowy Musings<p><span class="font_large">Bryn and I wandered about our fenced, three-acre grounds in the dark of early morning two days ago, enjoying the snowstorm, which seemed to delight in disorienting me. I closed my eyes, turned around once, and lost all sense of which way was where. This blizzard, which has dropped five fluffy inches so far, has managed to blot out most visual markers. Bryn vanished, as her snow-white fleece blends perfectly with the environment. But her nose always knew precisely where I am. I could hear her rocketing around the house’s perimeter and grounds, fast as a fleeing deer. Bryn loves winter, even when it’s seven degrees above zero. The great poofs of dry powder she always creates during these ecstasy fits made for quarter-second glimpses of her position and speed, even in the dark. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(Once again this winter I’ve trimmed away her beard, leaving only close-cut fur, to prevent the rapid accumulation of ice and snowballs that would otherwise weigh down her eyelids and mouth, effectively blinding her and sealing her lips. I’ve even trimmed around and between her paws. Hard snow and ice balls <em>will</em> eventually accumulate there, but won’t prove debilitating as soon. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">That is, it might take ten minutes to cause distress, instead of one. Bryn’s unusual fleece coat takes on snow differently from normal coats.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Suddenly she intercepted an unusually slow, thin black squirrel trying to get to a nearby tree trunk and safety. After having made multiple enormous jumps through the deep snow he’d begun moving very much slower, and looked exhausted. Without thinking, Bryn scooped him up. The squirrel, her long body parked upside down between Bryn’s jaws, glared up at her; Bryn sat down suddenly, too surprised by her catch to move to Step Two. Instead, she peered at it, perplexed. Ten feet away I saw what might happen next and commanded, “LEAVE IT!” Glancing over at me her eyes registered surprise, but she obediently opened her jaws and dumped the shocked rodent into the deep white featherbed. Awkwardly righting himself he walked three feet to the trunk and ascended it with the last of his strength. Bryn still sat, watching him, thinking, her tongue polishing her whiskers, tasting the squirrel’s ‘after(the close)shave.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He seemed uninjured. Bryn’s jaws are extremely powerful, but she possesses a soft retriever mouth. I think the little guy probably would have escaped even if I hadn’t yelled the command. Bryn, too surprised by the novelty, wouldn’t have applied killing pressure, I mused, remembering the furious, cheek-banging bumblebees she’d carried around at Sunnybank. Eventually she’d opened up and they’d staggered up and away, shedding a con-trail of saliva that flavored their pollen sacs... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> One can never be <em>absolutely</em> sure where a bee and his loot have been, eh? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">**One more little tidbit- actually you could consider this offering as a wee holiday gift suggestion from yours truly- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Experience excellent food, beautifully presented, at <em>Reflect</em>, part of Cambrian Suites, a hotel at 255 Munson Avenue in Traverse City. Wow. The dining room is small, bright and cheerful, and Chef Dan (who used to cook masterpieces for The Boathouse Restaurant on Mission Peninsula), and his staff do a <em>superb</em> job of making one’s dining experience memorable. If he’s ‘on’ he’ll come out to our table to personally deliver the dishes, and to make sure all is well. Joe and I treat ourselves when we wish to celebrate big and small triumphs. I absolutely love Chef Dan’s sauces, especially on, and as a bed for, his succulent salmon and pork chops. Believe me, he and the other chef are <em>talented</em>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Bon Appetite!</em></span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/49707242017-12-10T10:15:56-05:002017-12-10T10:15:56-05:0012/10/17: Travelin’ Stoics <p><span class="font_large">Our quick Thanksgiving trip down to Florida’s Panhandle has made some lasting memories. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I-65 had fewer immense trucks (which travel the I-75 corridor in packs), and this route was a bit quicker, too. But still, big rigs (our nation’s lifeblood) <em>were</em> on the road, and too many cocky driver-darters as well, who didn’t care how very close they came to the cars and trucks they were gleefully darting around. This ‘devil-may-care’ behavior forced a couple of gasps out of us. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Once, in Alabama, expressway traffic slowed to a dead stop, leaving everyone stranded in hilly terrain. We found ourselves marooned on a hilltop. For miles and miles in both directions idling cars and trucks sat in a ragged line, fuming. “Oh, NO,” we groaned. “We could be stuck here for hours!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">No accidents (highlighted by flashing police lights) were evident. The view was terrific. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Thirty minutes later the congestion simply - disappeared. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Poof. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We were open-mouthed. Grateful. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The highway led straight to Pensacola Beach. Our GPS guided us right to our hotel. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Florida was downright cold- 38 to 40 degrees- in the early mornings, but the sun <em>did</em> warm the flat land twenty-plus degrees by 10:00 a.m., to sweater-with-jacket weather. Perfect for bike-hikes with Bryn. Paved trails wound through vast, wild areas of state parkland, usually adjacent to dog parks. Benches along the way provided a place to stop and wander around. The land rose and fell only slightly, and we noted how different the foliage was; more than once I fancied that we’d been transported to Jurassic Park. Palm trees, huge, moss-draped oaks, gigantic ferns, lush, flowering bushes, rotting logs, strange birdcalls and invisible insects’ rasping calls, as well as sudden darkening when the sun would scuttle behind thick clouds, contributed to the peculiar atmosphere. At times, civilization’s usual sounds seemed a distant memory... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We enjoyed Pensacola Beach’s big, treed dog park, only 2 miles from our hotel, where Bryn would dash around, ironing out her travel kinks while taking in interesting plant and animal scents. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Each morning a slim, elderly man and his 13-year-old dog motored there, too. The fellow made it his business to walk the entire area, especially along the fence lines, to pick up stray dog poop. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And, to search for one more thing... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“I keep nimble, as well as keep the place clean. The job requires some agility. As I bend down, I loosen up. ‘Use it or lose it, you know.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He looked at us thoughtfully. “Have you been introduced to traveling stones?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Smiling at our puzzlement he bent to pick up a flattish, palm-sized one, offering it to me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“I get a kick out of spotting them as I work. This new one, for example, has moved around the south. The tradition is to print the name of the state it’s in before it’s dropped off, usually at a dog park or rest stop along a fence line or by a tree. We have a Mississippi, Texas and Florida traveler that’s arrived here very recently. See?" </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The stone carried the three names in indelible marker. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">"And when there’s no room for another destination to be added, it’s ‘retired,’ maybe to a homeowner’s fish tank, or to his flower garden, to be pointed out to guests, who can speculate about its history. He pointed out the states’ names, painted on with different hands. I spotted a tiny happy face, too. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“If you take it with you, add your state’s name with a color-permanent Magic Marker. Leave it at a Michigan dog park or rest stop. A tourist or trucker might well find it. Mind you, the stone might wait for years to be noticed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One fellow told me that his trucker friends often ‘salt’ one or two stones at favorite hotels’ dog-walk areas. Some that <em>I’ve</em> found have traveled through as many as ten states. This one’s relatively young; it’s collected only three.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Wonderful,” I said, delighted. “How long do you suppose this tradition has been going on?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He thought a minute. “Well, much longer than I’ve been retired, I think. 40 years, maybe longer...Who knows? Maybe as long as there have been human travelers.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I pocketed the blue-yellow-red decorated traveler, with thanks. I’d add our state to its surface, perhaps in green. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We left Florida refreshed by the major ‘sea change.’ Spontaneous bolts to elsewhere in this lovely country, done with minimum fuss and even less baggage, are great fun. It <em>is</em> a bit daring to ‘up sticks’ and go, but most forgotten items can be bought again. “The USA ain’t the backwoods,” Joe is fond of reminding me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(To prevent leaving <em>important</em> stuff behind I’ve attached a list of essentials to the fridge with a magnet. Reviewing it has saved me more than once. Trusting it, I can be inter-state mobile in 15 minutes.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A Michigan rest area now has two new residents; our Florida traveler, wearing a cheery green <em>Michigan</em>, and a flat, bare stone I’d found on our hotel’s Gulf of Mexico beach, which now sports a tiny daisy, plus our state’s name. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Someday, <em>someone</em> ‘in the know’ might pocket one, or both, and smile.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/49601442017-12-03T02:44:06-05:002017-12-03T02:44:06-05:0012/03/17: A Feast- and a Misadventure... <p><span class="font_large">Thanksgiving in Florida? Without family? It seemed strange, but we’d make it fun. Happiness comes when one is flexible. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So we piled into our van and drove straight to the bottom of the continent to Gulf Breeze, in Florida’s Panhandle, and settled into our inexpensive hotel, literally a few feet from the Gulf of Mexico’s calm water. The city’s name- Gulf Breeze- was evocative- a worm on the hook that lured us into pursuing a change of scene for a few days. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The restaurant, The Grand Marlin was six minutes from our hotel, and right on the water at the base of the Gulf Bay Bridge. (We booked in from Saginaw, Michigan, by the way, and a good thing, too: there was just one place left. Imagine driving all that way, only to be turned away...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Our reservation was set at 11:15 a.m. That actually worked well. We eat one meal a day, and, in Central Standard Time, it was actually <em>12</em>:15 EST, our normal meal time. It would take a while to peruse the menu, order and be served. We’d finish by 1:30 or so. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Perfect. Neither of us wished to nudge our bodies into Central time, as we’d be down there only 3 days... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A bit about this large, attractive building. Raised on huge steel/cement stilts, it hovered over the sunlit bay. When we walked up the stairs and entered the enormous main room, most tables, as well as the big semi circular bar, were filled. The ceiling was at least 30 feet high. There was no carpet. The noise level was, for us, too loud to be able to converse. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But we were really lucky. Our waitress showed us to another room, up another level where a booth in a corner was ready, private and absolutely perfect. The bay was right there; the sky vast, the noise level insignificant. This ceiling was maybe nine feet high. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And oh, the food! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We ordered fresh ocean fish for our mains, but the starter, ($24) which we split, was memorable. It’s called Lobster Fingers. I rarely gush about food, but this dish was sublime. Three huge claws were sautéed, then rolled lightly in coconut flakes. Then a delicious remoulade sauce was set down under them. OMG. I’d drive back to Pensacola just to enjoy it again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">By the way, it’s the most popular starter the restaurant offers. I give it five stars! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sated, we wandered back to our hotel, and napped, still tired from our long journey. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But, people who eat wonderful meals that fog the senses and smooth the mind can be jerked back to the world by age-old rivalries played out for the billionth time... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn and Joe and I were strolling along the Beach area at about 5:00. The deepening gloom was rapidly descending into darkness. It was suddenly harder to discern where objects were. The lawn grass faded into sand so pure and fine it looked like white flour. Here and there on the beach lay scattered boulders, tall perennial decorative grasses, long, bleached logs, and large chunks of cement, left there, we thought, to retard erosion. And behind one chunk was a huge, bob-tail, deep grey cat, who was apparently surprised by Bryn’s soundless approach. The beast leaped high and bounded away into the dark. Bryn, leashless and content be close to us, woofed in surprise, and before we could grasp what was happening, she’d vanished too, into the night. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Cat, Boss! I’ll find him! </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I saw a flick of white as she bounded away, then nothing. We called, -nothing. So we ran. Ran, ran along the shore and called, having no idea where she might have gone, or if we had crossed into private land...For what seemed ages we peered over, under, and around docks, reeds and boulders. We called her name, with Joe’s louder voice growing more desperate. By now, at 7:00, it was totally dark. My one good eye could make out almost nothing but flat, obsidian ocean and white sand. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, Joe shouted back to me that he’d spotted her carefully picking her way back, guided by our calls. Wet and sandy to her knees, she looked contrite. Joe secured her using his belt; I sagged with relief! (She wore no collar because I’d just brushed her, and had forgotten to slip it back on. Wanting a gentle stroll around the quiet grounds we’d forgotten about Murphy’s Law, and hotel mousers...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn had snagged some burs, twigs, and bits of seaweed, but was otherwise fine. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The three of us carefully trekked back along the shoreline until we recognized our hotel. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">For the next two days that big cat would sun himself on a boulder right next to the lapping water just below our balcony. Bryn would sit up there unmoving, watching him, never blinking. The cat looked quietly out to sea, certainly feeling Bryn’s eyes on her, but utterly indifferent. This hotel was HER territory. She knew all about dogs. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">To Bryn, cats are still a baffling mystery. She’s never inspected one up close...Maybe someday. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Though it was past 9:00 we decided to walk to the hotel’s very nice restaurant to enjoy two glasses of merlot. Pumpkins with cheery grins greeted guests. The air was salt-scented, and twinkling holiday lights made the black lawn sparkle as sprinklers scattered fine mists of water with gentle whooshes. Christmas music, barely discernable, seemed just the right touch. It seemed that lots of people had decided to celebrate Thanksgiving away from home. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The best touch? Fireworks suddenly lit the sky over the bay; Pensacola was celebrating on this lovely, windless evening. What a splendid end to our first day!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/49490042017-11-25T23:45:04-05:002017-11-25T23:52:57-05:0011/26/17: Escape to a Different World - Part One<p><span class="font_large">Sleet, hail, and then rain fell, horizontally due to stiff winds. Winter was announcing itself to the mostly naked trees and leaf-clogged streets of Traverse City, which was struggling to collect them all before heavy snows began. (This year, lots of huge trees had held them close until the last second.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I zipped my long, black down-filled coat right up to my chin, pulled on my new winter boots and trudged outside for Bryn’s evening constitutional. I’d foolishly grabbed a sturdy black umbrella from the hallstand, but in the first minute, the wind capriciously reversed it, allowing rain and blowing leaves to go right to my head with wet splats. Ugh! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn’s rain-slick raincoat gleamed in the fading light; her paws sank into leaf-filled puddles as, undaunted, she searched for the perfect spot to add even more water. Tomorrow- and tomorrow- promised more of the same of this torrential gloom. I shivered, miserable. To top it off, my formerly waterproof footgear leaked like a sieve. My feet froze. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe rang me as Bryn and I sloshed through the drenched neighborhood. “ I have someone to cover for me for this coming weekend. Let’s flee south!” <br>Perfect. After we dried out I looked at a computer atlas. The Florida Panhandle had been great fun last year when we’d explored Panama City and its surroundings. Bryn had loved the dog parks, which were huge and green and full of lovely trees and lots of dogs. But we wouldn’t revisit it when there were so many fresh sights to see in the same area. My finger settled on Pensacola Beach, then on Gulf Breeze. Something new!. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two days later Traverse City drizzle still wandered down my windowpanes, creating interesting trails as they crisscrossed. Bryn and I hit the road south at 9 a.m., aiming for wet, dreary Saginaw. Three hours later we arrived, transferred our stuff to the ‘95 van, and, by one o’clock p.m. Joe, Bryn and I were off! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Nearly six hours later we arrived in Cincinnati at the La Quinta Inn, which welcomes dogs, no extra charge. After Bryn’s walk, we slept. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Four a.m. arrived, cellar-dark and freezing cold. I popped awake, wishing for my long underwear. After a drive-up coffee and bacon stop at MacDonald’s we hopped onto the interstate south, though Kentucky, Tennessee, and then into northern Alabama, where our breaths materialized as a ghostly vapor at rest stops. <em>Southern</em> Alabama, though, was significantly balmier. Ha! We were catching up to late summer! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, toward late afternoon, we entered the Panhandle and rounded a curve... and there was Pensacola Bay, gleaming in the dying sunlight. The huge blue sky glowed hot pink and peach over a ruler-flat landscape, the vast picture enhanced by fluffy white cirrus clouds. Five minutes later we found the parking lot of the Quality Inn (there are no La Quinta Inns in Pensacola Bay that are <u>on the water</u>). Our second floor balcony showed off the huge bay’s gracefully curved basin. Our room was spacious, with a fridge, a microwave, two roomy, comfortable beds, a couch, desk and one entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, including a glass door that opened onto the two-chaired balcony, only feet from the bay. Splendid! (Downside: The Quality Inn charges $25 per night for Bryn. So, the total price was about $125/night, including taxes. La Quinta accepts dogs fee-free.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This inn is home to La Brisa, an upscale restaurant. We walked, fed and settled Bryn before walking there for a glass of merlot to celebrate the next 3.5 days in this very different environment. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Some things to note: <br>‘Dogs must not weigh more than 25 pounds’- but staff didn’t seem to care one whit that Bryn weighs 53 pounds. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn immediately stepped on a tiny, straw-colored ‘cholla’ cactus seed that lay in wait amid the hotel’s manicured grass. Each one- a dot surrounded by long barbs- is about the size of a baby’s little fingernail. She stopped dead and looked up at us, shocked, afraid to move. It’s like treading on a tack. I searched; a multi-needled rascal was lodged between her left front toes, and the very <em>devil</em> to remove. I was repeatedly stabbed before successfully dislodging it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Almost impossible to spot, these tiny impalers lurk even in the pure white beach (and land) sand, which, by the way, is as fine as triple-sifted flour. (Grass needs a lot of water as it struggles to grow in this superfine natural substitute for soil.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Chollas HURT. Dog boots and tweezers are a <em>must</em> for future visits. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Back in our room at bedtime, I stepped on another one; its barbs stabbed me right through my thick socks. After painfully extracting it I crawled nose-close along the entire carpet- and found 4 more, brought in on previous visitors’ shoes. There was even one hiding in my jeans cuff. The barbs pierced my fingers through three folds of denim. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The upsides: the weather warmed to 65 degrees, and we were treated to a stunningly beautiful sunset over the calm water.<br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/a4e57b5fe1fe56b2ea0922b3aaba50da4c2bade6/original/img-3794.jpg" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br><br>A huge gray crane stood in shallow water a foot from shore, still as a statue, waiting--- for unwary minnows, perhaps? And our beds were the best! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Next week I’ll feature fine Thanksgiving food, Bryn adventures, traveling stones, and Big bangs...</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/49391932017-11-19T00:15:14-05:002017-11-19T00:15:14-05:008/02/12: Double Delights... <p><span class="font_large"><em>Oxymoron: a figure of speech by which a locution produces an incongruous, seemingly self-contradictory effect, as in “cruel kindness,” or, “to make haste slowly” </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Many people have visited Sunnybank’s secret garden for the last quarter century. A few really stand out for me, like this encounter, which happened during Traverse City’s Film Festival. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two casually dressed boys in their early teens closed the last gate, made their way to a bench near my weeping birch on the front garden, pulled a small magnetized chess set out of a backpack and began playing. They made quick decisions, or, more often, thought for a while before moving a piece. I peered sleepily through the fringe of my porch-based stickless hammock and watched them pondering their moves in the still air of late afternoon. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One bespectacled youngster eventually spoke. “Barry, would you say ‘political science’ is an oxymoron? How about ‘library science’?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Whaaat?? Those were intelligent, very interesting questions! Coming from barely teen-aged children! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I took a closer look. They were slightly built, perhaps a bit small for their ages, and certainly unusual. Not many youngsters would pull out chess sets and play patiently while pondering esoteric, unrelated questions. That behavior was more the purview of grizzled, elderly men moving pawns around faded boards on hot summer afternoons in New York City’s Central Park. <br>Oh, boy, I’d better dump that stereotype! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Barry, wearing jeans, a tee shirt and a solemn expression, glanced at his brother. “Well, as dad says, first define the central term.” <br>Grinning, they recited: “Science- systematic knowledge of the physical or material world through observation and experimentation.” They high-fived, and Barry pondered, then continued. <br>“Political scientists are usually ideological, and reflexively responsive to favored groups. <br>They tend to make statements based on cherry-picked, manipulated information, wishful thinking, opinion polls- and <em>no</em> independent research.” <br>He shrugged. “I’d say- yes, Those two words are an oxymoron..” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“And ‘library <em>science</em>’?” A long pause….“Books are organized according to an alphabetic and numerical system…” More deep thought. Then he sighed. “We should research this one. Why do you ask, anyway?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“No reason, except that I saw the coupled words yesterday, and suddenly they didn’t seem sensible.” <br>I must have moved, because they suddenly noticed me folded into the hammock. Barry spoke. “Hi. We toured the garden- is it yours? -and liked it lots, especially the mirrors. Cool! Are they left out all winter?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I rose, and went over to them, nodding. “Yep, and yep. They’re ordinary, been-outside-for-ages mirrors, protected by overhangs.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I looked down at their board. “Who’s winning?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Nobody, yet. But I usually do. Ken tends to be erratic…” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ken chuckled. “Yeah, but you‘ll get complacent, and then I’ll capture your king. I’m patient.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Are you here for the Film Festival?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Both nodded. “Our parents love this stuff. But we get squirmy in dark theatres on nice days…” ‘ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Barry interrupted. “On <em>any</em> day…” <br>“…so we’ll walk around ‘till their movie ends. We’ve been to Traverse City before, and know the layout. Some lady mentioned your garden, so we walked here.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ken offered a suggestion. “Put a little chess set in there. You’d be surprised how many people like to play. But then, maybe they’d stay too long…” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I laughed. “A three-piece suit had a long snooze on the big bench, once. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">As for a chess game, individual pieces might wander off…” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“They’d stay put. Who’d find one chess piece useful?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He had a point. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Oh, I had so many questions for these intriguing boys! But just then- Briiinng! My landline was ringing! Maybe it was my husband, Joe. I excused myself and ran inside to answer. Rats! That awful computer robot was pestering me again about changing my credit card. That machine never gives up! Choking off the call, I ran back outside as they finished their game and were about to leave. Barry had won again; Ken had accepted it with equanimity. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I had to ask one more question. <br>“Hey guys, where’s home?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Oh, New York City. We often play chess in Central Park, ‘cause we live near it.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I waved goodbye, and sat down on the porch steps, grinning. <br>Ha! Central Park, after all! <br>Well, old girl, you were right: just subtract about 55 years, and add bright, and delightful!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/49294572017-11-12T11:42:50-05:002017-11-12T11:42:50-05:0011/12/17: Splat! <p><span class="font_large">These days, as my outdoor chores are done, I have more time to recall some memorable gardening mistakes I’ve made out there. Here are a few dim-witted examples I can smile about now. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One midsummer morning a few years ago I checked the temperature before venturing outside. At 6 a.m. it read an eye-popping 89 degrees. The air was so moist I could grab a gob and wring it out. My heart sagged. “Move,” I muttered. I’d certainly broil soon, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt to prevent my imperious roses from drawing blood. A mosquito net veiled my perky straw hat, and a baggy, elasticized mesh jacket hung halfway to my knees. (Vampire mosquitoes and no-see-ums find me irresistible. This odd outfit stops them cold.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My feet dragged as I moved outside to deadhead, usually a pleasant, satisfying daily job. Now, even this gentle, slow motion task made me sweat. Temps were predicted to rise to 99: the heat index would make it feel like 104 well before noon. Wonderful. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Pinch, snap, dump. Pinch, snap, dump. Finally, two hours later, every bloomer looked bouncier, minus the weight of its dead mate. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I took a minute to admire the gorgeous multicolored daylilies, which were undismayed by the weather. Hmmm: two lovely flowers weighed down by fat buds, wanted propping up. I did that. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, it was feeding time. Last week my plants had enjoyed Miracle-Gro. (But I’d sprayed myself thoroughly, first, because I’d forgotten to sort out the order in which the three levers worked,) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Today I decided to apply fish emulsion because I think plants enjoy variety. This nourishing slop consists of every bit of the fish that isn’t eatable. It’s mostly pureed entrails. (By the way, liquid food nourishes plants immediately. Granules, though, take up to 6 weeks to be effective...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I should have reviewed how my applicator worked. (When I dreamily ponder a musical phrase while working, or think about photos of objects in deep space, shown daily on my home page’s ‘Astronomy Picture of the Day,’ a ‘deep space’ can be also be found between my ears. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, awful things happen...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">First, I released the <em>hose</em> lever. The hose swelled, much heavier now, as the water pressure rose. But nothing came out of the applicator attached to it. Huh. I peered into the thingy’s business end, saw the problem, turned the <em>bottle’s</em> lever to the ‘on’ position- while it pointed at my mug— splat! The gutsy formula blasted my netted face, hair, hat, and shirt. I stumbled backward, gasping as I fumbled for the hose lever and turned the wretched thing off. The smell of this nourishing slop was- indescribable. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’d actually repeated last week’s mistake, (Impossible things happen far too often out here.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Normally I can laugh at myself; one-trial learning, for me, usually takes two trials. But this idiocy was too much. Fuming, I hurled the hose and bottle attachment down and hopped around, dripping guts. I flung the stinky netting and hat away, and punished the air with clenched fists, unnerving the neighbor cat, who crept away. Lord, I was mad. At me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I had just enough functioning brain to remember that my neighbors live close, and can see and hear every angry dance that weird Dee does, especially from their second story windows. I certainly didn’t want to call attention to this humiliation, so my rant happened in pantomime. (Which was probably even more entertaining.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s the ‘last straw’ part of this dumb-Dee-dumb dumb comedy. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’d flung my hat onto a patch of cranesbill geraniums. When I snatched it back, plopped it on my head and began to stomp off to clean up, the hat, and my hair, buzzed. Somebody small and angry was freaking out under there. Bother! There was actually a bee in my bonnet! Which, like my hair, was sozzled, and more than a little ripe. Which made the insect mad. It wanted out Yesterday, or I’d surely receive a pointed reminder. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hastily I tossed it away again: the disgruntled bee buzzed off before the hat landed on the lawn. Lucky me! He’d been too shocked to stab his barbed hinder into my hot head. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Whoa,” I muttered. “Enough with stomping fits, you silly twit.” I crept into the house, shed my soggy clothes and showered the mistake away, my face still flaming from residue embarrassment. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Why are levers so compelling for me? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A. <u>I see one.</u> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">C. <u>I turn it on</u>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I tend to skip B, which reads: <u>I reason out sequence <em>before</em>...</u> </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">At least I hadn’t chosen Miracle Gro. Remembering its awful taste, I’d kept my mouth firmly shut this time. Did this tiny triumph demonstrate a rising learning curve? Maybe. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then there were the times I had to run after the vanishing Acme Hauling truck, having absently laid my (tenth set of) nice pruners in amongst huge piles of garden weeds and plant debris. (I have <em>never</em> learned <em>this</em> expensive lesson.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Another time I could hear my cell phone ringing as the city garbage truck trundled away with it buried in there somewhere. It had fallen from my breast pocket into the packed trash bin, unnoticed. I only realized what had happened when the phone called out plaintively as the garbage truck paused before turning the corner... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Both attempted retrievals were unsuccessful. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One time I struggled to unwind and unkink my heavy 50-foot hose, which involved wrestling it into a straight line on the lawn so it could be rewound properly. The task took lots of muscle work and concentration. I’d back up, unkink, back up, wrestle out another kink- completely forgetting to glance behind me. So, of course, I tumbled backward into the big fountain pool just as a small pod of visitors wandered in. I couldn’t vent my frustration with satisfying curses, so resorted to weak exclamations and inane jokes before sloshing away to dry out. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A wry sense of humor does help to explain away these sorts of half-witted embarrassments, which usually morph into ‘funny’ after a decent amount of time passes.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/49197892017-11-05T03:27:55-05:002017-11-05T03:27:55-05:0011/05/17: Subtle Delights...<p><span class="font_large">Saginaw was drenched in cold rain. Bother! I had forgotten to pack Bryn’s raincoat before I left Traverse City. When she wears it I have only to wipe dry her head, paws and a bit of her tail when we come inside, instead of spending 20-plus minutes kneeling on the floor to run the hairdryer all over her soaked self. <br>We stared out at the bleak scene. What could I substitute to keep her dry? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I foraged through the pantry’s shelves, thumped down to the basement to peer into cupboards, then ran up two floors to poke around before eventually deciding on a well used rectangular muslin laundry bag, complete with thick drawstring, that we’d always included when taking lengthy road trips with the children. It would be perfect for Bryn’s long back as we sloshed around our fenced two-acre yard. But- would she tolerate it? Securing her red fitted Velcro-secured raincoat was one thing. She never gave <em>that</em> garment a second thought. <em>This</em> covering, though, would simply drape, like a blanket, over her back and up her neck, unsecured. It could be- unsettling. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I brought the pale bag to her and she sniffed it, curious. I placed it high, from just below her floppy ears, with the bulk of it extending the length of her back, dropping eight inches to either side of it, and ending just past the base of her fringed tail. <br>“Leave it on, Bryn, to keep you dry.” She looked at it, then outside, then back at me, yawned, and moved toward the door. <br><em>OK, Boss.... </em><br>Hmmm. This substitution just might work! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Out we went, with Bryn under the laundry bag. The peculiar, but apt description made me grin. She’d probably shake the silly thing off... But I was dead wrong. Finally locating ‘the right spot’ on the grass she did her business carefully, leaning much more forward this time to avoid it sliding down and off. <br>I was impressed! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">As the rain increased the urge to shake was powerful, but she looked back at herself- and thought better of it. From a little distance I watched her think it through, fascinated. During that entire time, maybe six minutes, the laundry bag’s top side got wetter and wetter, but it stayed on. <br>Inevitably, though, shoulder motions as she walked <em>did</em> result in some slippage to starboard, so she paused to throw me a look. <br><em>It wants a tweak, Boss. </em><br>She stood in the rain, head slightly bowed, while I trotted over to adjust it. We carried on... <br>Back inside at last I lifted the sozzled sack away: her neck and back were perfectly dry! I had only to towel-dry her paws, part of her lush tail, and her head. <br>Bryn had grasped the <em>concept</em> of rain gear! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I reflected that war dogs understand massive amounts of information, respond to hundreds of hand and voice commands, and yet are able to think independently. For example, a dog might ‘tweak’ a given command to adapt to changing circumstances while a fair distance from her handler. Bryn’s voiceless request that I adjust the bag because she sensed slippage and so deemed it prudent, was a subtle way of working with me toward <em>our</em> shared goal- to stay dry. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A few days later in Traverse City I had bank business. A light, steady rain there had settled over this city, too. <br>We set out, Bryn at heel, arriving at the big Chase Bank building on Front Street about 10 minutes later. A banker directed us to a three-sided cubicle overlooking the main area. I ordered Bryn to ‘sit and stay’ in a spot two feet from me. <br>Down went her bottom. And there, with the damp, bright red raingear complimenting her fleecy white fur, she stayed, nearly motionless for at least 30 minutes. People entering the bank admired her perfect stillness, noting quietly that she wasn’t tied to anything. Only her head<em> very slowly </em>rotated as she thoroughly surveyed the entire bank from ceiling to floor, as well as each new client who entered the much bigger room, which housed sofas, chairs, tellers behind barriers, etc. <br>Bryn routinely studies- ponders?- the world in this deliberate, meticulous way. <br>I never get tired of watching it happen. (<em>What</em> <u>is</u> happening in that head?) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Our eyes occasionally met as the banker’s long fingers patiently clickety-clacked his computer keys. Time dragged on. She had to be terminally bored, but made no sign. Once, during the ages-long silence I mouthed, “Good girl.” She looked straight into my eyes, acknowledging the compliment. We held our gazes long enough to mark the moment, and traded thoughts... <br><em>I’m patient, Boss. </em><br>Me, too, Bryn. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She gazed straight ahead again, statue-still. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Small, intimate exchanges like these make life with Bryn a constant delight.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/49116082017-10-30T12:56:57-04:002017-10-30T12:56:57-04:0010/29/17: Arizona Now and Then... <p><span class="font_large">Arizona still emits startling whiffs of the Old West. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In mid-March Joe and I flew there to visit his sister Nan and her husband, Jim. One bright, cool morning they took us to the elegant Scottsdale Art Show, situated in a lovely treed park, after which everyone padded a few blocks to Old Town, whose main street was eerily reminiscent of ‘the way it was.’ Example? An older, deeply tanned cowboy, clad in comfortable, well-worn clothing, rode his placid horse slowly up the street straight into a saloon. He ordered whisky and a burger from ‘on high’-- and was served. The horse, who seemed confortable in the confined, rather dark space, waited patiently with eyes half-closed as his rider, still saddle-anchored, knocked back a whisky while gobbling his grub and gabbing with his more conventional table-and-chairs buddies. A few whiskies later well-oiled patrons got louder, knocking over a few chairs to indulge in loud back thumping. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A twenty-minute ride deeper into the desert brought us to Cottonwood, a small town with some unusual shops. One, Larry’s Antiques and Things, which anchored one end of Main Street, boasts two acres of ‘are you serious?’ offerings- like rusting ringer-washing machines, countless decrepit commercial metal signs, old clay pots of various sizes, ancient gas pumps, a desiccated violin and cello, shredding iron horses with dusty manes, stuffed monkeys in Stetsons, and on and on. Exhausted, well-made furniture lined the metal walls of two more vast, dark two-story sheds. Amid all this stuff a satisfied tan cat licked its paws atop a giant iron wagon wheel. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The owner does a brisk business. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Cottonwood made the national news two days after we flew home. There was a shootout in their Wal-Mart parking lot. The sheriff and his deputies arrested seven sullen, mute people, including a wild-eyed, tangle-haired woman and a teen, after a big gunfight. <br>One deputy was seriously wounded. <br>Store employees were roughed up. <br>One of the aggressors was shot dead. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A few miles further into the desert we came upon a huge ‘J’ set into the edge of a steep mountainside, marking the mile-high ghost town of Jerome. The narrow, winding mountain road, which had no barriers at its too-close cliff edges, tested our resolve. We parked in a dirt lot capable of holding perhaps 6 cars, that was carved out of a small mountain shelf 5,350 feet above the desert. Our parked car’s dusty nose brushed the cliff’s edge. One dead tree stump was all that lay between it and a terminal tumble. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Our world-view from this dusty spot was simply incredible. <br>Only booze-free souls with steady nerves, excellent eyesight and dependable car/motorcycle brakes, not to mention a full gas tank- should make the Jerome journey regularly. Gulp. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Once a thriving mining town of 15,000 in the late nineteenth century, Jerome now supports a population of 448 itinerant artists and shopkeepers. Saloons and brothels once lined its winding, cobblestoned streets. Over a billion dollars worth of gold, copper, silver and zinc were extracted for over 70 years, until the last mine sighed and died in 1953. Now, tourists mining for merchandise swarm its steep streets, which have barely changed. Original plank buildings have been converted into attractive shops that still manage to cling to the 30-degree incline of the mountainside. Gravity has pulled some down. Their ruins often have historical significance (like the jail, which slid down to oblivion many years ago, to the townspeople’s delight). <br>This partially abandoned/ruined stunning town, with its ‘billion dollar’ views, is a photographer’s paradise. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I spotted a street sign- ‘Husbands Alley’ -screwed onto the brick wall of a dark, narrow, high walled alley. In its shadows a bustling brothel, ‘The House of Joy,’ specialized in entertaining errant husbands a century ago. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Jerome’s little shops feature fascinating, beautifully handmade things. The largest collection of kaleidoscopes in the world can be found in one plank-floored store, along with stunning, framed sand paintings, one of which I had to buy. It’s hard to stop gazing at its ever-changing landscapes. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Clean, well-pressed vintage clothing is offered for incredibly good prices. I had to climb a steep, cheerfully painted wooden stairs to reach one little business, but it was worth the effort. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We ate tasty burgers at The Mile-High Grill while gawking at the spectacular desert far below, and bought a memorial mug sporting its name. The sun’s rays, partially blocked by the huge Black Hills, created deep black shadows that blanketed much of the desert floor. It’s a painter’s dreamscape. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, in late afternoon, it was time to leave. But thirty minutes outside of Phoenix we made one last stop for a good dinner in the small, rough-looking genuinely old-west town of Cave Creek (pop. 5,000). <br>The town motto is- ‘Where the Wild West Lives,’ and it has its fair share of cowboys. One lean, weathered fellow in a battered Stetson enjoyed a cigarette as he rode his stringy roan horse bareback through our eatery’s parking lot. <br>The town made news in 2009 when its city council votes were tied between two men vying for a place. Someone whipped out a deck of cards and cut the deck. The contestants drew. High card won. (Arizona’s Constitution allows this, recognizing a quick, efficient way to break ties.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I gazed across the dusty street at a life-sized white plastic horse that, at first glance, looked real, standing half out of a large window on the second floor of a dilapidated building. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">You can’t make this stuff up. It was astonishing, absurd, delightful- and so unexpected. <br>Arizona is a visual adventure. I was never bored. Not once. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dick Van Dyke bought a little ranch in Cave Creek in 1968, where he still loves to live (but never in summer, when he, a Brit by birth, finds the temperatures unbearable). Some episodes of his great show, ‘Diagnosis Murder’ were taped here. Van Dyke’s favorite restaurant, peculiarly named ‘The Horny Toad,’ is just down the street. And he’d often play the drums for the local band at Harold’s- our chosen eatery! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Arizona is full of straightforward, straight-shootin’, cut-the-deck-and-deal folks. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">While living just fine in the twenty-first century, people here still revere the old ways, the old days, and the ever-changing, priceless scenery Joe and I were privileged to witness.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/49019792017-10-22T10:01:21-04:002017-10-22T10:01:21-04:0010/22/17: All Things Bright and Beautiful <p><span class="font_large">The garden still looks lovely, even with so many of the plants taken out or waiting for a hard frost, when I’ll trim them back. Dormant then, they won’t notice. I can’t bear to pull out the (annual) tropical Lantana just yet! It’s huge now and colorful, displaying red, orange and yellow flowers so beautiful, so perfect that they take my breath away. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">They’ll die with the first frost, of course. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The Kousa dogwood trees’ bright red quarter-sized seed balls hang in lush profusion, giving both of them a festive look. Nearby, the lush Boston ivy’s rich red, coral, yellow and green leaves drape the high garden walls. What a glorious portrait! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Today, even Bryn-dog was, literally, the very <em>picture</em> of autumnal cheer. Here’s how it happened. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A gaggle of noisy, very young children were out for a walk with their adult caregivers in the lovely fall afternoon. Their small feet kicked bright, crunchy leaves into little heaps while other tiny hands tossed them into the cool air. Bryn and I were meandering slowly along the wide sidewalk toward them, when abruptly two of the little ones looked up, spotted Bryn and shrank back in fear. My 53-pound dog wagged her tail once, then sniffed the air, probably picking up the distress that radiated from those two small bodies. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Uh-oh. Teacher-time! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Hi!” I called out cheerfully. “Want to pat Bryn? She feels soft and cuddly. She’s a really smart doggie, too, and loves children. Watch this.” I turned to Bryn; our eyes met, and I signaled with the palm of my hand. Plunk. She sat. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> “Oohh...”said a youngster, softly, impressed. “Does she bite?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I grinned. “Only her dinner.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">That earned a laugh from an adult. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“But she does shake hands. Who wants to be first to say hello?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A little girl with pink ribbon decorating her dark hair said, softly “Let me...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She edged to the front of the group, lowered herself, and tentatively reached out. Bryn nosed her palm and raised her paw. They shook. Most of the children grinned and gathered around to introduce themselves to her, but those two little boys remained a safe distance away, definitely not even a little convinced. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ha! Time to replace fear with curiosity. I’d tap into every child’s enjoyment of painting with bright colors. Today, though, we’d use the multicolored ‘props’ scattered all over the ground instead. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I turned to them. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Bryn likes to look nice. In winter she collects shiny white balls of ice in her beard and on her tail, and in fall she likes to wear colored leaves. Check out my ‘pretend’ paint job...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I beckoned to Bryn to stand up again, but to stay anchored, then I looked around, spotted a colorful, semi-dried leaf, plucked it up and let it fall delicately onto her head. That red, orange and faded green foliage really brightened up her curly brown crown. Smiling, I dribbled another mostly dried leaf onto her white plumed tail, where it hung, cockeyed. (Her fleecy fur, like Velcro, happily snags dried leaves... Sometimes, though, she’ll ask me to disentangle those that dangle from her rear end after she sits amid leaves in the dog park. They drive her nuts when she walks.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The two cowering boys gaped in astonishment and pointed. “Look! She likes it!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The others cheered. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“I call this ‘doggie painting.’ Wanna try? Pick one or two pretty leaves. Remember: good painters take their time and decorate juusst. so.” <br> I artfully added one more leaf to Brynie’s back and stepped back to admire her. That did it! The younger boys took their forefingers out of their mouths and dashed to the grass with the others to make their selections. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> They showed them to me hopefully. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Is this one good enough?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I shrugged. “Try it. If Brynie likes it, she’ll wear it. Sometimes, if she doesn’t like what I pick she’ll shake it off, and so I get to try another one that she might like better...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(I knew Bryn wouldn’t shake them off. She enjoys little ones, and doesn’t mind them rumpling or tweaking her, having a ‘sense’ of these things... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But, just in case it happened, I wanted no hurt feelings.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">They rushed over and laid their offerings on Bryn’s curvy tail. Umm. They did look lovely there. The boys beamed. She stood, tail still, unruffled, the soul of patience. I gently married another fat leaf to her leg feathers. Wow! We had quite the ‘autumn dog’ now. The children had placed leaves gently on her side, and even let one hang off one floppy ear. All spontaneously applauded. This area had become a ‘no fear zone,’ by golly. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After a bit we said our goodbyes and walked on (with Bryn still wearing her decorations). Ahead we noticed a homeowner collecting an armful of round, plum-sized green walnuts, which he piled at the foot of his stairs. I commented; he laughed and said, “I can’t mow smoothly when these darn things litter the lawn, so I pile ‘em up and the squirrels snatch ‘em to take to their lairs. My dad used to say that the quicker the pile vanishes the quicker winter will come. He might be right. I gathered quite a few a week ago, and there were none left after three days. Autumn has come more quickly this year, I think. Maybe the animals sense that winter will roar in in November, and so are eager to store as much food as possible.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We both moaned; it’ll be sad to see this splendid, lengthy autumn slide into ice and windy snow, though I do love the white stuff. Ah, well. Nothing lasts. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Almost home now I kept glancing at my dog, resplendent in her coat of many colors. I looked- dowdy -by comparison! And, so, just like that, I dropped to the ground and rolled down the leaf-filled hill into Hannah Park. Bryn followed, delighted. My hair and fleecy jacket were dressed in a vivid collage of bright leaves! Ahh, I thought, with a rueful smile; it’d take a long time to get them all out. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Never mind: we looked wonderful wearing autumn’s glory!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/48922432017-10-15T00:25:50-04:002017-10-15T00:25:50-04:0010/15/17: A Mountain of Fun! <p><span class="font_large">Joe and I have been working constantly. So, one Monday very recently we decided to take a break, before we shifted from tired to fried. Bryn, a wonderful traveler, would come too, of course. We’d set aside nearly five days that would begin Wednesday afternoon. <br>Destination? <br>Tennessee. <br>Why? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Well, why not? <br>We could hike and bike in and around the Smokies, and explore two towns at the edge of this national park, named Pigeon Forge (pop. 6,000) and Sevierville (pop. 16,000), which housed Dollywood. (Sevierville is Dolly Parton’s hometown.) We’d heard about this theme park for ages, but had never checked it out. I love her movies; ‘Nine to Five,’ and ‘Straight Talk.’ The lady’s easy one-line observations always trigger laughing fits! So, a theme park with her name on the billboard promised a decent, fun-filled experience. (We probably wouldn’t see more than a smidgen of Pigeon, ‘cause this was a scouting trip.) <br>Gatlinburg (pop. 4,000), the gateway to the Smoky Mountains, would be interesting as well. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I packed just enough to fill my backpack (we never <em>over</em> pack, remembering K.I.S.S. (Keep It Simple, Stupid), grabbed Bryn’s food bowl, bed and leash, and when I finished seeding the ratty front lawn at Sunnybank House on Wednesday, Bryn and I scrammed. Three hours later I turned into the driveway of our little brick farmhouse in Saginaw and transferred our stuff to Joe’s ‘95 GMC van. Then we lashed both our bikes to the back and took off. The transfer took ten minutes. <br>It was 4 p.m. on Wednesday afternoon. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">At 9 p.m. we arrived at the La Quinta Inn, fed and walked our doggie, and fell into sleep. Thursday, after a leisurely wakeup, Bryniewalk, coffee and bacon, we carried on south on I-75. At around 3 p.m., after 6 hours on the road (battling sheets of pounding rain for two of those hours, which slowed us down) we found ourselves part way up the Smoky Mountains, smack in the middle of Pigeon Forge. Our GPS guided us straight to its La Quinta Inn, just a block from the main strip. After a nice constitutional behind the hotel we left Bryn in our room to eat her dinner. (A seasoned traveler, she’s always fine with this arrangement, knowing we’d be back.) Across the tree-lined street was Happy Harry’s Crab House, perfect for a glass of merlot and some nibblets, brought to us by hometown folks who spoke with a rich southern drawl. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Pigeon Forge suited us just fine. Everyone- from the hotel’s cleaning lady (“Wheh ya’ll from?”) to the waiter- (“What ken ah git ya’ll?”) was so friendly! It wasn’t phony baloney, where people smile, but not with their eyes. <br>Maybe it’s just me, but knit brows and ‘Constant Consternation Syndrome’ were not evident down here. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After coffee in our hotel’s little breakfast area we trotted outside to our bikes, hitched Bryn to the superbly designed Bike Tow Leash, and pedaled away from human structures. It was just after sunup, 58 degrees. We had the countryside to ourselves in perfect biking weather. Not a soul was about. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">By golly, after just two minutes’ ride down a back road we heard flowing water, which lured us to a beautiful asphalt trail that followed the Little Pigeon River’s route. Long grassed meadows and thick forest with hilly banks offered semi-hidden access to the river at different points. We walked our bikes down one steep, rough break that opened out to a bright meadow that ran along the stream, which was strewn with huge boulders. Rushing mountain-cold water mingled with the infant sun’s shower of white and gold light. Ducks and geese waded the riverbank or cruised in the current in family groups while honking out migratory gossip. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn splashed through the pebble-y shallows scooping up cool water drinks and flinging half-drowned sticks into the air, and dashed up and down the long grass meadow for the pleasure of it, while we poked around. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This early, with no humans anywhere, Bryn was released to run alongside us as we biked along. Ah, she loved the freedom! <br>The entire morning was taken up exploring the area’s endless beauty, peace, and isolation. What a gift for tired minds! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We returned to the hotel just after noon, renewed. After Bryn was fed and settled Joe and I trotted over to the Crab House again to try its yummy, affordable dishes. <br>Everything was delicious. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, an afternoon nap beckoned. We rose a couple of hours later to stroll up and down the busy, really long main avenue. There were too many hotels and restaurants to count. And jeez, Louise, what amazing structures! We gawked at castle-like buildings complete with ‘medieval’ towers that lined the thoroughfare. One huge, white-pillared monster (which reminded me vaguely of Scarlett’s mansion in Gone With The Wind) had been constructed upside down, with its roof on the ground, which made the whole thing cockeyed. Amazing! It was landscaped with tall, <em>upside down</em> pine trees, whose roots reached for the sky. !! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Other fantastic structures promised that intriguing things happened inside them- a magician’s super show, a huge house of mirrors and other delights, ghostly hotel guests, buildings that featured come-to-life stories from the Bible, rooms full of family-oriented pinball machines, not to mention huge ‘barnatecture’ buildings hosting downhome country shows with cowboys and horses, great country music and acrobats, with Dolly’s name and picture out front. <u>Dolly Parton’s Dixie Stampede Dinner Attraction</u> is perennially popular. (But, as we dine once at midday, this offering would be wasted on us.) <br>A massive sky wheel, imported from Myrtle Beach, made lazy circles in the sky, allowing riders to see over mountaintops as well as enjoy the million colored town lights far below. This immense wheel looked much bigger than the London Eye. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The weather was so beautiful, though, that we couldn’t imagine spending the afternoon indoors. Just looking around, though, was great fun! (One fantasy castle had swords that pierced the stone facade, and enormous blue worms that wound around its tower...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I had two goals. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">1. I wanted to rent a GoCar and roar around the big, wide course as fast as possible. Its low chassis guaranteed a thrilling experience. Joe opted to stay behind to catch me rocketing by with his phone camera. Oh, Boy! For $14 I could travel the snaky track twice. So, I belted up and took off with the pedal-to-the-metal. He captured some decent pictures! </span></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/2e4199f31d1639c0f7e1f21fff3b9210cee5bea9/original/img-3723.jpg?1508041495" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">2. I wanted to repel gravity. There was a place on the main drag that featured a huge wind tunnel for curious folks to experience zero gravity. (A jet full of astronauts would fly straight up, then fall precipitously straight down for about 15-30 seconds. They’d float around in the cabin, not bound by gravity, for those few precious seconds. I always thought that was a COOL thing!) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But, alas, number two had to wait ‘til next time...because- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">While I was maneuvering my hotdog car back into its berth, Joe’s phone radar informed him that rough weather was about 12 hours away. Hurricane Nate would usher in wind and lots of rain. Navigating down the narrow mountain road in our big van through such intense rain made us uneasy. <br>So, always flexible, we changed the plan. We’d bike around Pigeon Forge and Sevierville for the rest of Friday’s fine afternoon, then collect Bryn from the hotel and drive the 8 curvy miles to Gatlinburg to check <em>it </em>out that evening. (She loved padding around with us, sightseeing, but delighted in sights and scents much closer to the ground, like rubbish bins and fire hydrants.) <br>Then, after doing one more morning mountain bike trail trip with Bryn starting early Saturday morning we ate our midday meal in Pigeon Forge and drove back to Ohio (escaping the rain) to stay at the same La Quinta Inn. We carried on to Saginaw on Sunday, arriving mid-afternoon. (Gas was cheap, by the way. $2.21/gal.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s the thing: Tennessee’s easy to drive to, especially if the journey’s broken up. So we’ll go back before too long. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s another example of what’s possible there: Imagine zip line cable travel from one mountain top to another, where a person can dip-zip down to survey- and whiz past- gorgeous pristine valleys, lovely streams, and even fly over huge virgin forests. It’s a two-hour experience. (It’s a two-hour rush!) I have no idea what such a thing might cost, but the concept sounds marvelous. For me, it’s a way to see the Smokies from high above, without hiking hundreds of miles, or/and bumping into bears. <br>Hmmm. We’d have to climb up to mountaintops to <em>reach</em> each connecting zip line cable, wouldn’t we? -which must have been strung using a helicopter. Wow. <br>But the highest mountain doesn’t exceed about 3500 feet, which isn’t that bad... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Anyway, it’s a great motivator to keep fit. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ll keep ya’ll posted!<br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/f444342189edb3f2d5c16550e36feba31d7bb28c/original/img-3689.jpg?1508041527" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/48823082017-10-08T08:51:03-04:002017-10-08T08:51:03-04:006/21/12: A Nerd’s Typical Day <p><span class="font_large"><em>Dear Readers, </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Bryn, Joe and I are on the road to the Great Smoky Mountains for a spontaneous exploratory visit. We’ll look around, hike and bike, and likely return for a longer stay when we can. So I can’t write a column this week. I offer one from 2012, instead... </em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">Four a.m. My working day began under our king-sized bed. I’d finished making it, then suddenly wondered what lay beneath. I found a two-year-old Popular Mechanics magazine, an ancient golf club (don’t ask) and two dusty antique wall clocks. Those beauties, flat on their backs, hadn’t ticked off time in a decade. Huh. I’d forgotten they existed. It was long past time to renew my vow: sell anything not used for a year. Don’t think twice. Just <em>do it</em>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I composed an ad right then. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Mid-morning. I set to work weeding under a big shrub in the intense (95 degree) heat, when two overwrought men strode in, talking rapidly. One was disheveled and especially agitated. It wasn’t flowers that dominated the conversation, but bedbugs. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">…“and the exterminator’s there, but I <em>won’t</em> let ‘em spray poison on my clothes and pillow. Janet’s furious – wants me to toss everything, but I <em>love</em> that pillow…#%$&! Prolonged heat does kill the buggers, but how’s that possible? Do we seal and cook the house? Bake them in our oven?? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Excuse me,” I interrupted from under the euonymus shrub, hoping they wouldn’t object to my intrusion. <br>“I couldn’t help but overhear. There’s a solution! Use your big portable oven.” Startled and confused, they peered down at me. I plowed on. “Go home, seal your pillows, blankets and clothes into <em>black</em> contractor bags and toss them into your car- which you must park in <em>full sun</em>. Wait a few hours. Turn the bags once to make sure everything is roasted thoroughly. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">100% Megabugadeath.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">They stared. <br>I carried on. <br>“It’s so hot already today, that cars are near to roasting. Every bedbug will be six feet up in record time.” <br>The victim’s face blossomed into a wide grin. “You know, That. Just. Might. Work...THANKS!! <br>They hurried out, muttering, “It’s only 10 o‘clock now…” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I sat back on my heels, grinning with satisfaction. I knew a bit about bedbugs from the awful saga of friends in another state. The creatures had invaded their home, probably via a visitor’s suitcase. (There seems to be an epidemic of bedbugs, lately, in this country.) This <em>one</em> interesting sniglet of information had taken root in my brain, and now I’d had the satisfaction of passing it on. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Why had those men come <em>here</em> in the first place? To consult the-oracle-under-the-shrub? I adjusted my mosquito veil and grinned. The world is full of mysteries. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Another pernicious weed yielded to my probing fingers. See? You don’t <em>always</em> ruminate about garden-y things, Dee. Well, yeah, I do. I think a lot about the bugs who live out here. Mostly with angry admiration. Bedbugs fit that thought pattern, don’t they? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now I tried to think ordinary grass-thoughts. Clever green blades often tiptoe into my flowerbeds and arrange themselves among the innocently accommodating blades of, say, flashy Red Baron grass, and by golly, I’m fooled – for a while. Fortunately, though, ordinary grass still hasn’t figured out how to turn red from the waist up. So I knelt out there in the boiling sun and stared quietly for a while at the <em>invited</em> grass- which starts out green- then did a slow scan. What didn’t look quite right? Aha! There! With a growl of satisfaction I yanked a tall, skinny masquerader out. They’re stealthy weeds, but this gardener defines persistent. I pounced gleefully on others that had quietly hunkered down amid the Cranesbill geraniums. <br>Cheap thrills like these keep me going. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Still on hands and knees I peeked under lavender and daisies, hunting for signs of horrid Houttuynia. Four years ago this little groundcover’s gorgeous, multicolored leaves had made me swoon. Love-struck, I brought one little honey home and tucked it in. I ignored my own rule- <strong>Never Invite Anyone into my Beds Until I’ve Done a Thorough Background Check</strong>. I’ll pay forever for allowing passion to overrule common sense. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Darling Houttuynia had lived here for only one summer when, checking under another plant, I saw... <br>But denial ain’t just a river in Egypt... Nah, I’d thought; she wouldn’t have had <em>time</em> to fool around...She’s so sweet, so little and pink…. <br>Right! Once again, I’d underestimated a plant’s capacity for mastering multiplication while basking in cow poop. <br>That morning I dug out six fat newborns, cursing. Later I discovered another perky infant <em>forty</em> feet away. Idiot! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ouch! Somebody had crawled up my pant leg and was dining on my calf. Bugged, I bolted out of the bushes, ran to the garage, hopped out of my cargo pants and shook them, hard. Something little fell out and flew off. A closer inspection revealed a trail of bites. Rats! I’d forgotten to rubberband my cuffs. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bugs absolutely love me. It’s mystifying. And maddening. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Oh, I was so very hot and bothered! I threw on my pants, dumped my hat on the lawn and snatched up a hose. <em>Full blast</em>, I thought, and bent over to unleash a torrent of rubber-heated water which eventually went cold. I drenched my neck and hairy head, cooling my temper, and me. <br>Ahhh. <em>Much</em> better. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sopping wet I stood there, not thinking a single thought, when- <em>Ding</em>! In walked four somberly dressed visitors, probably coming from the funeral home two doors down. There I was, hose-to-nose, soaked soggy and grinning sheepishly, my fly still unzipped. (Oops.) The folks stared, laughed nervously, and edged away. <br><em>Idiot</em>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bugs, heat, hoses and grass-dumb behavior- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">All in all, a garden nerd’s typical day.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/48722302017-09-30T22:58:21-04:002017-09-30T22:58:21-04:009/29/17: A Squirrelly Guy <p><span class="font_large"><em>I wrote this column 5 years ago; I offer it again, too preoccupied 6 hours a day with preparing the garden for winter to write properly. </em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">It’s a nice Sunday in September, 2012. I’ve closed for the season. What a challenging summer! Never have I been so hot for so long. I’ve spent weeks as wet as my fountains, but I’ve finished this garden year with a sense of satisfaction; nothing important has died. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’d thrown in the trowel a few times, though. The beautiful alley rose garden, for example, found itself on the short end of my shovel. Looking at it one June morning, I felt a deep weariness. The alley heat was awful. Oven-baked and sporting bloodied hands and arms every day, I’d struggled to tend the thorny queen of flowers. <br>I’d become a servant. <br>At that instant, I knew one of us had to go. The roses lost the toss. I’ve felt only relief, since. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The Lavender Garden that took its place is a scented wonder, and so much easier to manage. I’ve gone from rose maintenance chores lasting at least an hour per <em>day</em>, to just ten minutes a <em>week</em>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ding! The garden bell sounded…A rotund, vaguely squirrel-toothed, beautifully dressed older guy wandered in and looked around. He saw me lying under a hydrangea bush watering the roots, and padded over. “My. This is quite a project; the owner has you people out here all day, I imagine.” I looked up at him, noting his gesture toward my friend, a jeaned lady on her knees carefully collecting nigella seeds. (You people? Ah! He’d assumed we were employees!) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Before I could correct him, he blathered on. “How many workers run this garden?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Exasperated, then unable to resist, I sighed. “Guess.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He snapped back; “At least two.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The gesture, again. (Interestingly, he didn’t bother to ask if he was right. He just ‘knew.’) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“But there’re too many cats in here. Why is this tolerated? They always make a mess in the flowerbeds, so I’d certainly poison them.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What? Could the neighborhood cat be slinking through the foliage, concentrating on her afternoon rabbit hunt? No. His gaze was focused on my three rabbit-furred kitties (I love the irony), which stared out from the trompe l’oeil library window…He hadn’t looked closely enough to realize they were stuffed toys. I took a breath to answer, but he plowed on, loving the sound of his own voice. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Some people”- he looked pointedly at the house- “shouldn’t put up with local riff-raff. ” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What? Ah…my friend’s husband was taking a nap on the garden’s patio. His clothing was a bit grubby and rumpled, as they’d just returned from a weeklong camping trip. <br>Hmmm. What we had here was ‘a failure to communicate.’ He was a bore. But, his declarative ‘observations’ were getting more out of line by the second. He was digging himself into a deep, embarrassing hole, metaphorically speaking. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He chugged on: “Tell me if I’m right. Your employer entertains a lot of overly endowed friends (he made a big-bust gesture and nodded toward the house), and rarely comes out here to get his hands dirty. And you people aren’t paid very well. Not these days; labor’s cheap. If you don’t pan out, there’s always another one in line.” He snorted. “Look here; you missed this weed.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Yup. I had. I donned my meek-as-a-lamb face and pulled it out. “Thank you.” The urge to offer facts was stifled by fascination. How could anyone choose to live with him? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He coughed. “Well, Don’t expect me to keep doing your job for you. But if you’re ever down Georgia way, give me a call. I have a much bigger garden that I’ve trained my wife to manage. She might just hand over the reins to you if you handled it right. Look me up. Everybody knows me in__.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Uh-huh. Right. I took his card and said, “Well, I have a job to do; there’s no rest for the weary.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What I <em>really</em> wanted to do was to add him to the compost heap. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Shaking his head with condescension he strode down the stone path toward the Brick Walled Garden, opened the door and disappeared. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I ran into the house in time to watch him climb laboriously into his nice car and glide off. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The hose was still running gently, so I wandered back outside. A fat squirrel paused by the hydrangea, a huge green walnut in his mouth. We exchanged meaningful glances. I grinned. “You’re right, Earl. (All my squirrels are named Earl.) “The man <em>was</em> nutty. Good observation.” Snapping his plump tail, Earl bounded off to bury his nut in the warm earth. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I wondered how long it might take before the guy’s wife pondered her own compost pile with the same thought…</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/48537492017-09-17T01:35:55-04:002017-09-17T01:35:55-04:009/17/17: The Final Days<p><span class="font_large">Sunday will be the last day I’m officially open, as I must begin to tuck it in for the winter. What a short summer! I’m not ready for it to end... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">‘Tucking in’ is a two-week job, but doable, if I have decent weather. Visitors are still welcome to come through to look around if the first iron gate is propped open. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I must trim all my lily stems to within 2-3 inches from the earth, and take down all the huge Hostas (with my trusty serrated kitchen knife). Ragged after nearly three months, their leaves testify to a few mild attacks from slugs, who much prefer to devour littler hostas. Huge ones are quite a mouthful. Nobody, even a slimeball, likes to work that hard if it isn’t necessary. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But as I work away I glance into a mirror sheltered by a special tree in the Faerie Garden, and everything becomes- different. Mirrors are transformative that way. I can lose good chunks of time gazing quietly into it. Reversing a scene makes it fresh and new. It’s a sort of magic, like moving into another world, for as long as one stops thinking. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The six-foot-high Ostrich ferns are turning brown: they tilt drunkenly to one side or the other. Their arched, browning fronds can be snapped off right at their origin, leaving only the tall, richly dark fiddleheads poking up from protruding rhizome bumps. I love these exuberant, incredibly ancient plants, and welcome them back every spring. A FIRM hand is required, though, due to their tendency to multiply at a gallop. My God, they can take over a garden in two weeks! This rich earth has such power. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn sits just a few feet from me, hoping rabbits will rocket out from their rapidly disappearing hiding places in response to my trimming. She leaps straight up as they bounce off, but refrains, with an immense effort, from charging into the deep beds after them. (They scramble under the big wall into the neighbor’s yard, just as Peter Rabbit did, leaving Bryn pop-eyed and huffing. But she knows The Rule.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She’ll never do her business in here during gardening season, understanding that the entire area is a part of our home. In deep winter, though, when heavy snow and ice storms eliminate all boundaries, I’ll sometimes let her out into the secret garden’s deep snow when it’s too dangerous to take her around the block. (If I fell as we walked, things would get dicey...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She understands the difference, which was carefully taught two years ago. I’m delighted and grateful. We’re both much safer. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The front garden is still a riot of color. Even the roses are gorgeous. I won’t touch the scene until I run out of autumn. How could I rip out such cheerful bloomers- like my marigolds, and the silly, leggy Verbena bonariensis? Each tiny, absurd, vividly blue flower, perched jauntily on top of four-foot-high, dead straight stems, makes me grin. It’ll reseed, then pop back every spring, anywhere it wishes. This season the verbena has used the black-eyed Susans’ tall, strong stems and bright orange flowers to help keep its narrow figure erect. It <em>is</em> a delicate thing, and clever. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’m laughing, having just run outside again to admire their easy camaraderie. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Soon the Boston ivy’s leaves will turn a rich red as it clambers along the high garden walls. Old robins’ nests, wedged between those thick, tangled vines, are being teased out by mischievous breezes as they begin to disintegrate. Energetic chipmunks rescue bits of fluff woven through these abandoned homes to reuse in their own snug burrows, under my fieldstone paths. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The immense sweet autumn Clematis, tumbling from the top of the alley garden wall, has finally burst into bloom today! Its zillion delicately perfumed white flowers scent the warm air, attracting hundreds of thrilled honeybees, and even passing cars, which pause as their drivers gaze at the glory. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The garden is so very beautiful now, and so fleeting, like life... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I cherish every single minute out here.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/48440082017-09-10T01:09:09-04:002017-09-10T01:09:09-04:009/10/17: Good Garden Stuff to Know...<p><span class="font_large">I have a feeling autumn’s going to be early this year. So I’ll begin tidying and winterizing my garden- but <em>at the right times</em>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I always take out annuals <em>before</em> the first frost. If I wait, it’s rough, miserable work. When the ground is frozen even a little, the plant won’t slip out easily, and will have to be sorted with a shovel, and a good tug- which is a perfect setup for a back problem- and a sailor’s vocabulary. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ll trim perennials after the second <em>hard</em> frost, when the ground is frozen to two inches down. (If I can’t push in a shovel, it’s frozen.) The plant has gone into dormancy and won’t notice a thing I’m doing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ll trim lavender to about 3-4 inches above the ground, so I can still see the teeny buds; if cut too high it gets ‘thick around the waist’ and loses much of its grace and airiness in following years. Lavender lives about 8 years, and appreciates correct trimming to keep it healthy during its life. (Interestingly, some perennials, like roses and peonies, can live well over a hundred years.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ll trim back any climbing roses that would whip around in winter winds, or that might split if too much snow piles on top. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">About now, I always cut back all my lilies, daylilies and aubretia to about three inches, leaving enough stem to mark where they are in spring. All should have evolved to yellow. (I’ll get healthy growth next year because I’ve let them ripen for so long.) Meanwhile though, those flowerless stems can be annoying, so I use them as supports for annual climbers, like Mandevilla. That way the two-plus months it takes for their stems to turn yellow won’t bother me nearly as much. They’ll be useful to other plants, and still look very nice, as vines wind around their sturdy poles and flower profusely. (Bonus: the lilies appear to bloom again!) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ll take trusty serrated bread knife outside and cut every hosta <em>to the ground</em> in early October, leaving <em>nothing</em> above. This job is soooo simple when I have this tool, and such a wretched task, otherwise. If I wait too long the leaves go mushy; slugs settle into the slime and make more slugs. I’d face the price of dithering in a few months. Ugh! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(Note: in spring, when little round hosta bumps emerge, I won’t step on the invisible new growth because now I’ll push in cheap little red flags (found at Ace Hardware, sold by the hundred) as a reminder. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And later in autumn, say, November, I’ll wrap smaller tree trunks with tree paper, or plastic ‘curls’ to prevent ravenous rodents- like rabbits and squirrels- from gnawing their bark in the dead of winter. They can ruin a tree in an evening. (Any ‘ringed’ bush or tree would surely die.) I even wrap my large Rose of Sharon bush’s multiple trunk-like limbs to discourage them. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My cherished autumn-blooming clematis won’t be touched until spring, when it’s warmer and most of the snow is gone and I’m fired up and don’t mind spending roughly half a day on each. (They’re huge- at least 60 feet long.) I’ll begin at the end and work back, taking just the straw-like dead stuff. It’s tedious work, but I’ll do it cheerfully because I always listen to a good story as I work. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(By the way, there is little need to trim young (1-4 year old) clematis. Just attend to the grownups. My reward? A <em>glorious</em> sight and scent every September.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now I’ll trim daisy stems and lady’s mantle right down to the little basal leaves. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ll buy a couple of bags of good earth to fill in the little and big holes made when I removed annuals. Beds won’t look so ‘cored out’ in spring, and rodents, especially chipmunks, looking for a place to burrow in, won’t carry on digging the holes<em> I </em>created. (<em>After</em> hard frosts set in, though, every animal has chosen its home and settled down, erasing that problem.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Some annuals, like artemesia, cineraria and certain annual vines, if covered with earth or a biggish flowerpot with a bit of earth on top to hold it in place, might live through winter. Mine have survived eight winters because, one year, just to experiment, I flopped a bit of light mulch over them, then a largish flower pot to keep them from wind burn. Decent money is saved because I didn’t have to purchase them all over again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Oh- another thing; I’m going to overseed my lawn now, and must take care not to get too close to beds. I use a big piece of cardboard to insure this. Then I throw dry earth thinly over the top of seeded bald spots, and water. If I forget to go slowly, in mid-spring I’ll have to remove lots of grass growing among my perennials, blurring the pretty picture. I learned to be careful years ago, when my cheerfully flung grass seed spent all winter growing deep roots in my beds and then spring up to almost a foot high. Arghhhh! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally- and most folks forget this step- I’ll sharpen my gardening tools, oil them, and hang them high. It’s been a lovely summer, but soon it’ll be time to rest and think about music and books...</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/48359732017-09-03T01:17:09-04:002017-09-03T01:17:09-04:009/3/17: Catty Solutions<p><span class="font_large"><em>Fun fact: A group, or gathering of cats is called a clowder. </em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">The other day Joe and I were visiting our friends, Barbara and John, a retired couple living near the little town of Omena, a few miles north of Traverse City. Their snug cottage sits on a hill right on Grand Traverse Bay. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Passionate about cats, they volunteer at rescue centers. Sometimes a cat or kitten there ‘calls’ to them;’ it is adopted. Make no mistake, though: felines themselves decide who might fit <em>their</em> criteria for staff. (There’s an old saying: dogs have family; cats have staff. I always hesitate to say that people ‘own’ cats. They <em>think</em> they do, and this delusion is indulged, as the belief almost always works in a cat’s favor.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Barb and John share their lovely home with nine animals, who enjoy their company. Every morning Barb makes the bed immediately, as multiple cats are often found sleeping together on top of it. (Their humans are allowed to use-and warm it- at night.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Each has his personal bowl, and, for the most part, each respects which one belongs to whom. They enjoy exploring the surrounding forest and lakeside, finding the area perfect for honing their hunting skills. They’ll argue at times about position in the pecking order, especially when a newcomer is introduced. Disagreements might even come to blows, but the dust settles quickly and new arrivals are seamlessly absorbed into the clowder. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(Unfortunately, I can’t touch felines. Large blisters rise in my eyes, and I have difficulty breathing. But my ‘hands off’ rule makes the problem easy to control, especially in summer, when we can chat outside. Sometimes, though, a cat will sense my situation, and, if bored, might amuse itself by winding sinuously around my legs while meowing plaintively, just to see what happens. Eventually, staff might have to distract or remove the most persistent teasers. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Catty boredom is solved in innumerable, interesting ways. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">For five years, until 1981, my mother and David, her English husband, lived in a charming little out-in-the-countryside-cottage on the Isle of Skye, off the coast of Scotland. They needed a mouser and enjoyed cats, and so adopted Jinji when she was very small. Jinji took to her job immediately, but often found herself bored. One day, instead of eating her caught mouse, she brought it home to play with, then took the terrified creature into the bedroom and placed it under the bedcovers. She then emerged to watch the result. The frantic mouse caused the bedspread to writhe as it tunneled around in the dark. Soon bored by the sight, Jinji stalked away, leaving the stunned, panting, disoriented mouse still under the military-tucked blankets. Soon after, Mum entered the bedroom with freshly dried clothes. The frantic mouse, hearing her enter, dashed around with renewed energy between tight sheets again: the tidily made bed squirmed as though alive! Mum dropped the laundry basket and yelped in surprise. Was a snake in there? A rat? What?? She and David lifted the sheets and blankets on the count of three: the poor mouse stumbled out, scampered down the hall and through the open kitchen door to freedom. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After a good laugh they decided the bedroom door would have a ‘closer’ installed to prevent a recurrence. They knew how Jinji’s mind worked... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Well,” John chuckled, “I can add another true tale. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A friend of ours was paying the bills one day, and noticed that his water usage had skyrocketed that month! Big money was demanded! Shocked, he checked all the hoses, and searched for leaks in his basement- nothing. Finally, just to sure he hadn’t missed anything, he hired a plumber who inspected everything all over again, but found nothing amiss...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“So...only the bathroom- and his housecat- were left... but it wasn’t possible, was it? Sill, what other combination could explain this massive bill? He decided to install a hidden camera/recorder in the bathroom that would trigger if motion were detected. Maybe his kitty had figured out how to turn faucets on and off, or maybe the toilet might have been fiddled with, somehow... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">No, surely not... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Well, as soon as he’d left for his job the recorder snapped to attention as his cat strolled into the bathroom, hopped up onto the toilet tank lid, s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d one front leg down to the lever- and push-pawed it down until it resisted, as she had watched <em>him</em> do countless times. Whoosh! The toilet water swirled rapidly round and round, and then drained; the bowl refilled.... She flushed it <em>again</em>, and <em>again</em>, for nearly an hour, and kept coming back to repeat the fun multiple times that day. This cat-invented sport had been played continually-- for a month! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“So, from then on, the toilet seat was always kept down: the bathroom door was always kept closed. He did provide interesting toys for her to play with, like largish empty cardboard boxes, crinkly wrapping paper, squeaky toys and intriguing catnip-infused rubber mice that dangled from long flexible strings that she could bat around. He’s even considering another cat, so she could have a friend...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“But, best of all,” I commented, joining in the laughter, “his water bill plunged to almost zero again!”</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/48273982017-08-27T02:21:24-04:002017-08-27T02:21:24-04:008/27/17: A Sneak Attack<p><span class="font_large">The other day Bryn wandered through the secret garden taking in the perfumed oriental lilies, before relaxing into her ‘sphinx’ position on the grass. Only her eyes moved as she inspected the sky and then, Mother Earth. What does she scan for? Raucous gulls and jets certainly fascinate her as they move effortlessly through summer’s scented air. <br>When she assumes this position in the <em>front</em> garden and stares straight ahead at nothing, people driving by sometimes stop and stare. Is that a statue? They might drive around the block, just to see if it moves. It hasn’t. So they’ll roll down their windows and yell, laughing-“Hey, that statue- It’s a dog, isn’t it? A <em>live</em> dog!” <br>So I just holler back, “ Yeah, she likes to meditate...” They shake their heads, believers. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Today, relaxed on the lawn, she listened as I chatted about nothing in particular and gazed ahead. But then, without warning, she leaped straight up into the air, to land hopping on three paws. The right front one was held high; she licked it frantically, her mouth forming an ‘O’ of surprise and pain when she looked up at me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Through it all, she’d made no sound. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I peered hard into the long grass where she’d been. Something moved deep between the long blades- a ground bee, or a spider...The scoundrel disappeared underground before I could determine which. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Next to me Bryn shook her paw, much like people shake out a lit match, peered closely at it, then licked frantically. That didn’t help, so she grabbed her ankle in her jaws and shook the paw over and over. Still, no relief! I felt so helpless! When she finally concentrated her tongue on one spot I memorized the place and ran into the house to grab my tube of cortisone cream. It’s the best stuff! I rubbed it into the place, then told her not to tongue it away. She obeyed, but I sat right there to wait. She’d forget, and lick it soon enough. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She remembered -for about two minutes, then, miserable, tried to ease the ache by tonguing the area; a quiet “No,” immediately stopped her ministrations. A minute later the cortisone had kicked in. She continued to peer at her paw closely, but her tongue stayed home. <br>“Can I look?” She offered it to me. I felt around- no discernable swelling. Odd...There should be some indicator that she’d been bitten or stung, shouldn’t there? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When I called her into the house she limped a few steps before hopping on three legs to the stairs, which were climbed very reluctantly. She still hurt. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Inside, I checked again- no swelling. She went to her kitchen bed, hung the bum paw over its soft cloth side, shook it occasionally, then went to sleep. <br>If she still showed distress when she woke up, I’d slip her an 81 mg (baby) aspirin... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But then I had an idea. Sometimes displacing a brain’s pain or worry by introducing a new thing to think about, can help. <br>I waited. <br>30 minutes later her eyes opened. She rose from her bed and limped to me for a back scratch, head down, eyes closed. <br>After a bit, casually, testing, I said, ‘Well, are you up for a trot to Hannah Park?” <br>Her head snapped up. <em>Oh, yes Boss! </em> She trotted toward the front hall so I could put on her gear. The limp was less discernable. As we descended the front porch stairs I barely noticed it. <br>She looked up at me just one time while still moving a bit tentatively along the sidewalk. Was I still concerned? Pretending not to see I hummed a tune as we walked briskly across the street to the lovely expanse of green, treed park. Down the 15 steep steps she went, searching for rabbit sign. We jogged along the riverbank; there were no traces of bee/spider trauma now. Limbered up, she’d pretty much worked it through. <br>I grinned. Well, we’re over that hump, whatever it was... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dogs are empathic creatures, acutely sensitive to their human’s moods. Bryn is inextricably linked to me: I think she knew we wouldn’t be running like this if I were worried. So she relaxed into the moment, trotting, and then running, with a light heart. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But, at bedtime she offered her paw once more. I felt it carefully, smiled and said, with quiet authority, “Your paw’s just fine, Bryn. All better.” <br>She sighed, thumped her tail once <em>-just checkin’ Boss-</em> closed her eyes and fell into a deep sleep. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My God. A dog sees the human it loves as a Great and Powerful Oz, and so trusts him or her absolutely. Humans <em>know</em> about Things That Matter. <br>They make food and water happen, light the darkness instantly, move superfast in huge machines, operate carpet ‘roar machines’ with perfect confidence... <br>They <em>fix</em> things. <br>So-When a dog’s human says a thing is fine, Then It’s Fine. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn’s trust is a gift. I hope I <em>never</em> let her down.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/48196172017-08-19T20:56:03-04:002017-08-19T20:56:03-04:008/20/17: Motorcycle Heaven<p><span class="font_large">A couple of years ago one of Joe’s big motorcycles needed a part to prevent the slow drip-drip of fuel, so he maneuvered it into our slim motorcycle trailer at the Saginaw farmhouse where we’d raised our children. <br>“Up for a possible adventure?” he asked, with a grin. “I’ve got just the thing- a nice drive with a small adventure at its end. Bryn will enjoy ‘reading the news’ in interesting little parks and laybys. And after we pick up the bike, Shawn, my fix-it guy, wants to show us a really different farm not far away from his place. He says we shouldn’t miss it.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So, on a lovely cool Sunday we drove due east for an hour, into mid-Michigan’s agricultural area. This dead flat, fertile farmland seems to extend forever in every direction. Big trees dressed in green offered shade to little towns as late summer dwindled down to a few precious days. After two Bryn ‘stop-n-sniffs’ at picnic areas we finally arrived at Shawn’s tree-lined home, deep in the countryside. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Motorcycle guys come in all shapes and sizes. Shawn was around 40, wiry and bearded, slim and strong. He kept his work area and the lawn around his garage tidy. (I’ve seen motorcycle shops crammed with so much clutter that navigating around heaps of empty, rusting oilcans and half-ruined bikes is difficult. These messy mazes are often patrolled by secretive cats, who expertly wind their way through the metal jungle hunting rodents.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Not so here. Shawn’s tidy, treed property held repaired motorcycles neatly parked on the lawn, waiting for their owners. The garage was orderly. Empty soda cans nestled in bins. His attractive little home, tucked into a nearby stand of trees, had colorful toy wagons and trikes scattered around the front door. <br>“The wife and kids are off visiting family for the day,” he volunteered. Shawn was friendly and clearly took pride in his work. “I want to show you my friend’s motorcycle museum; it’s not far from here,” he said. “You up for it?” <br>Oh, yeah! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The two men loaded Joe’s big motorcycle into the trailer; then Shawn flowed effortlessly onto his big black Harley and pulled out of the driveway. We followed in our car. About six miles later he led us up an attractive farm’s long driveway. A big well-kept clapboard two-story home sat atop a small hill to our left. There were a couple of large barns further away that also looked to be in good shape. <br>Shawn introduced us to a tall, contented guy named Sam, long retired, who was delighted by our interest in his hobby. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Suddenly, after exiting our car, we beheld a rare jewel! There, on the driveway’s verge, sat a beautiful little Honda motorcycle and sidecar, both painted a luscious royal blue with just a touch of red trim. Sam had meticulously brought it back to life after rescuing both pathetic skeletons from a junkyard years ago. Now the duo glowed with life. We started it; the engine purred. What a <em>beauty</em>! <br>“Would you sell it?” we asked, for form’s sake: I knew he’d never let it go. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“No way: this bike is practically family. I’ve spent five years rebuilding it, and want to savor the accomplishment for a while. Glad you appreciate it, though. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“There are a dozen more vintage Honda motorcycles in that building; it’s a sort of museum, which also holds my office.” He gestured to a structure behind him. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Turns out Sam had been a Honda salesman for nearly a quarter century, and when that franchise filed for bankruptcy he bought it, and all the bikes, too. That decision launched the rest of his life. <br>We walked into the middle of a long, narrow room lined with twelve vintage motorcycles, six on a side, extending the length of the room. These were well-kept vintage machines, mostly Hondas, with an occasional unrestored, rustier specimen tossed in for contrast. Most were at least 60 years old, and possessed their original paint. They were compact, basic machines, and all of them ran. There was even one pink one, meant for some lucky woman long ago. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He’d saved Honda signs, wonderful old posters of movie stars riding these bikes, and even stoplights from that era, too. It was like traveling back in time. Then, in an adjoining barn, we were shocked to see 150 <em>more</em> motorcycles, also from previous decades that awaited his expert hand. Most needed normal parts, like brakes, or new leather seats. They weren’t desperate bikes. Not like the almost vanished, miraculously resurrected one with the sidecar. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Seeing our enthusiasm Sam grinned and said, shyly- “You two may want to see something else.” We walked outside a minute to <em>another</em> huge barn. He opened its big doors. We gasped! There had to be over three hundred vintage Honda motorcycles, not working, representing every decade, neatly lined up- <em>including on the entire second floor</em>. It was an astounding sight! We wandered through the enormous structure in disbelief. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He knew every one, and was slowly working through the massive collection, restoring, polishing, making each machine whole again. Occasionally he’d sell one at his exasperated wife’s urging. (“If something happened to you, what would we do with all this?”) But he found it hard to part with even one! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, we were led back outside to a big, elderly golf cart. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Lets take a ride,” suggested Sam. “There’s one other area I’d like to show you.” We left Bryn in our car and hopped on. The cart made almost no sound as it moved. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The huge farm was very picturesque in the late afternoon light. We passed two strapping young men forking great masses of hay onto a wagon hitched to two large chestnut horses, who waited patiently. Sam and the men exchanged cheerful greetings as they worked. These two sons of a large Amish family had been renting much of Sam’s rich, fertile land for many years to raise their crops. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We carried on, riding through a very wide, mowed grass path, accompanied by Sam’s ancient Labrador retriever, who barked and spun around in dizzying circles directly in front of the cart, while constantly attacking the wheels. Sam just laughed as we kept going at a decent clip. “I don’t know why the old boy gets such a kick out of doing that...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was frankly nerve-racking. One slip and their dog would be toast. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Suddenly, we came upon <em>hundreds</em> of ravaged, skeletal motorcycles lined up in neat corridors in the middle of that huge field. “I use these bikes for parts,” he said. “One guy bought thirty ‘skellies’ from this graveyard to use for the same thing- parts. My wife was so happy! Even after that sale, though, there are still about 300 resting out here. This is the first year I haven’t cut the grass like I should, so that’s why the area looks a little rough right now. But I know what’s here. They’re absolutely essential to my restoration work.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Unlike the ones in the barn, these were missing frames, handlebars, seats, shocks, special nuts and bolts, cylinders, fenders- you name it. But they still held on to bits and pieces that couldn’t be bought. <br>This was a <em>useful</em> graveyard. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sam owns well over 600 motorcycles. He wakes up every morning a truly happy man who loves his machines, loves to resurrect them, race them, show them, and just be around them. Though in his seventies, he looked years younger. His nearly unlined face lit up as he surveyed his life’s work. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“I’m vintage; these motorcycles are, too. You might call them orphans who’ve found a home here. Every single one has a story.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, when we hopped out of the golf cart, which he parked by our car, he offered me a perfect Honey Crisp apple, part of a basketful he’d picked just before we arrived. Each tree’s sturdy branches groaned with sun-ripe apples that had never known spray. I hadn’t even noticed this well-tended apple orchard right next to his office. Wow. I’d been that blown away by the beautiful sidecar bike... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The Honey Crisp was absolutely delicious, the perfect finale to an astonishing afternoon spent exploring one man’s enduring passion, tidily played out on a <em>very</em> different sort of farm.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/48124902017-08-12T23:24:41-04:002017-08-12T23:24:41-04:008/12/17: Beach Bombs!<p><span class="font_large">It was a fine afternoon, perfect for Joe, Bryn and me to drive to the one Traverse City beach (unfenced) where dogs are allowed. We threw her blue bone into the van and, ten minutes later, pulled into its little parking lot. Bryn, recognizing where she was, gleefully hopped out, and we two ran toward Lake Michigan, leaping over the very long, large logs that marked the end of the lawn and the beginning of beach- to land nearly on top of a family of four, lounging on the sand with their two leashed black Labrador retrievers! (The beach area was just low enough to hide them until the last second.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">WOOF! Their big dogs leaped straight up into the air with shock and surprise, along with their owners. There was a potpourri of yells, barks and tangled leashes as the dogs scrambled to fly at Bryn, who’d gathered her wits just enough to run toward the water’s edge. Their owners were dragged along the sand, until one woman managed to slow her dog with a combination of cease-and-desist commands. The lady was strong, but her muscular 80-pound dog was full of adrenaline-fueled indignation. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Pandemonium reigned! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Eventually everyone calmed down enough to sniff backsides, though one lab, still unsettled, continued to puff out her chest and cheeks while nudging Bryn around the sand. I apologized for our unwitting ‘bombshell’ entrance, explaining that, as we seldom encountered other people with dogs here, I’d allowed Bryn to lead the way, with no lead. Fortunately they weren’t angry, but cracked jokes as they sorted themselves and shook out their big blanket. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">By this time Joe had caught up with us. He decided to throw Bryn’s bone far out into the water: she’ll swim for it, further lowering animal tension... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Not. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn stood at water’s edge, looking <em>back</em> toward the dogs, ignoring the toss. The bone sailed well out into the bay, and floated further and further away on the current. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Oh, no! We didn’t want to lose it! Sighing, Joe decided he’d swim out to fetch it- in his clothes. He transferred shoes, socks, poop bags, wallet, phone, ear buds, keys and other sundry stuff to me, and began to wade out. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Wait!” hollered the lady. “Molly’ll fetch it; she loves the water!” She flung a vividly orange plastic bone very close to Bryn’s bone, and sure enough, Molly charged into the water. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">With powerful strokes she arrived at the spot, took one sniff at the bobbing orange bone- and turned away with a loud snort. <em>That</em> one was Dayton’s! Her mistress had tossed the nearly identical, but <em>wrong</em> bone out there. Molly would NOT fetch Dayton’s bone. And, of course, she utterly ignored Bryn’s. Only <em>her</em> bone mattered. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hearty laughter erupted as they explained Molly’s oddity as she exited the water, shooting her mistress a <em>‘what were you thinking!’ </em>look. So, to mollify Molly, the lady tossed the correct bone far out; it landed practically on top of Dayton’s abandoned bone. Molly chuffed, approving- and swam steadily toward hers. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The world made sense again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Meanwhile, Joe swam out to retrieve our blue bone (and Dayton’s), and swam toward shore. In shallow water he stood up and tossed it toward Bryn. After a think, she waded in and snatched it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Good. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When she came near I issued the ‘drop it’ command. Then, winding up to throw it far out, I mischievously told <em>Molly</em> to fetch it, knowing full well that <em>that</em> command would be ignored. But Bryn, horrified by the possibility, forgot her indecisiveness and flung herself in to swim frantically out to it, all the while tossing glances over her shoulder. It was HER bone- only hers! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Nothing makes Bryn more willing to swim than another dog who might outshine her. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">More laughter all around. Then I had an idea. I’d demonstrate a Bryn peculiarity. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Hey Joe!” He heard and paused, treading water. “I’ll toss our bone toward you; pretend to go for it. But not too fast...You know the drill...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I turned to the lady and her family. “Speaking of peculiarities, Bryn measures distances. She won’t make a sound if she notes that she’s closer than he is, even by only a foot...and she’s always right. Watch this.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I flung it way out, about fifty feet from Joe’s position. Bryn plunged in and made for it, doing the calculations, and, though Joe swam quickly, she easily got it first and returned to shore. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">All this was done in perfect quiet. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Once again I took it from her, and threw it closer to Joe. Bryn plunged in again, her powerful shoulders pumping. <em>This</em> time, though, she began to scream and wail in a high register while trying to outpace Joe, because her calculations revealed he just <em>might</em> reach it first. <em>My bone! Mine!! </em>The frightful, constant din was so nerve-racking I wondered if alarmed passersby might ring the police. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She reached the bone, snatching it a mere <em>instant</em> before Joe could, and then moved at full speed to shore, leaving him in her wake. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Her ‘howler’ spectacle was such a hit with the group that we set it up twice more. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, it was time to go. Bryn still pranced lightly around, tail high, trying to look bigger, but, as her fluffy fur was waterlogged and flat, the big dogs were not impressed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After entering the van she deflated like a poked balloon. Her claws dragged as she entered the house and collapsed into her nest. An occasional howl issued from our normally silent pooch during tension-filled dreams as she relived the Beach Bomb and Bone Incident over and over. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Honestly, I haven’t laughed so much in weeks...</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/48043972017-08-06T11:20:14-04:002017-08-06T11:20:14-04:008/6/17: How To Be Your Garden’s ‘Alpha'<p><span class="font_large">There are lots of ways to keep a garden up and running from mid-to-late summer right into late autumn. All one needs is knowledge, some time, decent vision, a long thumbnail (or a pair of scissors), and maybe a baseball cap or Tee shirt that reads’ ‘Garden Boss,’ to remind every flower growing out there just who runs the show. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A visitor came upon one of my fat perennial geranium clumps. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s still blooming! Mine finished three weeks ago!” She looked wistfully at the lush blue beauties, then at me, baffled. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Well, if you look at it from the plant’s point of view,” I said with a smile, “you gave it permission to shut down and settle into a nice long rest after the first flush.” <br>“I did?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And so I explained. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“My perennial geranium (or cranesbill) likes to bloom in mid-July; its display is such a rich blue, isn’t it? But if the gardener doesn’t remove the many spent blooms it produces every day, they’ll quickly form slim, inch-long seeds; satisfied, the plant will settle down to sleep again for 10 months. <br>Don’t allow this behavior - yet. <br>To prevent ‘early retirement,’ pinch off every finished bloom every morning, or, if necessary, remove an entire stem containing a cluster of ‘gone girls.’ It’ll take maybe one minute. <br>The geranium nervously notes what’s happening, and frets that its long, pale seeds can’t form. <br>A few days later, in a rising panic, it’ll form new fat buds in response to its minder’s persistent amputations. Soon, more lush, attractive flowers are born." </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Now, don’t get complacent. Keep pinching off the elderly flowers (including those of other perennials, like salvia and veronica) <em>every day</em>. Upset, the plants will produce <em>more</em> fat new buds, which bloom again and again (assuming it’s fed and watered). <br>They’re <em>programmed</em> to insure another season, after all. Seeds MUST form, so they’ll continue to try to comply. Don’t allow it. <br>Trim big long-stemmed Alaskan beauties, too. They often form miniscule buds about half way down the thick stem. (Daisies are smart. If the current fat bloom is eaten, or broken, it likes to keep another in the wings.) Flower-nutty bosses always want more daisies, and so they gaze down, down the long, sturdy stem hunting for a tiny extra leaf- THERE. <br>Ha! A rebloom is likely! Remove the old flower just <em>above</em> that place. Eventually, another perfect- though much shorter- daisy will delight you. <br>Note: not every dead flower’s stem will have an ‘indicator.’ So, cut <em>that</em> stem right down to the plant’s basal leaves. <br>I even amputate finished flowers of my favorite pink, white and green flowered spirea shiborii. When parts of a clump fade I snip them gone. Right behind that amputation, nodes have already formed new buds. Hooray!" </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">"<u>Then, on September first, everything changes.</u> The tired cranesbill, salvia, veronica, daisy etc. wait for ‘the chop’ that morning, as usual... but nothing happens. More cool days pass. They gradually relax, set seed, power down to settle into a sleepy autumn, and finally, into dormancy. <br>I, this garden’s ‘Alpha,’ or Boss, am in charge." </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">"A good boss is also reasonable. My ‘stop amputating’ date, September first, allows cherished <em>perennial</em> plants at least two months to move gently into dormancy.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">"Take out old blooms and their stems daily with <em>annual</em> geraniums too, But do this right up to freezing weather. <em>Another</em> lovely stalk, groaning with bursting buds, is always waiting mere inches from the ‘done’ stalk. Overnight those fresh buds will open and shine for a good while, then fade; <em>another</em> plump stalk springs up, and another, and another, until November’s icy weather, finally kills it. Amazing! <br>You get such color for such a long time! <br>Ditto for marigolds. Every day, pinch away each dead bloom. Bingo! More perfect marigolds form. Right into the first snow. <br>Snip away the delicate annual feverfew’s withered daisies, too; if necessary, take a whole little <em>branch</em> of those pale brown, spent flowers. The annoyed plant will continue to vigorously regrow bright, perfect daisies in response. These tiny beauties stay splendid well into late fall, when they all finally wither. BUT. They cheerfully reestablish wherever they please, every spring!" </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She shook her head. “Well! I never realized!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sadly, many inexperienced gardeners I meet do tend to think that when a flower’s done, it’s finished ‘til next season.... <br>But- it ain’t necessarily so.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/47967422017-07-30T00:26:15-04:002017-07-30T00:26:15-04:007/30/17: Some Observational Moans<p><span class="font_large"><em>I allow myself one column per year to sound off about things I care about. It’s cathartic.... </em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">Every day, as I wander many blocks in the half-light of early morning, watching Bryn busily sniff the news, I pass by homes with shrubs that have trees growing right out of them, some taller than I am. The shrubs will finally expire, as competition for space and minerals will be too intense. These trees are completely out of place, growing where their seeds landed and rooted. It’s easy to get rid of them. Why not do it? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I see daylilies near the sidewalk desperately competing for space, doing what they do- squeezing together, closer, closer, until they’ve effectively strangled themselves. I’ve always thought this habit odd. There is usually space <em>outward</em>; but no, these flowers move inward, and hug each other to death. <br>Daylilies aren’t very smart, but they <em>are</em> gorgeous. I wish homeowners wouldn’t allow the shriveled remains of their brethren to hang there, ‘flower-tongue’ drooping, while the fresh blooms- glorious for <em>exactly one day</em>- try to look their best next to the ruin. If residents could spare 20 seconds to deadhead every morning for just a few weeks, their display would shine. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Daylily clumps must be periodically dug out, divided and replanted every three years or so. Toss the weaker ones. Note: after <em>three</em> years, separation becomes much more difficult. They hold on to one another so tightly that the gardener must fight hard to separate them. It’s a frustrating, exhausting, nearly impossible job. <br>My advice to those facing this mess: abandon the super tight tangle and begin again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When a hosta’s flowers, blooming on tall, fat stems, are done (in just a few days), the naked poles are usually left to tower above it. The sight makes me wince. It’s not difficult to cut these stems away, to simply reach down down between the plant’s leaves and snip/snap them off. The hosta looks wonderful once again, exactly as it did before the flower poles formed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I love to admire the huge, venerable maple and oak trees that line my neighborhood. These giants were planted nearly a century ago, and have managed to survive in spite of the buildings around them, and the sidewalks, and the paved over (formerly brick) streets. No riding mowers and string trimmers existed when they were reaching for the sky. But in recent decades these machines have inflicted slow motion, fatal wounds to many elderly giants, as well as countless young trees. Imagine that whip-like plastic string hitting one’s fully clothed human torso at full blast. Its power is incredible. A single assault begins the ruin. Huge mowers occasionally bang against the bark, as well. The result? Wounded old trees begin shedding huge chunks of bark, and the young ones show obvious distress in a year or two, and die in a decade or so, just when they would otherwise be growing up straight and strong. Doubt me? Go outside and walk around your block. Look at any young tree’s base. There are probably rents, open wounds, discolorations, and other signs of shock and distress. Shootlets,-thick, bushy ‘ground-based’ branches- often grow out from big and little trees’ damaged lower areas, grabbing all the nourishment. Soon the tree’s high branches begin balding. <br>It’s doomed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Homeowners, church officials and those running commercial buildings, such as apartment complexes- might want to emphasize to workers how the big rider mowers and powerful hand-held string trimmers will surely kill, in slow-motion, every tree those deadly whips touch. At least <em>two feet of mulched earth should be laid</em>, from the trunk to grass line, and that circle should be kept free of grass blades. (Should operators see grass invading that space they’ll instinctively inch closer to whack them short, just that once...and <br>WHAM! <br>The damage is done.) <br>I’d ask that they put red flags around trees, three for each, set in a triangle formation to remind operators to be vigilant. This flagging takes just a few seconds, is cheap insurance, and might well be a tree’s salvation. <br>Mowers and string trimmers kill more trees than bugs, I think. It just takes longer. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One other thing really saddens me- coming upon huge shade trees’ massive centers that are cut right out, leaving only side branches. These massive, ugly amputations present a pathetic picture to passersby. Why does it happen? Power cables, set high over little trees years ago, are now threatened because the trees, now much taller and broader, could sway too much in storms, which could snare/sever a power line. So- their potentially offensive centers are buzz-sawed gone. <br>The disfigurement is truly appalling. The tree, terminally shocked, immediately begins to die. After sixty or more years of a healthy life it’s mutilated in a morning because another solution (perhaps zigzagging across the street to reset the pole and its wires there, for example) isn’t considered, or deemed too costly in terms of time and money... <br>Mature trees greatly enhance property values, and their lovely branches shade our sidewalks and streets. Many decades, another human lifetime, must pass before newly planted saplings can offer that pleasure again.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/47891322017-07-22T23:15:03-04:002017-07-22T23:15:03-04:007/23/17: Two Stellar Moments<p><span class="font_large">I’ve discovered another way my three-year-old dog’s intense concentration (on rabbits) can be broken. <br>With Flattery! <br>She ‘pointed’ a rabbit nonchalantly dining on lawn clover a scant five feet from her nose as we walked through our neighborhood in the new morning. Normally, she’ll enter a sort of trance. Not a muscle will quiver. Not a whisker. Her right front paw will rise slowly, and remain precisely suspended. Her lovely fringed tail will straighten to an exclamation point. And there she’ll stay, for an impossibly long time, trying to reel in the rabbit psychically. <br>Today, after trying to be patient, I finally pulled her harness lead suddenly to snap her out of it, but she stayed rock-steady, impervious, pointing, pointing...It was like trying to move cement. “Bryn,” snapped,” Let it go!” while briskly tugging her lead again. Still no acknowledgment. When this dog deeply meditates on rabbity possibilities, I mused, she’s transported to another world. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then two passersby paused to take in her freshly brushed self. Bryn ignored them. <br>“Oh, Jim, isn’t she cute? Isn’t she just darling? What sort of dog are you? You’re so pretty!” She glanced at me. “It’s a ‘she,’ isn’t it? And such a fringe-y tail!” <br>It twitched. <br>“Look at her look at that brassy rabbit! She’s so dedicated! Oh, check out those long, fringed ears!” <br>One ear twitched. <br>“What a good dog! Is her fur as soft as it looks?” <br>When she finally took a breath, leaving a tiny silence, Bryn’s brown eyes flicked toward her admirer. <br><em>I am a good dog, I am. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ha!<em> I</em> couldn’t disturb her concentration, but strangers could! She wasn’t <em>that</em> removed from the world, just immune to <em>my</em> exasperation. <br>Now her tail began to collapse into a curve. For heaven’s sake, Bryn was posing! <br>The couple eventually moved on, disappointed that she wouldn’t cancel the ‘point’ so they could fuss over her. <br>I found it hard to stop chuckling. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large"> A few days ago I was on hands and knees in the grass, tracing strands of clover to its root source. (Often its pale root strand can be convinced to ‘unhook’ from the soil, beginning at the withered flower. If I can pull gently, yet not break that strand, it will ultimately guide me all the way to the main root, which is so satisfying.) <br>In the midst of a particularly long extraction, I happened to look up. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn, three feet to my right, was ‘at point’- but on her belly! Her head lay flat on the ground between her front paws. Her tail, straight as a pencil, rested on the lawn. A biggish speckled juvenile robin, still in the fearless nithead stage, stood confidently in the grass, mere inches from her nose, eager to check out why it twitched. There were no frantic parents screaming warnings above her head, no garden visitors, nothing to interrupt this sun-drenched drama. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The prat suddenly began to cheep loud and fast. Bryn didn’t move.<em> I </em>didn’t dare move. My God, that silly young robinette had no clue! My dog could grab her in an instant! But there they were, staring at one another’s noses... <br>The bird continued to question as she bounced whisker-close. Would she <em>dare</em> to peck that polished black button?? <br>Big brown eyes darted for an instant toward me; <em>I’ve got this, Boss- </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I remained absolutely still, studying Bryn’s long, white body for indicators. If her claws moved toward the soil, she’d be telegraphing that a pounce was imminent. Instead, her eyes narrowed to slits, and just the tip of her plumed white tail began to wag while the robinette squawked on, hurling questions: <br><em>Who are you? I’m Big. I’m hungry! </em><br>For a few long seconds the cheep din continued. Nobody blinked. I forgot to breathe. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then that trusting bird stopped blabbering to <em>turn sideways</em> and cock her head. Had she heard a worm’s soft rasp as it burrowed through the soil beneath her? <br>She listened hard. <br>Bryn stayed statue-still. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Phoot! A whitish poop sack plopped out onto the grass. Suddenly bored, the world’s luckiest avian flew off. Bryn, keeping to her sphinx-position, raised her head skyward, then turned it to look to me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Bird. Why? </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I had no answer, but offered a smile, and praise. “Good girl! You were <em>gentle</em>.” Her tail bumped once. She knew that word. I’ve used it many times to reassure her when I groom sensitive areas, and to occasionally remind her to rein in her exuberance, especially with puppies, at the dog park. <br>She bowed her head slightly, inviting me to scratch behind her ears. But her eyes held my gaze. <br><em>I was gentle, Boss...</em> <br>My eyes glistened as I knelt there in the clover.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/47809242017-07-15T23:41:41-04:002017-07-15T23:41:41-04:007/16/17: Bryn Studies<p><span class="font_large">I’m getting closer to awarding myself an ‘Associate Degree’ in Bryn Studies, a frequently complicated, always fascinating personal course requiring observation, experimentation, and, above all, patient consistency as I, the pack ‘Alpha’ (<em>and student</em>) learn to train Bryn-dog. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">At the beginning of her life with us, our 14-week-old puppy discovered that things moved very fast (she’d never ridden in a car), and many objects were truly BIG. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Like stairs. <br>Bryn had never seen stairs before coming to her new home that first day in April, 2014. She stopped at its foot, and looked up to the top. Wow! <br>At the top, we watched as she studied the situation. I made encouraging sounds. Bryn put a paw on the bottom step as we held open the kitchen door for her. She tackled those broad stairs with awkward, gangly hops on too-large paws. At the top she looked back down its length, pleased. <br><em>That wasn’t so hard! </em><br>(Later I lowered myself to puppy height down there; the view up was quite intimidating.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It’s instructive to see the world from another’s perspective. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She’s never allowed on the furniture, or to beg at mealtime. But she has her own comfy nests placed close to us in the most used rooms, and she can ask for treats. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bedtime is around 9. She’ll look pointedly at us, then up the back stairs. Then she’ll climb to the first landing and wait. If we take too long about it she’ll simply go on to her bedroom nest. It’s a gentle admonishment. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When I work in the garden she comes with me, but must never exit the property or run into the beds. Multiple rabbits are only feet away: she’ll pierce them with her gaze, but that’s it. Well---she might (rarely) chase baby rabbits, but come to an abrupt halt at the grass/garden border and look my way. I’ll look back- and nod. We understand each other. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She won’t pee or poop in the garden, as she’s long since figured out that it’s an extension of her home. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When I first included her outside in mid-June, she broke The Rule soon after I’d demonstrated what it was. So, to impress her with my displeasure, I <em>immediately</em> stomped around making a <strong>loud</strong> vocal objection, then grabbed her ruff, dragged her into the house and slammed the door. Bryn was horrified! She wasn’t allowed to join me out there again for <em>two</em> days. Breaking The Rule had consequences. I felt upset, too, as it isn’t in my nature to make a scene. But false fury (learned from watching mother bears discipline their cubs) helps to solidify important lessons. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ll stop weeding at random times, make eye contact, hold it--- hold it—then drop my gaze to resume working. <br>She’s been reminded, silently. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I love solving Bryn-puzzles...At bedtime, after settling in her nest, she’d suddenly move out of the room if I opened the closet door, at right angles to her bed. At first her ‘skedaddles’ puzzled me. But then I settled into her nest with the closet door opened, and understood. The big mirror attached to the door had suddenly presented another ‘dog.’ She’d learned two years ago to avert her eyes from the huge upstairs hall mirror. But to have an ‘Other dog’ spring out at her in the <em>bedroom</em> was deeply unsettling. <br>So now, before I open the closet door I tell her what I’m going to do and ask her to stay. She’ll remain nested, but avert or close her eyes. I’ll open the door half way, rummage around, then shut it quickly. <br>Situation sorted. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn has an excellent command of words and phrases. And I am learning more Canine. Watching her signals is instructive. For example, at certain times she’ll softly bump my leg or arm, once. <em>Dog park, Boss? Or a walkabout?</em> Her eyes will flick toward the door. <br>Working at my computer I’ll acknowledge the time, but often ask her to wait while I wind up my work. She’ll look at me, process the information, then settle at the kitchen window to wait. I’m always impressed by her patience, and am trying to learn from her example. <br>Patience has never been my strong suit. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Note: if she immediately bumps me again, we go outside <em>right then</em>. When she asks for something, it isn’t frivolous. If she needs to go out, I need to get off my duff and take her, even if it’s inconvenient. <br>She never lies. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After a lake swim, when she’s half dry, I’ll say, “Time for the hair dryer, Bryn.” She’ll lie down on the living room carpet. I’ll plug it in and begin. She ignores the cord- which wanders snake-like over her body as I work away- and focuses on the warm air and massage. The job takes about ten minutes. I always tell her the part I’m going to dry next. It twitches just before I get there. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Always, our communications foster mutual respect and understanding. <br>And always, its foundation is love. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>P.S. Yesterday she and I had completed her round-the-block evening constitutional, and were nearly past my front garden’s iron fence, where my climbing red roses were effusively blooming. <br>I felt a tug on the leash. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Please Boss; wait a bit... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>I was astounded to realize that Bryn wanted to sniff the flowers!! <br>She took her time in the soft evening light, moving along the fence’s length, stretching to reach the chest-high roses, taking in their essence... I didn’t move, or breathe, afraid to break the enchantment. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Had my contemplative friend been a gardener in another life...?</em></span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/47724002017-07-09T00:47:54-04:002017-07-09T00:47:54-04:007/9/17: Midsummer Musings...<p><span class="font_large">Most people going through Sunnybank’s secret garden are careful, and follow the rules. <br>I do encounter the odd bump-in-the-road, though. Recently, for example, someone bolted the first big North Gate door after entering; only much later, after other visitors couldn’t get in, did I realize what had happened. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A lady sneaked her teeny Yorkie into the garden by stuffing it into her large, soft cloth purse. But because I was out there weeding, she couldn’t let it out. A few distressed yaps later the dog did his business inside the soft folds, then barked, wanting out. She left in a hurry, red-faced. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Recently two middle-aged ladies toured the garden, then read the sign at the top of the back porch steps: “Fine view from top of stairs.” <br>They climbed the six stairs, but then carried on right into the kitchen through the unlatched screen door, and made really to climb to the third floor “to enjoy the view.” I was resting in the living room. Bryn nose-bumped my arm to alert me that strangers had entered via the back door. I moved quickly into the kitchen. There was a shocked silence all around, and then they explained that they thought the sign said come in and climb higher, and we all had a laugh. <br>Still, in 25 years no one else had misread that sign, so no, I won’t bother to change it to read PORCH stairs. <br>(Usually that screen door is locked. I won’t forget again. And I’m glad I hadn’t been busy in the front garden.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Out-of-towners find parking difficult. When attending big festival parade, one parked smack in the middle of my alley flowerbeds. When the woman returned to collect her car after the parade I was there, looking upset. She snapped that I shouldn’t be growing plants in the alley, anyway. Well, perhaps, but I just can’t resist all that uninterrupted south-facing sunlight. One always hopes for a modicum of courtesy and accommodation, though. (I found out later that alley parking in the actual alley lane is illegal, as fire trucks would be unable to squeeze past. Large fines could be imposed...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A few visitors wander deep into my flowerbeds, taking close-up pictures, heedless of the fact that they’ve crossed obvious, if unstated, boundaries. One fellow, looking perplexed, muttered, “Well, I saw no sign saying I couldn’t.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One lady ignored the garden bell when she brought visitors. Through the kitchen window I heard her comment to her friends; “Oh, that bell nonsense doesn’t pertain to me.” <br>She’ll never know how hard it was for me not to trigger the overhead irrigation. (But that would soak her guests, as well.) The thing is, I really dislike being startled as I root around out there. Family inside appreciates hearing the bell, too. <br>Most visitors do ring. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A while ago I looked out the window to see a visitor crawling along through the rather long grass, looking through it intently. Clearly, she’d lost something. I gulped down the last of my meal and went out. “Hello! What’s happened?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She was a little embarrassed. “Oh, my rubbing stone…I have a hole in my jacket pocket, and it fell out. I know it’s somewhere in here.” A rubbing stone? Seeing my confusion, she laughed. “It’s a little oval stone I like to rub and fondle; my therapist suggested stone-rubbing instead of smoking whenever I get really tense; smoothing it actually helps me relax. I’ve had it for years, and am sort of attached to it. I haven’t located it walking around, so I thought of crawling.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ohhh kaay… </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The two of us knelt in my long grass, scanning. Nothing. Her voice rose as she became more anxious. “It has to be here!” <br>Minutes passed. We crawled. We peered. Still- no stone. <br>A tall, slim man rang the bell, entered, and gaped at us until we explained what we were doing. <br>He looked around thoughtfully, then grinned. “You need the high ground.” He marched straight to the big bench, stood on it and scanned the grass sea, a section at a time. Then he pointed to a place far from where we were. “Check over there.” </span><br> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">The green-kneed woman rushed over to where the lawn met the border edging, and snatched up a small, gray oval triumphantly. <br>I’ve never seen anyone so relieved to be reunited with a stone! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’m frequently asked if I ever make big garden mistakes. Oh, yes! Lots of times. <br>Years ago, for example, I planted a sun-loving Baptisia in part shade; when I finally realized my mistake, transplanting it wasn’t possible. (This beauty can’t be moved without killing it.) <br>I’ve kept it, though, as a reminder to do my homework. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Worse, I built the alley garden door too narrow 25 years ago. It’s perpetually tricky to bring dirt-loaded wheelbarrows through. Arghhh! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Houttuynia (whoever thought up <em>that</em> name should be dragged off by his eyebrows) is a determined little ground cover with stunningly beautiful multicolored leaves- and another gleeful witness to my folly. Two months after planting it, I was doomed. Every year it snickers at me as it divides to conquer... <br>I dig every one out every year, to no avail. There’s always one more, hiding somewhere, that I miss.... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And finally, I had a huge surprise. I had to leave Traverse City for 8 days, recently, as my husband’s brother had died suddenly. When I returned I discovered that my six foot tall ostrich ferns, knowing no one was watching, had <em>exploded</em>. I literally could not discern the Faerie Garden. It had been completely overrun by these enormous plants. Even the path was gone. It took an enormous effort over four hard days to dig the monsters out. I filled 9 huge garden bags to bursting. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This takeover wasn’t my fault. But it’s served as a vivid reminder. My soil is deep, rich and full of minerals. Ferns are the oldest plants on the planet. They love to grow in here, and unsupervised, can multiply at an incredible rate. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Certainly these last twenty-five years have never been boring...</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/47641312017-07-01T23:38:57-04:002017-07-01T23:38:57-04:007/1/17: No Column Today<p><span class="font_large">Dear readers, </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Due to a sudden death in our immediate family (my husband’s brother) I have no column to submit today. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Thanks for your understanding. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dee Blair</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/47562982017-06-25T02:35:15-04:002017-06-25T02:35:15-04:006/25/17: Nanobeanology<p><span class="font_large">One day I sat in my kitchen, took a sip of freshly ground whole bean coffee- and reared back. Blehh! It was definitely ‘off.’ Why?? The bag was fresh! I’d checked the expiration date! Yesterday’s batch had tasted fine! This sudden foulness made no sense… <br>No way was I gonna drink ‘the pestle-with-the-poison.’ I wanted ‘the brew-that-is-true!’ (I’ve just enjoyed Danny Kaye’s hilarious 1956 movie, ‘The Court Jester.’) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I poured the brew down the drain. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I always buy whole beans and grind a small amount. The result is usually wonderful- but just now and then, from the <em>same</em> bag- one pot is awful! For years I’d absently wondered why this phenomenon would occur, but then I’d get distracted by something and forget to investigate. Today though, the mystery sparked my curiosity. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s the thing. (Bear with me, now.) <br>I’ve been filling my head with Nobel Prize winner Richard Feynman’s lectures on nanotechnology (‘Tiny Machines’), after having re-read his fascinating biography. He revolutionized the study of quantum electrodynamics- QED- because he was immensely curious, and because it was fun! <br>What a guy! <br>Here’s an example of the sort of man he was. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Feynman was asked to join the Challenger disaster panel of select investigators meeting in Washington DC. Twelve 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 <em>millions</em> and take forever, though obvious clues were ignored. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Feynman, who was fiercely allergic to The Establishment and political correctness, left the room during a break to fill a paper cup with enough crushed ice to cover a small O-ring seal he’d brought along. (O-rings are an essential seal for the shuttle’s rockets.) Toward the end of the long, boring meeting he asked for the committee’s attention, just for a minute. He plucked the seal out of the cup of ice chips and, with no fuss, dropped it onto the table. <br>It snapped. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here was a graphic demonstration of how an O-ring behaves when frozen, as it had been on launch day. (Just one lone NASA scientist had begged them not to launch because he feared what would happen, but he was ignored. The higher-ups couldn’t disappoint the politicians, press and families. And besides, it had turned into a gorgeous sunny morning, never mind those huge ice cycles that still hung from the rockets...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Feynman had gone straight to the heart of the problem. <br>Cost: zero. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">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 later, short written summation 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 <em>very</em> long-winded report. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Never mind: he’d made his point. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Inspired by my long-time hero’s curious cut-to-the-chase observations, I set out to discover the cause for ‘bummer brews.’ It couldn’t be complicated, surely. For fifty years I’ve enjoyed freshly ground coffee beans- but had never actually <em>inspected</em> the beans. So, after doing some elementary ‘beans-gone-bonkers’ Internet research, I dumped my bag of whole beans onto a plain white towel, upped the lights, and looked. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was a revelation. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My newly developing researcher’s eye spotted shells with no beans, elongated shells curved like a flamingo’s smile, one ‘quaker’- an unripened bean which never roasts well, one ‘stinker’- a bean that had gotten stuck in a fermentation tank, and one ‘pale,’ which is an unroasted yellow bean that emits an objectionable smell when ground. ‘Pales’ occur from drought, or from harvesting immature coffee cherries. I collected two ‘full-of-junk' tablespoons, mostly empty shells and broken shards that wouldn’t have affected the coffee. There had very likely been just one other ‘pale,’ or ‘stinker’ lurking in there. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The rest of the bag has yielded excellent coffee. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(Visit the site I found during my research: <a contents="www.zecuppa.com/coffeeterms-bean-defects.htm" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://www.zecuppa.com/coffeeterms-bean-defects.htm" target="_blank">www.zecuppa.com/coffeeterms-bean-defects.htm</a> - it has pictures of defective beans, along with brief, interesting explanations for <em>why</em> they are bummers.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My new ritual is simple: I inspect every small ration of beans before I grind them, a task that takes less than twenty seconds. <br>Simple solution. <br>My reward? I enjoy the ‘brew-that-is-true.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Feynman would have approved.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/47484332017-06-17T21:59:37-04:002017-06-17T21:59:37-04:006/18/17: Finding the Pony... <p><em><span class="font_large">Note: Sunnybank’s Secret Garden is now open, but sporadically. Check the sign out front or email (blairdee@gmail.com) for an appointment. </span></em></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">I had to be away from the garden for just over a week, due to the sudden illness of a member of our immediate family. When I returned to Traverse City on Monday, June 12, the Faerie Garden’s winding path had utterly vanished under frantically growing foliage- especially Ostrich ferns. And the main secret garden’s layout was rapidly disappearing because huge weeds, giant ferns and collapsed giant grasses (that had had no support through the heavy storms Traverse City had experienced) were leaping from my rich soil, aided by sun, lots of moisture, and <em>NO Boss</em>. The huge tulip tree’s enormous yellow tulips were nearly done: now billions of flower petals blanketed the garden. Big branches, ripped from nearby trees in high winds, littered the lawn. The grass seed I’d put down in mid-May had jumped with both feet into every garden bed, rooted, then rocketed straight up to 8 inches high. All sorts of normally innocuous weeds were now huge- and everywhere. The clematis had grown twelve feet! <br>But the six-foot tall jungle-thick ferns had boldly taken command. <em>They</em> were the most formidable. <br>I gaped at the enormity of the situation. Every bit of my strength would be called upon to chop and pull them out. My ‘pony’ was in the poop somewhere: I would have work for days to reclaim what I cared about. <br>Truly, this was an <em>epic mess</em>. Was I up to setting it right? Honestly, I didn’t know. In my seventies, I truly feel much as I did as a young woman, but still...this job would use up the next-to-last of my 9 lives. Thank God I’d kept up exercising last winter! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After unpacking and grabbing a bite to eat I walked Bryn around the block to clear my head, and her bladder, and then staggered off to sleep. I’d think about all this in the morning. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">4 a.m. rolled around. After enjoying freshly ground coffee I zipped into my baggy 26-year-old overalls (a man’s size small, but too big), and then donned my baggy mosquito jacket and heavy gloves. Bryn followed me around, watching with interest as I chose my weapons. <br>Knives, pruners, shovels, an axe, ropes... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There were two bits of good news: last fall I’d sharpened every tool. That would be immensely helpful now. <br>And, the weather was cool- in the mid-70s. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">How to proceed? I’d begin in the small area around the centrally located gazebo. When it was put right I could glance back at it as I labored elsewhere, and take heart. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The bug jacket’s sleeves kept snagging branches as I crawled around flagging essential drip lines and the electric wires that powered my 5 fountains. Only <em>I</em> could chop and dig out most of the ferns. Spencer, my young helper, would dig any that were well away from those hazards, starting tomorrow. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Having to wrestle with my attire drove me crazy. But the protection it offers is vital. I’m allergic to mosquitoes and no-see-ums. They always bite near my one working eye, rendering me blind for a couple of days. <br>My glasses frequently caught on the mosquito netting, blocking my view as I raised a collapsed 5-foot tall miscanthus grass into an upright position. After a battle I managed to secure it using a huge curved metal support. But that effort nearly undid me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn provided comic relief; she tried to drag bigger branches onto the overgrown lawn to chew. Leaves, twigs, burrs, bugs and dirt snagged her white fleece, making her look elfin, and tulip petals got caught up in her longish claws. She’d drop the branch, pull them off, then resume tugging. Or, she’d find a long lost ball in the wilderness and ‘prong’ around the area to celebrate her find. I smiled. We were both excavating for treasure! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">By noon I was exhausted. But I still had to stuff mountains of debris into huge garden paper bags, and then rake. That took forever. I stopped to fix my one daily meal, and after washing up, realized that my personal battery was dead. I was too tired to carry on working that day. I couldn’t nap though, because Bryn needed exercise. So, off we went to the big dog park, where she gleefully roared around with other canine friends. I sat atop the tree-sheltered picnic table to avoid being run over, and actually fell asleep for five minutes while sitting up, lulled by soft music flowing through my earbuds... <br>I woke with a start as Bryn bumped my leg very gently. <br><em>Done, Boss. Ready for my dinner... </em><br>Oh, I was glad! My dog, grey from rolling in park dust, was panting heavily, and eager to hop in the back seat and poke her hot muzzle out the window as we drove home. I longed for a long shower, and then bed... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Spencer arrived the next morning at 8 a.m. We two chopped, dug, and yanked weeds, ferns and roots in the Faerie Garden for hours before finally clearing enough to set in tropical plants I’d brought to Sunnybank from a favorite Saginaw nursery. I couldn’t store them in Sunnybank’s garage any longer because debris was overtaking its interior. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now the Faerie Garden’s fine bones were showing. The big dogwood, freed from the ferns’ clutches, showed off its creamy white ‘butterfly’ flowers; the bergenia and bugloss were in full bloom. The four buried giant blue hostas, uncovered at last, were stunning. The exposed hydrangea felt the sun, and responded by beginning to straighten up. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One final invader had to be dealt with: errant English ivy had abandoned its place on the 8-foot high wall: rangy rope-thick tendrils were moving rapidly through the Faerie Garden, intent on choking everything. It fought me hard, clawing for purchase, but armed with a big sharp knife and muscles I eventually won back every inch of ground. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Four days later, after reclaiming the main secret garden, Spencer and I rested. Two huge truckloads of debris had been collected; I watched bits of this and that dribble off the truck bed as the driver trundled off. Hooray! I had a driveway and garage interior again! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>By God, The Boss</em> Was Back!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/47411022017-06-11T10:07:34-04:002017-06-11T10:07:34-04:006/11/17: Little Things Mean A Lot!<p><span class="font_large">Bryn and I drove down to Saginaw from Traverse City on Monday of this past week, as my husband’s brother was suddenly admitted to the Cardiac Care Unit at Covenant Hospital. Joe, a cardiologist, is managing his brother’s care. (He continues to practice medicine here three days a week: the other four are spent with us in Traverse City.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Completely submersed in this emergency situation I didn’t register my dog’s quiet anxiety. <br>Then, last Tuesday afternoon, I drove home from the hospital in a better mood and found her unable to settle on her couch nest. What in the world? My dog looked so sad! So many sighs, eyes too wide, mouth in an O- the picture of mournful. <br>“What’s up, Bryn?” <br>Her brown eyes flicked to the sofa. <em>My nest is not right, Boss</em>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s the situation. A sofa, which had served us well for thirty years at Sunnybank House, was trailered back to Saginaw two years ago in November, to offer to our children, or donate to Goodwill. Bryn had grown up lying at its foot. Hmm, I thought. Why not let her use it? (Furniture has always been firmly off limits, but, as she doesn’t shed, I decided to make an exception here.) It had taken awhile for her to absorb the fact that <em>this</em> sofa was OK. <em>Mine, Boss? </em><br>I’d smiled. “Yes. Hop up.” <br>She’d stared at me, then at the sofa, uncertain. She put a paw on it, glanced at me, and I said again, “Go ahead.” <br>Oh, Boy. She’d hopped up and walked the length of it very slowly, one shoulder pressed to the backrest, enjoying the give of the cushions. Finally, she sat at one end. Her chin rested on its tall back as she looked out the window, chuffing happily. Her place! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Amused, I’d dug out an old fleece rug from storage and set it atop the cushions. It <em>was</em> November, and cold. Bryn <em>loves</em> fleece. That gift was icing on the cake. She was in heaven. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Since that day she’s rarely been off it. She’ll stare outside for hours, watching squirrels and rabbits scamper over the two-acre lawn. She watched for Joe’s car all of last winter from her sofa. She listens to me humming in the kitchen as I cook. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was funny to watch her arrange the fleece just so, and then curl up in it, put her chin on the sofa arm, and sleep. One day I’d found her rummaging through her toy box for a soft little decorative pillow I’d given her a while back. She brought it to the sofa, set it on the end cushion and carefully positioned her paws on it. Bryn loves pillows. I keep finding them at rummage sales for a buck or two... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now, less medically distracted because Joe’s brother was holding his own, I focused on my dog. <br>“What isn’t right?” <br>Her eyes flicked to the sofa. I looked. <br>Hey! Where <em>was</em> the fleece and her pillow? I hadn’t moved them, so where could they be? <br>Was <em>that</em> the problem? <br>It was. <br>I searched the house. Bryn followed me around, sniffing each cupboard I peered into. <br>Nothing. <br>Huh. Joe had obviously shifted them somewhere after I moved back to Traverse City in May to begin work in the garden. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When he arrived home I inquired. But he couldn’t recall what he’d done with them. <br>“They’ll turn up.” <br>He always says this when we mislay something, and he’s almost always right. <br>Bryn took to occasionally tapping my arm just once, ever so lightly, to remind me... <br><em>Boss, bed’s not right. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I couldn’t fix this. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But Time could. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Today, two days later, Joe and I entered the workshop (an outbuilding that used to be the farm’s granary). He showed me the progress he’d made in sorting/giving away/ tossing irrelevant bits and pieces. The area <em>was</em> much less cluttered, now. <br>Oh! Something caught my eye! There, on top of some empty file drawers, lay the sheepskin, rolled up, AND her small pillow. Surprised and pleased, he remembered he’d moved them out here to vacuum the sofa. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I shook out the fleece, thumped dust from the little pillow, brought both into the house and set them on the carpet. Bryn stared, incredulous, then began to prance around, thrilled. <br>It’s hard to adequately express her pleasure. She inspected every inch of that rumpled sheepskin, then joyfully rushed over to barely bump me, just once. <br><em>This is good! Oh, so good! </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I put the fleece where it should be. <br>She set her front paws on that sofa, surveyed her stuff, then let out a contented sigh and hopped up. After turning in circles to prepare her nest, she lay down and rolled onto her back, glancing up at me happily. <br><em>Bed’s just right, Boss. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Paws in the air, she promptly fell into a relaxed, deep sleep, her pillow near her nose. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Little things can mean so much! </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">Here are photos of Bryn before and after her clipping, as I wrote about last week, as well as one of her on her couch, fully furred, with her little pillow by her head...</span></em></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/f70277dc0e1034768792b796a6a9bfdc9692ddca/original/img-0116.jpg?1497189838" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/77bc02d1c3c089ff894c688b563134e81aeaab02/original/img-0207.jpg?1496542686" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/4670fd75f1658c398b59ec1dd1167e401cb832d6/original/img-3207.jpg?1497189887" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/e0c4b3e94008c815a0ee20f18e6b2df66ab7f555/original/img-3125.jpg?1497189972" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/47327912017-06-03T22:23:48-04:002017-06-03T22:23:48-04:006/4/17: A Sharper Image<p><span class="font_large">I’ve spent an exacting morning giving Bryn a summer haircut. <br>I’ve cut my own hair for forty years, and reasoned last year that I could do her hair, too, and put the saved money toward the garden’s maintenance. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But so much can go wrong. <br>My professional grade scissors are incredibly sharp. If she should jerk, even a little, or try to walk off, or if I got careless or distracted, one or both of us could be stabbed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So I disabled the landline and put my cellphone on ‘vibration,’ so as not to be startled, should it ring. I’d listen to no lectures or stories as I worked. Instead, FM radio classical music, quietly melodious early in the day, would promote relaxed concentration. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I showed her my scissors and long comb. She sniffed them carefully. <br>“Bryn, you must be <em>still</em> when I do this. You must be <em>quiet</em>.” <br>She looked at me (hopefully recalling that I’d done this job once before, last May) and then moved to the window to stand quietly, searching for rabbits. It was her signal to go for it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And so I began. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Once started, I had to carry on to the end. She’d look silly if I didn’t. It’s a two-hour job, done on towel-padded knees, on the kitchen floor. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I began behind her head, and worked down her mid-back. Not <em>one</em> twitch from my living statue, for an hour. Then she asked to lie down. Perfect timing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Snip, snip, measure, snip. Leg feathers fell away. Soft, loose curls dropped from hips and shoulders. I talked to her as I measured, combed, cut, smoothed, until her hair was shortened to just over one inch. I kept up a running commentary- on, for example, her strong legs, that routinely make effortless leaps when she frolics in the dog park. I yapped on about marvelous, floppy haired ballet dancers, like the celebrated Rudolf Nureyev and Mikhail Baryshnikov, who, like her, had seemed to conquer gravity. Bryn listened, eyes closed. <br>My nonsensical babble and soft, smoothing hands made her sleepy... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I told her I’d roll her over. <br>“Oooover we go...” <br>She allowed it, body limp, paws flopping, eyes still closed. <br>Other side done. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I left her lovely fringed ears and plumed tail exactly as they were. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And now came the hair-raising part. Her dear face. <br>I paused, and marked this shift to new territory by saying, with some gravity. “Bryn, you must be <em>very</em> still, and quiet.” <br>One eye opened to acknowledge my concern, then shut again. </span><br><span class="font_large"><em>OK, Boss... </em><br>My God! She was so trusting! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And so I took those scary scissors to her face, snipping around her eyes, and trimming her lush brows. My comb forced long, scraggly bits to stand up: then the blades neatly clipped them from the top of her long muzzle. <br>She lay there, <em>still</em> perfectly still. Last year, with eyes closed, she’d showed her teeth as I worked next to her mouth, simply to remind me to tread carefully... this year, no display. I had free rein. Her confidence in me was absolute. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Another alert; time to roll over. I tidied the other side. <br>At last, only her beard and under-chin hair remained. I gabbed softly while lifting her long lips to snip along their length, and navigating between her whiskers to snip in between. She obligingly raised her head to allow under-chin work; her eyes remained closed as she absorbed all my gentle ministrations. <br>She continued to remain absolutely still. <br>But I had to stop for a minute to gather my composure, and wipe my wet eyes. How could she stay so compliant?? For nearly two hours?! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">At last, worn out, I told her I was done. She bounced up, stretched luxuriously, and then stood in front of me, grinning. </span><br><span class="font_large"><em>Well, Boss: How do I look? </em><br>Bryn’s body, <em>much</em> more defined, now, was gorgeous. I’d definitely gotten better at this business. Last year my inexperienced hands had endured lots of mini-cuts because I would forget to move them from the blade’s bites. This year? <em>Zero</em> scissor slices! Not too shabby for a one-eyed seasoned citizen, I gloated. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She shook herself vigorously and pranced around, enjoying the weight difference, and my obvious pleasure in her appearance, before moving to her bowl for a deep drink. <br>Good Idea! <br>Admiring the impressive piles of fleece on the floor, I raised my freshly filled coffee mug for a toast: <br><br>“Here’s to ‘hair-of-the-dog!’”</span></p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/77bc02d1c3c089ff894c688b563134e81aeaab02/original/img-0207.jpg?1496542686" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/47251702017-05-28T02:36:41-04:002017-05-28T02:36:41-04:005/28/17: Bryn And The Bakery<p><span class="font_large">Bryn and I take ambling walks up and down our tree-lined street every day. She’ll often pause to look questioningly at me at a certain residential corner that marks where we turn back toward home. <br><em>Can we go into town instead, Boss? </em><br>“No,” I almost always say; ”not today.” And so, philosophical, she and I’ll carry on down the other side of our street. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But today, during a break in the drizzle, when she asked again, I decided we <em>would</em> go that way, guessing what the attraction had to be. (I was surprised that she remembered it, after a winter away...) <br>Oh, the transformation! She lit up, and high-pranced the entire three blocks to Front Street. <br>Rounding the commercial corner, ignoring an attractive cabinet store and then a kitchen store, she trotted straight to the Dog Bakery, a snug little shop where she’d make her way up and down the three aisles to sniff the various big bags of kibbles before arriving at the rounded shelf packed with freshly baked dog cookies displayed in attractive baskets, where she’d deeply breathe in the scents of their varied flavors, while never actually touching them... <br>(That’s The Law. <br>Sniff, but Never Touch.) <br>Some cookies would still be faintly warm... <br>The staff would offer her a little treat... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Inches from the shop’s door handle she stood, waiting eagerly for me to open it. <br>I pulled- <br>It remained firmly shut. <br>Oh, NO! <br>A big sign on the papered over store window announced that The Dog Bakery had moved to S. Airport Rd, a long drive from here. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn could NOT understand why the door wouldn’t open. She tried to peer in, but the door’s glass was papered over, as well. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Done, Bryn. Bye-bye,” I said, sadly. These words signify that a job -like my daily Bryn-brushing- is finished, or that Joe has gone off in the car- or that something has gone. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Incredulous, <em>willing</em> it to open, she nudged the knob again and looked at me anxiously, so I pulled the handle again to demonstrate that it was locked. <br>Bryn sat, unmoving, staring hard at it, trying to grasp ‘Done.’ <br>To make things worse, I had no car until Friday, two days away. So we couldn’t return home and drive to the new location. <br>Her sensitive nose scooped in lingering odors from its defunct kitchen. <br>I waited, letting her come to terms with her disappointment. <br>It took a long time. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A man walking by saw us looking blankly at the facade, and said, unnecessarily, “They’ve gone, a couple of weeks ago.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Yeah, I know;” I sighed. “Bryn is trying to accept it. But thanks...” <br>I saw one ear move; she’d understood the man behind her. <br>(Two confirmations = truly Gone.) <br>Her eyes closed. Her head hung low. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">At last she sighed, turned away, and crept slowly down the street by my side, the picture of acute disappointment. I felt awful. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Eventually I broke the silence. <br>“Bryn, I might have one last Bakery cookie at home.” She looked up at me and wagged her tail once. <br>As soon as we hit the house she went to the kitchen drawer set aside for her, and sat. I searched the drawer nervously: where was it?? <em>There</em>- rattling around in its little bag, in the far corner. <br>Accepting the stale treat politely she trotted off to crunch it down. <br>But we both knew it wasn’t the same... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The next day dawned bright. Joe brought back the car. We piled in and drove to the new location. Bryn hopped out to stand, uncertain, on the tarmac. Where was this? <br>Right then a patron came out of the ‘Pets Naturally’ dog store (which had absorbed the Dog Bakery) and with him, a familiar odor- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Eagerly breathing it in she moved to the front door, which Joe opened. She traveled happily from aisle to aisle, carefully inspecting dog toys and miscellaneous items, as well as various big bags of kibbles, before finally arriving at the baked goods section. Ha! Her favorite cookies, containing whitefish and sweet potatoes with a touch of honey, were parked on a shelf. She grinned and looked at us expectantly. We bought the little bag, and offered her one cookie in the parking lot. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She ate it carefully, licked errant crumbs from the pavement, and then sighed, content. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The world made sense again!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/47168302017-05-21T00:59:12-04:002017-05-21T00:59:12-04:005/21/17: High Adventure Recalled<p><span class="font_large"><em>Dear readers: I’m spring-cleaning in a huge way, and so have not had time to pen a decent column. I offer an interesting older one you might enjoy... </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A bench in the secret garden looked inviting, so I lay along its length and idly watched an inbound jet slowly descend toward Traverse City’s Cherry Capital Airport. A passing single engine plane droned along high above it. I closed my eyes, enjoying the spring scents… </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Suddenly, a shocking 46-year old memory resurfaced. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">February, 1976. Joe and I, proud parents of three-month-old Jenny, were living in Santa Barbara, California. As a new physician, he covered our living expenses by working in an LA emergency room three nights a week. On his free days we enjoyed biking, or walking the nearby ocean beach with our beautiful baby. I loved being a mom, but Joe looked thoughtfully at me one day and diagnosed a mild case of restlessness. “There’s more to life than diapers and feedings: take an occasional morning off when I’m here and learn something new, Dee.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I thought about it. He was right: I needed a challenge... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ha! I’d learn to fly! Always wanted to. The airport was close by, and lessons were quite affordable. Gas was really cheap then, and instructors were eager to teach aviation skills to anything that walked and talked sensibly. Joe heard me out and declared it a splendid idea. So, setting aside one morning a week, I enrolled in ground school, studied hard, and passed the written tests. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Neil, my no-nonsense instructor, taught me the art and science of flying using the school’s dependable Cessna 150s, a plane that is very forgiving of student awkwardness. <br>For months, Neil hammered home a vital lesson. “<u><em>No matter what happens</em></u>- bird hits, engine failure, smoke in the cockpit, any sudden emergency- <u>fly the damn airplane</u>. React emotionally to unexpected events ‘upstairs’ <em>after</em> you’ve landed safely and shut it down.” <br>To emphasize his point as we flew, he’d reach over and kill the engine without warning, or stall the plane, or begin a spin, or even turn me nearly upside down, until I learned to stop unraveling and address each novel situation efficiently. <br>I flew the airplane, no matter what he threw at me. </span><br> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">The FAA guy awarded me my license after I’d passed <em>his</em> rigorous flying test - (if he’d had to touch the controls even <em>once</em>, I’d have been toast). Now, with my pilot’s license in hand, I decided to fly to interesting places one morning a week. (Pilots need to fly regularly to stay competent.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One day, after filing a VFR (visual flight rules) flight plan, I pre-flighted a rental Cessna (i.e. checked every inch of it inside and out), hopped in, taxied out when the tower’s Ground Control granted permission, and was cleared for takeoff. The plane rose obediently while I dialed in data issued by Santa Barbara Flight Control. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What a beautiful day! <br>About one minute into ascending to my assigned altitude of 5000 feet, the radio crackled to life to transmit an urgent new order. “Cessna four-three-six-zero-niner- this is Santa Barbara Control:<em> immediately turn right</em> 90 degrees while <em>DE</em>scending 500 feet!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Wha…? This was a weird deviation from my previous clearance. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“This is four-three-six-zero-niner; roger that,” I responded, changing course as I repeated the order. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The radio crackled again. <br>Hearing a most unprofessional “God!!!” on the tower’s open microphone, I raised my eyes from the control panel to look out of the cockpit window- and gasped! A massive blue passenger jet materialized from a fluffy cloud, only slightly above my previous flight level: had I not responded instantly to the urgent course change, our noses would have merged. There came a muffled cheer from the tower as the monster thundered over me and continued its orderly descent. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Reaching my assigned altitude, I busied myself leveling the wings and trimming the plane, ready to carry on to Santa Cruz when released from the previous order. <br>I was too stunned to process what had just transpired. <br><em>Later! <br>Right now, fly the damn airplane. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(I found out much later that the guy was being <em>trained</em> as an air traffic controller. He’d somehow managed to overlook the incoming passenger jet on his radar screen when assigning me my flight path. <br>Fortunately, his instructor had noticed.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Still saucer-eyed, but calm, I continued out to sea for another mile or so as per orders, before a different controller cleared me to turn back inland and resume my flight plan. He then allowed himself these words: “Nice job, four-three-six-zero-niner.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I flew on to Santa Cruz, landed slick as spit 40 minutes later, parked the plane, and tied it down in case of winds. <br>Only then, when I began to tremble on the tarmac, did I wet my pants. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Neil had taught me well. </span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/47080552017-05-14T02:13:50-04:002017-05-14T02:13:50-04:005/14/17: Ten Goodies...<p><span class="font_large">Sunnybank’s secret garden is host to a flurry of activity these days. Most of the really hard work is done. (Every bed has been meticulously cleaned of leaves and dead twiglets and branches, and all perennials inspected.) I still need to turn over the winter-compacted soil, mix in a bit of manure, and then wait until June, when it’s safe to add interesting tropical and annual plants. Perennials, appreciating the loosened soil, will stretch their roots more easily and grow with enthusiasm. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Oh- and today I can mow the grass. Somehow, after that’s done, I feel that the gardening season is launched. I’ll cut it long, to 3 inches, to inhibit weeds and add to the sense of lushness. That means cutting it again soon, but who doesn’t need the exercise? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here are a few rules I follow: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">1. Keep string trimmers (strimmers) well away from tree trunks. I see whole clumps of young, sad trees in parks that won’t make it to adulthood because their maimed bases are re-whipped every week by those handy, but lethal machines. It will take a few years, but they’re doomed. Ditto for adult trees. Nylon line moving at warp speed is deadly to bark. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">2. <u>Always</u> set shovels and iron rakes face <em>down</em> on the ground after use. This prevents an absent-minded gardener from trodding on the blade, then getting instantly brained by the long handle. That horror can knock a person out, or worse. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">3. Wear steel-lined boots/shoes to prevent toe amputation when chopping roots vigorously with a shovel. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">4. Never plant annuals until well into June. Late frosts will kill every one. My personal ‘safe-to-plant’ date is June 5. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">5. Never plant a flower closer than 18 inches from a home’s foundation. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">6. Don’t trod on turned soil. Ever. Instead, place stepping stones where needed, and insure that they’re large enough to stand on, and work from, comfortably. I place a potted annual on those stones that are closer to the front of beds, to make their presence less obvious. A pot can be temporarily shifted when I want access to the back or middle of a bed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">7. I glance at the big pegboard in my workshop. If a tool isn’t covering its own white outline when I’m done gardening, I’ll know I’ve left it outside. (Or, you could dab a tool’s handle with shocking paint to make it much easier to spot amongst the greenery and garden debris.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">8. Now, while shrubs and trees are still semi-naked, look at their branches closely. Cut away all that are touching a neighbor, or rubbing against another, or will be, soon. Potential damage is easy to note now. But hurry; leaves hide what is happening. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">9. Remove all tree bark wraps. If these rabbit-gnawing preventives are left on post winter, they’ll create ‘soggy bark syndrome.’ The bark will pine for air and light. Eventually bugs hiding in its wrapped spring-moist interior will multiply, further weakening the plant. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">10. Now’s the time to pull out sneaky grass blades that have invaded beds (after gardeners seed their lawns in fall). Left alone, rogue grass will blur the clean lines of proper plants, and begin to vigorously spread. Yanking them <em>after</em> they’ve established themselves amidst the flowers is much more difficult. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Reviewing these ten personal rules every spring adds to my garden’s beauty, and saves money, toes and time.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/46996192017-05-07T00:04:13-04:002017-05-07T00:04:14-04:005/7/17: Big Changes; New Offerings<p><span class="font_large">What a busy, productive winter I’ve had! The façade and interior of our little brick farmhouse in Saginaw have been renovated and painted and I’ve done lots of work at Sunnybank House, too. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But the best part of the last 6 months is: I’ve finished a new (my fourth) CD, consisting of of eleven songs recorded in my basement studio over 7 months or so. It’s called: <em>There’s Something in a Name</em>...offered, as usual, to help me earn funds for the Secret Garden’s maintenance, which is considerable. This offering includes old pop favorites, like ‘Georgia on my Mind,’ ‘Eleanor Rigby’ and ‘Vincent,’ as well as music I have written for poetry I love, that have enticing names- for example Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘Annabel Lee,’ an eerie account of his beautiful bride’s fate...and his. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">As usual, I sing while accompanying myself on my synthesizer. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And there are other new things to know; from now on the Secret Garden may be open only at odd times- for a couple of hours, or for a day or two, now and then. Check the sign out front. Or, I might possibly be open for larger chunks of time- perhaps for days, if I’m working outside. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ve loved opening it to visitors for 26 years, but must stop doing weddings or other events in the secret garden. These days I want to focus much more on my family. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ll likely be biking, swimming, walking, enjoying my friends, doing cookouts, and a ton of other fun stuff. And I like to grab power naps during the afternoons... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ve certainly enjoyed hosting the countless happy functions held at Sunnybank over the past quarter century. It’s been a pleasure. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">If you have a group that wishes a tour of the secret garden and Sunnybank House, please email me at blairdee@gmail.com. If I have no other plans, arrangements will cheerfully be made. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Feel free to email me should you have any questions, dear readers. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One final note: my second book will be out by midsummer; I’ll make a more formal announcement soon. It’s about our labradoodle, Bryn, and features dozens of tales of other fascinating, intriguing animals I’ve met over the years. I think you’ll close this book with a smile... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My CD and book would make great gifts, anytime. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And there’s this: I include below a recent account of a South Carolina family’s alligator experience that you may not have read about. In mid-April I wrote about an experience my sister had with these scary, fascinating creatures in Naples. Then I saw this article a few days later... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I wonder what the beast was thinking. The photos are astounding!<br><br>---<br><br><a contents="Alligator climbs to a second-story Mount Pleasant porch, through a screen door and then refuses to leave" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://www.postandcourier.com/news/alligator-climbs-to-a-second-story-mount-pleasant-porch-through/article_62f3764c-238a-11e7-9bb4-eb7197b7df98.html" target="_blank"><em><strong>Alligator climbs to a second-story Mount Pleasant porch, through a screen door and then refuses to leave</strong></em></a><br>from The Post and Courier (Charleston, SC)<br>By Bo Petersen / Photos by Steve Polston</span><br> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">Susie Polston had fallen asleep watching "Friends" on television. She woke in the late night to a loud intruder on the porch outside her Mount Pleasant home. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Somebody’s trying to break into the house,” she told her family. They secluded themselves in the master bedroom and called 911. But then the racket quit. Ben Polston, 16, her son, snuck a look and started yelling, “Oh my God, I found it! I found it!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He’d found it all right. In the early hours of Easter, a nearly 10-foot alligator had clambered up the back stairwell to the second story porch of their home, crunched through the aluminum screen door and made itself at home between the sofa and a swinging bench. It lay there like a plastic prank, but when they rapped on the window glass, it lifted its head</span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“It was just surreal. It was so bizarre,” Susie Polston said. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And the monstrous critter wouldn't budge, even though a nuisance removal agent spent two hours trying to coax it out far enough from the porch to snare it safely. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“A 5-footer, we could have put a dog stick on it and dragged it out,” said agent Ronnie Russell, of Gator Getter Consultants. “One that large, he likes to grab onto things (to fight.)” As Russell worked outside, the family inside dragged over household furniture to barricade the door. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“There was not a whole lot of room up there (on the porch),” Russell said. <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/c21e4adae9b8423f4de7613f27df04f8f6aa55a0/original/alligator.jpg?1494129520" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Alligators wandering up to homes isn’t unusual in the Lowcountry, with its abundance of marsh. Climbing a story-high staircase is. But it’s spring, the time of year male gators roam for mates. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The prehistoric-age creatures like to take the direct route from waterhole to waterhole and will thrash their way through obstacles if they can. In February, a gator wandered up to a home off Cypress Gardens Road near the Cooper River and appeared to climb the door to ring the bell as it tried to get past. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Unlike the crocodiles seen on television, alligators are not aggressive by nature. But they eat dogs and will react if they feel threatened, including a bluff “false charge” showing their teeth. They can move swifter than their bulk suggests.</span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The guiding rule for the critters is to let them be. If there’s room and time, they will move on, eventually. But the S.C. Department of Natural Resources issues nuisance removal licenses for problem situations, keeps a calling list of licensed agents and has an emergency number, 1-800-922-5431. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The Polstons’ home sits by a pond on the 18th hole at the Rivertowne Country Club off the Wando River, separated by fencing. In seven years they had not seen an alligator get past the fencing. But “that’s what alligators do, they follow that fencing until they can get around it or through,” Russell said. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After two hours of getting nowhere, Russell consulted with the Polstons. State law requires a nuisance-trapped alligator to be killed. Agents usually remove it from the premises first. The family didn’t want to see it killed. But the other choice was to wait it out, maybe for days. The animal was euthanized. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Susie Polston is still uneasy about it all. The family has a more secure porch door now, and will get a gate for the stairwell landing. But they're not turning tail, at least so long as it doesn’t happen again, she said. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“We love it here. It’s beautiful,” she said. “We think this was rare. We hope it was rare.”</span></p>
<p><br> </p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/46908352017-04-30T00:06:12-04:002017-04-30T00:06:12-04:004/30/17: Dissolution Pending... <p><span class="font_large">Funny how one’s settled world can alter in a blink. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Our little brick farmhouse’s exterior in Saginaw is being repainted, after 37 years. The bricks had held on to their good looks until just a year ago, when the facade suddenly began to look tattered and washed out last fall. I decided that I’d have it repainted this spring. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The weather warmed to the low 60s this mid-April, so the painters and I got to work. From the roofline to ground level they scraped and smoothed the bricks, whose surfaces the English ivy’s imbedded footpads had marred. (I’d pulled away every scrap of that vine, a huge job.) Then the painters washed decades of dirt from the bricks. All went well- until we discovered that the bricks in the front of the house, hidden by the foliage of three giant pine trees planted fifty years ago, had totally detached from the frame at our home’s front corner! The trees were so much a part of our home’s landscaping that it had never occurred to us their thick roots could make the structure so vulnerable. But now, we had an impending disaster! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We could pull the bricks out easily: the mortar between them had disappeared. Furthermore, the stone foundation below looked suspicious, too: deep cracks above ground probably indicated that fissures could be found deeper down. (Clue: Water, ice and time had worn away the mortar between each stone that I could see <em>above</em> ground.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A fine contractor, Russ, who owns J and J Contracting, has 40 years of experience in exactly this sort of thing. He came right out, hearing the urgency in our voices, took one thorough look, and rang for Miss Dig, stating he had an emergency. They came within 20 minutes to mark the gas lines. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Work began immediately. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">As his men dug, they exposed a situation that was far worse than we’d feared. Russ took me on a tour. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“I’m sorry to tell you that this partial collapse extends around the other corner of the house. We can’t dig such a large area by hand. I’ll need to bring in my excavator. It can remove in a morning what we’d take a week to do, by hand...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I groaned. (There went our brand new landscaping. And goodbye, lawn.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The next morning a tree removal company he often used came right out and took the entire morning to cut down the three pine trees, and grind out their stumps. ($1,200.00.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then the Bobcat was brought in. First, Russ expertly scraped away all the baseball-sized landscape stones extending from the house walls to ten feet out. Then he used his big machine to dig five to six feet straight down, right up to the foundation itself, exposing the beautifully set in boulders, which hadn’t seen the sun for nearly 150 years. Sure enough, there was little to no mortar between them. Mixed with lime, that ‘glue’ had mostly dissolved, leaving room for the pine trees’ thick roots to worm their way between, allowing water and ice to stealthily dislodge the smaller boulders and bricks’ mortar, grain by grain. The damage extended to nine feet above the ground, and was obvious, now that the pine trees had vanished. Fortunately the much higher bricks on our home’s facade seemed solid enough... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A bit later, though, Russ called me outside again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Look up high, just below the second story window. See the bricks bulging out, there? One of my workers noticed...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I looked. Oh, my God! The billowing was subtle, but definite. The whole front of our home might have collapsed! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Seeing my shock and horror, he smiled reassuringly. “Fortunately you caught this in time. Peek inside this big fissure.” He pointed at a place about chest high. “There are the giant supporting timbers that Victorian workers hand-cut and framed in. They still look really good, well over a century later. They’re doing the hard work. My workers will power-wash the foundation boulders, then re-mortar and waterproof the entire foundation and reset the bricks everywhere, so that your home will be impervious to weather for eons. It <em>will</em> take time and more than a little money, but I’ll fix it perfectly. It’s what I do. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Be glad the former owners didn’t plant regular trees, like oaks, elms or maples. Those roots splay out, get super thick, and can destroy a structure even quicker.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He paused, then said, “By the way, I’ve seen a lot worse...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two horror stories stood out. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One family, during a heavy rain, woke up to a loud roar in the middle of the night: the whole frame shook as the entire front of their posh, two-story brick home collapsed and washed into the basement because their giant maple tree’s roots had finally undermined the old foundation. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Another family came home after a two-week vacation to find part of their home’s kitchen hanging by a thread; a corner had collapsed, leaving only the exposed frame to hold off total collapse. Huge tree roots, combined with inadequate drainage, had ruined much of the kitchen area. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“People should <em>never</em> plant trees near home foundations,” Russ warned. “Years later that landscaping decision will come back to haunt them. If you have friends looking to buy an older house, remind them to note what’s growing next to it. If big trees are set too close to its foundation, watch out! Have a house inspector look hard at the basement, and even dig down a few feet to check the state of walls beneath the earth...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">For form’s sake I rang our insurance company. No joy. They don’t cover long-term damage, and it <em>was</em> clearly written in our policy. Fair enough. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Russ’s labor force is still hard at work after nearly a week; in another day they’ll push back the mountains of earth they’d shifted, and I can begin to sort out and rebuild the landscape. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Our bill will be well over $10,000.00, but our little home is rock-steady once again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">All things considered, we consider ourselves very lucky indeed.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/46819512017-04-23T10:30:52-04:002017-04-23T10:30:52-04:004/23/17: Food for Thought<p><span class="font_large"><em>Joe and I have occasionally visited my sister and her husband at their home in Naples, Florida for a few days. We had lots of adventures. Here’s one, which happened at the dawn of 2013.. </em><br><br>*</span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Ignorance is never bliss. </em><br>- D.B. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">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 bumbling tourists,like us, snicker-snack. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Even certain fowl have tendencies. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">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, <em>leaned</em> 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 <em>right</em> 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. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">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. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Not one feather moved. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(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.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">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.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She smiled. “Actually, he wouldn’t waste his weapon; we’re far too big to be stabbed, flipped and swallowed.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">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.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">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! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">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. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two miles later, it ended. The attractive lake, with no human habitation visible anywhere along its edge, shimmered in the afternoon sun. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Huh. Developers <em>blanket</em> Florida. Why weren’t they crawling over every acre, here? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">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. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">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 <em>huge</em> 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. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sand crumbles. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We became instantly allergic to this bushy little bluff, and <em>all</em> of Florida’s freshwater lakes. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">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. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">IF we hadn’t possessed binocs--- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">IF I’d waded--- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Gulp. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The Edison ladies were right; the birds <em>were</em> 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. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">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 <em>extremely</em> 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. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We’d be easy to eat. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She’d eventually poop out the binoculars. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Somebody would finally notice my sister’s car… </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">More ‘gators lined the canal’s opposite bank near her, sunning themselves. One swam lazily down the middle, leaving no wake. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s the thing: there were no warning signs anywhere. Not one. The Edison volunteers hadn’t said a <em>word</em> about alligators, but had boasted only about the wonderful birds. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I know, I know. Go ahead and say it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">‘You dumb clucks; you’re not in Michigan anymore! This is Florida, home to alligators, water moccasins, panthers, and other assorted predators…’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Still…the residents knew. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The point is, WE didn’t. (Have tourists ever mysteriously vanished while poking around in Florida?) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hmmm…I do wonder about those (absent) developers…</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/46728982017-04-16T11:18:15-04:002017-04-16T11:18:15-04:004/16/17: You Never Know...<p><span class="font_large">During a phone chat this past week my sister Kath narrated a scary, weird event that she and her husband experienced. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">For many years they’ve wintered in Naples, Florida. Their condo is only a ten minute walk from the Gulf of Mexico. Wiggins State Park is there, bordered by a beautiful sugar-sand beach that extends south and north for miles. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Most mornings around 8:00 or so, the two of them like to walk to the ocean. There might be something fascinating washed up onto the beach, or maybe they’d see interesting birds, or a pod of dolphins leaping high as they fished for their breakfasts. (One year three huge dolphins roared right up to the water’s edge <em>an inch from my feet </em>to snatch fish they’d encircled and forced into the shoreline. The sandy ground trembled, reflecting their enormous power. I will never, ever forget it.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">On this day, with the sea calm and the sun beaming down, they strolled along the beach, noting a few other people scattered up and down its length. One older gentleman had waded out about 40 feet into the Gulf, to a sandbar created by a recent storm. In just over waist-deep water he was communing with a small pod of dolphins that circled around him, ever curious. They were so close that he could touch them. The man was lost in wonder. So were the dolphins, I imagine...Two different worlds, meeting eye-to-eye. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But, then, something odd caught Kath’s eye. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hmm. The dolphins showed as sleek gray forms out there, as they moved round the man, but a long, more distant dark shadow was approaching that seemed- different, she thought. Motions were from side to side, snakelike, and the skin looked rougher, almost plated, the eyes were huge and on top of those hea...Oh, Lord! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Kath gasped! “Look at that, Joe! That new long, dark shadow is <em>not</em> more dolphins, It’s... Alligators!!!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe gasped. There was not one, not two, but THREE large ‘gators, perhaps ten feet each in length, lined up nose-to tail like a sinuous train, making for the guy. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">They were moving faster now, having noticed an easy-as-pie breakfast for the taking. Their potential victim was, of course, oblivious. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(Alligators in the ocean? Who’d ever entertain such an absurd notion!) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In fact, these were males, during mating season, that had wandered from the brackish water of the park’s canals out into the calm Gulf, hungry, eager, opportunistic. </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">Um, lookie there: Fresh meat. Maybe females, too... </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My sister emailed what went down. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">...“There was no mistaking their flat heads and HUGE eyes, with squared off snouts...their scales were shiny in the morning sun when they surfaced: they were very stealthy as they swam...I scanned the beach for swimmers. Some distance up shore there was a lone guy out in the water, older, slightly built and bald, enjoying the friendly dolphins surrounding him. I ran up the beach as fast as I could, with Joe trailing close behind. Once I arrived where he was standing on the sand bar I hollered, but he didn’t respond. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He didn’t turn. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Did he not hear me? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">These alligators were closing in on him. I was seconds away from jumping into the water to try to save this guy- when he suddenly turned around, acknowledging my screams. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“SIR< PLEASE< COME ASHORE!!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He hated to leave the magic: it’s rare for dolphins to play like this, so, he took his time walking toward me. His expression was like, ‘What?! Why are you yelling at me?? Okay, okay, I'll come in; hold on...’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“QUICKLY,” I kept screaming! (I didn't want to yell “ALLIGATORS!” because- what if he panicked?) <em>Just</em> as he waded out of the water to me, they arrived exactly where he’d been standing! The dolphins had wisely moved into deeper water. And soon- the gators were gone, too, toward the north. Poof! My guess is, if he’d been out there, they would have stopped for a snack.... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The man never said a word when I pointed to what was in the water...never a word. He looked Stunned, trying to grasp what I’d saved him from, I guess.... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe announced he was running to the pay booth at the Park entry to tell the ranger, so that the Florida Wild Life Patrol could be called. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We guessed they were swimming for the canal that empties into the Gulf, up where they’re doing construction, maybe another 1/8 mile away. Far as we know, they got by as nothing was in the paper, but we felt good about having averted a potential disaster! What drama!! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But then, it would not bode well for tourists to be savvy to this. Even though it happens rarely, it <em>can</em> happen- twice now, since we began coming................”</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/46640802017-04-09T09:51:49-04:002017-04-09T09:51:49-04:004/9/17: An Unlikely Flower Trap...<p><span class="font_large">It’s getting closer to the time we can buy lovely annual flowers to decorate attractive pots and garden beds. Buying at the right time is so important: too early and a gardener risks housing them in the garage for a long time, until the weather is consistently decent (usually a week into June in northern Michigan). Too late and they become sickly and root bound. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And there is a third danger... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I remember one year in Mid-May when I entered a big local building store to buy some supplies, and couldn’t resist trotting through their garden section. Trucks were outside, and workers were unloading flat after flat of colorful annuals, some already growing out of their containers. They sat there, in full bloom, but it was too early to plant them safely. Lovely spring weather in Michigan can turn miserable in hours. Thousands of annuals die from cold, especially those who are outside the store when it freezes. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Failing to ignore their allure I wandered over to examine the Impatiens (busy Lizzies). I love their bright and varied colors, as well as their ease of culture. Then I noticed what their bright yellow plastic labels said: FULL SUN! Obligingly, a beaming, smiling yellow sun was pictured. These plants, which bloom practically forever in <u>part-shade</u>, could never cope. Also, no name, common or otherwise, was to be found anywhere on that label. They were simply listed as ‘Annuals.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">That they’d been summarily dismissed as too unimportant for a name was bad enough, but that declaration about full sun was <u>100% wrong</u>. Those poor ‘busy lizzies’ would cook to black in an afternoon; the owners would be hot with anger too, at the realization that money had been wasted, not to mention the hours it had taken to plant them. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Someone would believe the labels, I mused. (If it’s written down, it must be true.) Exactly then, a woman and her husband came in, exclaimed over the impatiens’ lovely colors and popped 6 lush flats onto a big trolley. “These…er, whatevers- are just right for the entire front driveway island. See? Full sun!” She waved one extracted label at him and they began to push their full trolley toward the checkout area. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I couldn’t help it; I had to say something. Almost $100.00 worth of plants was at stake. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">They were shocked, then angry, then angry with me (“you dumb clerk!”), then dubious, and finally, apologetic and meekly unsure. “Well, darn! It SAYS…” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ve learned, over the quarter century I’ve spent in my own garden, that labels aren’t always accurate. Be especially suspicious if no common or proper name is offered for a plant you don’t recognize, or haven’t grown. Ask a knowledgeable nursery person about its particular requirements. (Sometimes there is a big reference book at the store that specifies more exactly what flower it is, and what it likes.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I decided to alert the clerk, who was gratifyingly horrified. She loved flowers, and knew the needless death that would have awaited those wonderful garden workhorses. She began removing the multitude of yellow plastic labels, muttering, “There have to be proper labels around here. If not, I’ll make a big sign.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I left her to it, and went home, relieved. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Some good has come from my own sad experiences.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/46551302017-04-02T12:10:14-04:002017-04-02T12:10:14-04:004/2/17: Gray Birdie’s Wily Ways! <p><span class="font_large">I’m taking care of my younger daughter’s two budgies until May, and have learned a lot about what pleases them. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">BB Birdie has always been a social bird: she enjoys getting close to me to chat. She actually prefers me to her breakfast. We sometimes exchange tweets, even rooms away. As I made beds yesterday, she squawked loudly that things needed to happen. The hall echoed the sound: I responded by going in to fix what needed it. This one meant <em>‘we are hungry again; more food, please.’ </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Gray, though, is much more reticent, and perpetually aloof. She has avoided my hand, and indeed, has rarely acknowledged me, preferring to mutter to herself as she drapes her feathery body over her perch, mimicking a poufy rug. Or, she’ll look in her mirror to exchange views with <em>Other</em>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But recently that behavior has changed. A few days ago, when I entered their room waving two succulent spinach leaves, and then sat in the upholstered chair and began to call them over (including Gray, as usual, just for politeness), she watched BB fly to my hand and immediately begin feasting. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Just as always. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">More annoyed than usual, she complained to <em>Other</em> for a small while, and then, throwing inhibition to the wind, flew out of her ‘safe place’, straight to my other hand, to look at me and squawk. </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">‘Didn’t </span></em><span class="font_large">feel</span><em><span class="font_large"> like it before, so there.’ </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Astonished, but pleased, I began to sing a ‘Gray’ sort of song (she stiffens whenever she hears her name, so I can almost swear she knows it) while she ate <em>her</em> spinach leaf as fast as she could. BB was startled, too, but after sending a few old fashioned tweets her way with no response she settled down again to continue devouring her own vanishing leaf with equal enthusiasm. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Gray nibbled hers three-quarters gone, but then, in a frenzy of- pique? Suddenly began to slash the rest into ragged chunks, which she threw all over the place. I found bits seven feet away. Wow! That birdie’s swing could satisfy the Detroit Tigers! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Noting the growing mess I spoke a quiet “no,” as I raised my hand to get her attention. She rode it up to meet my eyes, squawking defiantly, then flew around the room twice before landing behind me on the chair’s high back. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A ten-second silence while she plotted her next move. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, before I could gather my wits she flew from behind me straight at BB, who was still perched on my other hand, eating. She grabbed BB’s much diminished leaf as well, and quickly slashed <em>it</em> to bits, expertly tossing the remains everywhere. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">BB didn’t seem to mind the snatch-and-grab: she was nearly done anyway, and so simply gaped at Gray in astonishment. Gray, ignoring her, gave a satisfied squawk and flew to the smaller food cage to began cracking seeds, as though nothing had happened. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So, just as casually, BB flew off to join her and they fed together. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">For about ten seconds. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Gray suddenly charged at BB, who flew off, squawking with surprise, Then, having claimed that whole feeding station, she ate in solitary triumph. Unruffled, BB lighted on another station, though, and carried on feeding, faintly mystified, I thought, but too flighty to work out why she’d been vanquished. (This is interesting behavior: Gray is truly tiny- a third smaller than BB.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Huh. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After some thought, I decided Gray was finally over her ‘fear of The Giant:’ henceforth, she was declaring that her three-ounce Force was one to be reckoned with. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A final, interesting observation: If I come in singing a birdie song, and then sit down and call them both, she’ll fly straight to me. But first she’ll hover above my hands. If they bear no gift, she’s a gone girl. I’ll be ignored during that visit. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">BB will remain, though, trotting around atop my hairy head, murmuring endearments. She’ll lower herself down my collected hair strands to groom my eyebrows. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">BUT, if I come bearing (finely diced) fruit or other yummy treats, Gray will fly over with BB, hover to inspect, then light and feed happily. She’ll eye me briefly before munching- and sometimes she’ll toss a tart tweet my way- </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">Like me to visit you? </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">Bring food. </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I do feel faintly crestfallen, and maybe a bit embarrassed that I’d thought she had accepted <em>me</em>. Naw, it’s <em>not</em> my winning personality... I am a conduit. Nothing more. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">OK. I’ll settle for that.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/46461862017-03-26T09:35:49-04:002017-03-26T09:35:49-04:003/26/17: Great Adventures<p><span class="font_large">Every winter Joe and I try to spend quality time learning new things. This year, for example, we’ve wandered through three iconic English castles and three of that country’s picture-book English villages, attended nine riveting lectures on astrophysics, two on quantum mechanics, and two on dark matter, given by our teacher, Dr. Neil DeGrasse Tyson. (Watch his “The inexplicable Universe.” It’s marvelous. And FREE.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Everything’s FREE. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We studied the Southern African coastal waters and the amazing flora and fauna that call that area home. And on and on...(If we had more questions afterward we opened the computer and asked it to clarify.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There are so many travelogues ! FREE! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s the thing: experiencing these marvels doesn’t cost much. A few dinners out. Joe and I own a large flat screen TV, and subscribe to Netflix ($8 mo. or $96 a yr.) and Amazon Prime ($99 yr.). The subscriptions permit access to great movies, too (most of which are free) on our computers connected to the internet. The best way to watch, though, is via wireless on a flat screen TV. To do that one must also buy a jimcrack on Amazon called Amazon Fire TV for $90, or Fire TV Stick for $40 that connects to one’s flat screen TV. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There are so many excellent documentaries! In the evening we get comfortable in our living room and listen to various experts explain mysteries, like the Aurora Borealis, or how our planet formed, or all about our solar system’s massive marvels, using the Hubble telescope, an incredible tool. (Oh, and now we have a pretty good understanding of how <em>that</em> works.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There are institutes- one’s in Austria- that study the countless forms that snowflakes assume, depending on humidity and temperature? The goal? To learn how avalanches form. The scientists <em>make</em> snowflakes, tweaking humidity and temperature, so as to better recognize the dangerous ones. <br>No two snowflakes are alike. We saw that a snowflake in one sort of weather is very different from another, elsewhere. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We discovered that every snowflake makes a tinkling sound when it contacts a body of water, but sadly, the frequency is too high for humans to discern. Just imagine the weird symphony going on! (Can certain animals, like bats, hear it??) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When a topic being discussed or demonstrated blows us away, and we want to discuss and absorb what we saw and heard, we simply press ‘pause’ and sort it out together, or press the ‘reverse’ button to hear the information again, to grasp it more fully. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We live in amazing times. We don’t need to roast in Egypt’s heat, or smother and choke in giant Sahara sandstorms, or worry about diving too deeply into the Mariana Trench, the ocean’s deepest area. We can go down into the Deep’s terrifying immensity, worry-free. <br>It’s bloody marvelous. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(Why spend the awesome amounts of time, and money to drive/fly to some of these places, when we can ‘go’ via technology.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Our latest trip? We zipped to Geneva, Switzerland to see the Hadron Collider, the world’s largest and most powerful particle accelerator. This immense miles-long machine is trying to unlock the universe’s secrets. It’s found proof the Higgs boson particle (whatever that is) does exist. Scientists have found (and named) Gluon, the glue that keeps these impossibly tiny particles stuck together. <br>And on and on... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There are more GALAXIES out there than grains of sand on every beach on this planet!! We had to stop the show to take deep breaths. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This sort of stuff gets a person out of himself, opens a brain to countless impossible things- that exist. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Knowledge may not be power for we two elderly folks, but absorbing it elevates and stimulates our imaginations. There is SO MUCH to learn- about anything a soul is curious about. It’s all out there! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Insects. Newest Dinosaur discoveries. India. Mars. Jupiter. Lichen. Pompeii. <br>World’s Great Religions. Redwood Forests. Spidermites. Tide pools <br>Roman toilets. Fleas. Best sort of dogs. Peru’s Archeology. <br>Australia’s Outback. Giant Termite Hills. Great Art. <br>Insect Life in a French Meadow- with no words! <br>Comet Shoemaker-Levy slamming into Jupiter. <br>Giant Tube Worms living in boiling vents. <br>Palmyra’s Ruins. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And on and on and on and on..................................................</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/46362082017-03-19T10:18:32-04:002017-03-19T10:18:32-04:003/19/17: Tiny Affection<p><span class="font_large">Yesterday, a special kind of affection happened. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s how it went. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I spend around 1-2 hours daily with Lisa’s two tiny budgies, who are currently living in her former bedroom at our Saginaw farmhouse. I’ve been bird-sitting for about two months, and have used the time to carefully study the way they operate. (Spending too <em>little</em> time with them risks their going feral. Birds that are simply housed and fed, but otherwise ignored by their tenders, might revert, so I’m careful to be around for a decent amount of time every day.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Anyway, yesterday BB birdie and I exchanged squawks and brbrbrrs about inconsequential things as she sat on my finger, which I’d raised to eye level. These conversations can last up to fifteen minutes, and always leave me wondering just how many <em>more</em> sounds she can summon. Her repertoire is massive. It’s challenging to try to copy everything she says, when one has only 2 seconds to decide how best to do it. BB throws out long chains of lovely, or raucous, or impossibly sweet nothings. Then she’ll watch me closely, one eye at a time (birds’ eyes are set so that they must turn their heads to look more carefully at what interests them.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>“Well? Give it your best shot, human...” </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">If I get the ‘sound string’ approximately right, she’ll often give a little <em>mum</em> sound of approval. Her soft face connects with my mine. She’ll nuzzle my nose and lips with her beak, which makes me itch to stroke her gorgeous feathers gently with my other hand- Budgies, however, do not appreciate being touched. They’ve been known to die- of shock, fright, or rage- when, say, the vet’s gentle hand must encircle a tiny body to trim nails or file a too-long beak, or do a closer examination of an injury, or administer medicine using an eyedropper. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Nobody likes to be so helpless. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So I’ve stifled the urge. But, I do frequently brush against BB’s face- when <em>she</em> expressly permits such a liberty to happen. (She is an affectionate bird, within strict limits.) This beak-to-nose stuff can be risky. If I venture a sound she <em>dis</em>likes, she’ll peck my holding finger sharply, and do it so fast that I’m always caught out. The jab sends a tiny frisson of pain up my arm, motivating me to select more carefully the sorts of sounds that might please her. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Today, though, she was exceptionally cheerful, and so, went a step further with her seal of approval of my pathetic attempts to learn parrot-linguistics. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">That little birdie leaned very close indeed, and <em>licked</em> the bridge of my nose. Over and over. Quickly. The whole experience lasted about five seconds. (Budgies do everything quickly.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She was tasting me, as well as bestowing kisses, I reckon. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Such a unique imprimatur!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/46266672017-03-12T08:13:54-04:002017-03-12T08:13:54-04:003/12/17: A Winter Changeling <p><span class="font_large"><em>Changeling: (from folklore) A changeling is a creature found in folklore and folk religion. A changeling child was believed to be a fairy child that had been left in place of a human child stolen by the fairies. </em></span><br> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">Every now and then Life delivers a shock that frightens a soul out of its wits. (We’ve all been affected by the world in a ‘changeling’ fit, but, after managing to escape most of these freakish situations by luck or skill, something good often happens: affected souls tend to reassess what’s <em>really</em> important, and moan less about life’s littler frustrations.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One of those shocks befell us Friday morning. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe and I were driving our GMC van through Grayling. The vehicle was crammed with birds, our beloved Bryn-dog, and lots of miscellaneous animal food and cages, et cetera. We merged onto a two lane highway, M-72, toward Kalkaska. (Destination: Traverse City.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The sun shone: the sky was a lovely, vivid blue, decorated with multiple fluffy white clouds. Substantial winds, with intermittent 35 mph gusts, scoured the winter-worn earth. The van had occasionally been nudged toward the freeway’s outer edge during particularly violent ‘exhales’ on the freeway, but Joe had handled it well and kept his speed well down. Other wary cars had followed suit. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The view on this road was fine. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, just past Grayling’s town limits the capricious wind began to add fluffy snow to its roaring gusts. Insubstantial flakes blew sideways from northwest to southeast, mimicking a billowing gossamer veil. Fatter ones sparkled in the mid-morning sun. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was a pretty sight. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, with shocking suddenness, the big white semi we were following simply- disappeared. Those ‘pretties’ had morphed instantly into blizzard-thick, swirling, intense Snow, - totally erasing the world and that huge vehicle- <em>except</em> for two <em>tiny</em> red light dots either side of its huge back end. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The scene was indescribably eerie, and Terrifying. There were <em>no</em> landmarks. Only unblemished White. Everywhere. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe and I gasped in unison. The ground, bare and brown just one minute ago, had switched to white. It was impossible to tell where the road was, impossible to stop, or turn back. We had one chance: crawl closer to the truck, which was probably about 50 feet away, we thought. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We drove a bit faster... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was still invisible. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We came closer to where it had to be. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Too close, surely... There! The tiny red dots showed the truck’s width. We ‘locked on’ to this infinitely small mooring, fearful that if we lost this red glow-beacon again we’d have no clue where the world was, or wasn’t. There were <strong>NO</strong> reference points anywhere. Not one. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The intense disorientation made me dizzy with horror and fear. This was a dire situation. One wrong move and we would be seriously injured. Hit from behind by panicked drivers Bryn could fly into the front windscreen. The birds would be flung around their cage: the trauma would surely kill them.(Notice all I did was worry about my animals)---- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We carried on. <em>Time crawled.</em> Fifty awful minutes passed. We prayed that the man ahead could see <em>something</em>.... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">If things weren’t already terrifying enough, an unmistakable brbrbrbrbrbrrrr noise made us jump. Road bump-markers were sounding a broken up (too much snow covering their rough protrusions) teeth-gritting warning: we had wandered well into the opposite lane! My God! That obnoxious noise had saved us! Joe carefully edged back. And just in time. Cars materialized out of nowhere, going the other way, weaving, as we’d done, but not as completely blinded, as the wind-driven snow was angled more toward their backs. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The white truck lumbered along at about 25 miles per hour, but then it, too, wandered, this time toward the right side of the road, clearly lost. The road bumps growled and grumped; both our vehicles delicately made the correction; a one-second lull in the wind showed a huge, gaping, disappointed car-eating ditch. The truck’s driver, clearly unnerved, slowed even more, but continued to maneuver through the fiercely blowing snow. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There really was no other choice. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">With no visual cues at all, we continued to trust the semi driver. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">On and on we drove, too frightened to speak to each other. Our eyes remained glued to those tiny red dots. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Just when we thought things couldn’t <em>possibly</em> get worse, they did. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The windshield began to rapidly ice over. The wipers scraped unevenly over developing ice: they’d soon be rendered useless. Desperately, Joe leaned over the steering wheel toward a three-inch hole in the front window that he could still look through. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Do you have any openings?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Yes,” I said, voice shaking, “but only a thin rectangle, very high up.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“OK. Shout if I seem to be wandering. I’ve lost the little red lights again.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We carried on, correcting when the road bumps sounded off. Then about five minutes later, just as the entire windscreen was about to ice up completely, the truck partially materialized- just the top of it, where snow had created a shadow. Joe pointed to our salvation- those bright red dots in a ocean of white! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But now we desperately needed to scrape off the ice. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Yet, stopping would be so dangerous! Cars, driving nearly blind behind us, would pile into our back end: chaos would reign. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s what happened next. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I am still awed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">As quickly as it takes to snap your fingers, the snowstorm <em>vanished</em>. The sun shone. The clouds were pretty puffs. The instantaneous change, from blindness to perfect visual clarity (from the side windows), rendered us speechless. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">At that very moment, our overburdened wipers groaned and stopped, overcome. Never mind: The car’s heaters and the sun quickly melted the windscreen’s ice. The world was white now: the sky was blue again. Thick, snow-covered forests lined the road. I looked behind the seats to our important passengers. Bryn was sound asleep; the birds were chirping important birdie stuff. Our charges were completely unaware that a fearsome Winter Changeling had attempted to switch us all from life to The Other side.... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was, by far, the <em>worst</em> protracted lake effect winter driving experience of our lives. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hands down.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/46172342017-03-05T08:23:41-05:002017-03-12T08:14:26-04:003/5/17: The British Great Wall<p><span class="font_large">Here’s a tiny taste of how an alien, completely alone in a flooded out cottage in England in the dead of winter, ran headlong into British Rules and Regulations. (I lived there for a year in 2009-2010 to take care of David, my late mother’s husband, who was gravely ill, and to restore his ruined home.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I tried, for example, to sort out telephone and gas bills. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Alas, if one doesn’t possess a male (David’s) voice, a British accent, and a British passport, one is done. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I rang the Calor Propane Gas Company. “Good morning, sir. My monthly bill indicates your company is direct-debiting 215 pounds (about $250.00) every month for our cottage’s propane gas, but as we have experienced a massive flood, no propane has been used for four months, because nothing functions. So this amount seems- incorrect. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“May we discuss it?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Certainly, madam. May I have your account number?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I gave it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Thank you. Are you Mrs. Firks? No? Mr. Firks is your deceased mother’s husband? We’re sorry to hear he is unwell, but we cannot discuss this matter with anyone but him.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I explained that he had permanently lost the power of speech. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Didn’t matter. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Further, as you do not possess a British passport, and are not listed on this account, We (The Imperial ‘We’) cannot continue to discuss this matter.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I knew the Power of Attorney papers would be three months coming- if all went well; until then, these huge fees would continue to mount. I’d never recover the money. Bureaucracies vacuum money up, but NEVER relinquish it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Fat penalties would, of course, be attached, as well, for nonpayment. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Eventually, Calor Gas Company Bill collectors would arrive at my door. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hmmm. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I decided to open a bank account, using <em>my</em> savings wire-transferred from America, to pay the bills. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What a fiasco! The paperwork went well in the bank- until I could not produce a British passport. Instantly, the clerk’s eyes hooded. His posture stiffened. He assumed a long distance look before moving smoothly into a nearly expressionless computer-mode voice. “We are sorry, but it is not possible to accommodate your request. You are not British. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We are helpless.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“But,” I protested, “I merely want to open a checking account for the purpose of paying bills.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“We are sorry,” he lied, unrepentant, “but this is not possible.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Mr. Starched Undies Banker had been well trained: the little old lady before him could be a potential terrorist- and more. Patiently, I explained my situation at Bryn Garth Cottage, and how I wanted to transfer five thousand pounds into his bank, from America, simply to pay bills until the Insurance claim was settled. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My explanation didn’t matter two pins. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Rules Were Rules. “Aliens are not allowed to open a checking account,” he declared, primly, “or to transfer more than a certain tiny amount here —“money laundering, you know.” I protested I’d never laundered more than my underwear, but he wouldn’t budge. The British Bureaucracy and I— Elephant and flea-- bumped noses. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">No contest. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Baffled, I retreated to a teashop to rethink things. Problems have solutions. Maybe I hadn’t asked the right man. I needed a higher-up bureaucrat who might be willing to think out-of-the-box...Right! That sort is scarcer than a vampire who craves yogurt. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So then, I went there again, and asked for the Banker In Charge. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Didn’t help. All I got was a perfectly pressed Saville Row Suit set off by mirror-shiny shoes, and a mustached mouth that intoned the same implacable Rule. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I left, barely suppressing an urgent need to wrinkle him. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One day later I tried to go online at the cottage as usual, but was denied access because David’s monthly ‘TalkTalk’ bill (the Company’s name) hadn’t been paid in three months. I rang them to try to explain the situation, but never got past the preliminaries. The clerk announced that, alas, since David wasn’t born on his birthday, no further discussion of any of this was possible! The date I’d given disagreed with theirs, the creature declared. But he wouldn’t tell me the numbers <em>he</em> had: <em>that</em> would be revealing personal information. Furthermore, as my accent was alien and I was not male (David), discussion was not possible. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I was speechless. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hearing only stunned silence, he wished me a pleasant day in a clipped voice. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Click. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Confused and angry, I rang again, hoping a different clerk (pronounced ‘clark’) would be more reasonable. But number 2 also refused to confirm or deny the birthdate on file, or say which <em>part</em> of it was incorrect. Anyway, THAT wasn’t the point. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’d wanted to pay them money! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Not allowed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But I would be fined for nonpayment. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I threw up my hands and went to David’s lawyer, (retained by us for thirty years), who tried to resolve it by discussing my situation personally with The Bank, and proffering his considerable credentials. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">No luck. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He, a savvy solicitor, encountered exactly the same Great Wall. Shaking his head, he arranged for his firm to cover all the bills until the insurance company finally settled. Without his assistance I don’t know how I would have coped. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One bright spot: with my own personal computer I could still tap out weekly columns about my hard-knock life in the freezing British countryside, <em>offline</em>, and then- if I didn’t mind engaging in some skullduggery- send it to America, <em>online</em>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I drove six miles into the ancient town of Ross-on-Wye every Saturday evening, which was often challenging, due to fierce winter weather conditions. I then tapped into the internet connection from its biggest hotel by sneaking past the snow-covered shrubbery to its stone wall, where I logged on, then hurriedly sent my latest column off to my editor in America, before creeping away to tip a half-pint of ale at my favorite pub. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This sort of thing is strictly forbidden, you know. Culprits incur fat fines. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I didn’t care. For five minutes every Saturday for a year, this elderly alien gleefully thwarted a British Rule.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/46072132017-02-26T08:07:36-05:002017-02-26T08:07:36-05:002/26/17: Big and Little Gems<p><span class="font_large">Our five vacation days in Panama City Beach, Florida were wonderful. The magnificent, endless stretches of white sand beach invited us to settle into our canvas foldout chairs to watch Bryn-dog frolic, or cheer her on as she annoyed gulls who patrolled the water’s edge for any yummies the sea might serve up. The sun’s warmth was a balm. Fluffy clouds raced past us on the sky’s highway, riding a vigorous breeze that didn’t reach the ground. The temps were just right; about 72-75, or so. <br>We absorbed the peace and quiet that the off-season guarantees. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Not once were the two TVs in our suite turned on. Newspapers were ignored. Instead, we spent much quality time at two of the area’s splendid dog parks, to allow Bryn to happily carouse with other delighted dogs. The best park was just two-and-a-half miles from our door. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn flew over the rolling hills of these huge enclosed spaces while we chatted about inconsequential things. Then, with our dog sleeping soundly in the van, we took ourselves to our daily single meal at about two o’clock, making sure the eatery we chose was well patronized. (Lots of cars mean better food.) Then it was back to the beach with a good book, and more Bryn-play. Digging deep sand holes was her specialty. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">At 3 a.m. on Thursday morning, the day we’d leave, we were awakened by a shocking phone call. One of our family had died suddenly of a massive heart attack. We loaded the van and drove quietly toward Michigan on that lovely, sunny morning, through the Florida Panhandle until that road became I-65, which wound through Alabama’s rural beauty, then through Tennessee and into Kentucky. There, almost eleven hours later, exhausted by lack of sleep and the awful news, we decided to pause for a couple of nights in Lexington. We’d visit the Kentucky Horse Farm in the morning. That place has always been a shrine for ‘horsey’ me, and just what was needed to lift our spirits. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This huge, beautiful farm, framed by miles of black wooden fencing, was all but deserted, as the tourist season was two months away, so we wandered alone through the brisk sunshine to the museum, which featured great racehorses, and where I rode a fine, life-like rocking horse. Then we moved on to the horse barns, which housed retired steeds, and then to the gift shop, where I bought a commemorative zipup Kentucky Horse Park hoodie. <br>Funny how a lovely, leisurely walk sprinkled with chuckles and exclamations of awe at Secretariat’s memorial (Secretariat was the greatest racehorse of the twentieth century) could make the world seem normal for a time. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Saturday morning we connected to I-75 and drove from Kentucky into Ohio, and finally into mid-Michigan. Our little farmhouse in Saginaw looked so good, but oh! <br>It was <em>cold</em> outside! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Lisa had left Saginaw that morning to go to her conference, so the birds were happy to see us. In fact, BB birdie offered a little gem of a gift I won’t forget. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I offered both birds their favorite treat, a fresh spinach leaf, and they happily nibbled it gone. Then Gray flew to her perch for her afternoon siesta, but BB remained on my warm finger, cheeping happily for a little longer. Then, ever so gradually, her eyes closed for a longer and longer time...and to my amazement, she slept. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">For nearly five minutes that tiny bird held tightly to my finger, dreaming birdie dreams, before waking, refreshed. She chirped to Gray and the two flew to the seed tray to dine. <br>I left their room with a much lighter heart.<br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/cbfc806bf4316f553abe1f558f6a75175e354026/original/img-3078.jpg?1488114428" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/4cc6567e85465574a202fac7ffa7704b10918616/original/img-3063.jpg?1488114414" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/45976252017-02-19T09:06:24-05:002017-02-19T09:06:24-05:002/19/17: Gone With The Van<p><span class="font_large">I do love Northern Michigan’s white world. <br>Except. Lately, winter’s gotten weird. One minute it’s snowy, the next minute rainy, then icy, and then snowy again... I sat in the kitchen, gazed out the window and howled at the moon. (There is no sun. Not reliably, until we march into March or April.) <br>Weather that can’t make up its mind makes me nuts. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn wanted to run, but found it difficult to get around out there. In dog parks she had no brakes. Worse, icy balls immediately collected on her face; she’d stagger over to me, eyelids weighed down, virtually blinded. Her muzzle would ‘glue’ shut from heavy, wet ice/snow. Her paws collected ice balls. She’d wind up on her back, trying to wave/rub them off, or drag her face along the snow, which made the situation infinitely worse. <br>I found the ice more intimidating this year, too. <br>Enough!! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">For most frustrating, hair-pulling situations there’s usually a solution. Wandering the net one freezing morning I’d happened upon a tiny ad depicting the Florida Panhandle’s Panama City Beach, showing a million miles of snow-white sand highlighting the incredible Gulf of Mexico. <br>Oh, Lord! <br>That little photo haunted my dreams. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">February’s a slow month. Many of Joe’s patients migrate to Florida for a few weeks. He could get away for ten days if four of those days were weekends. Best of all, our younger daughter Lisa would be back from Rome in time to watch the birdies exactly on the day we wanted to leave. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So. Last Thursday evening, February 9th, after gathering up basic essentials- not forgetting our new metal detector and its operating manual- I popped Bryn into our elderly, well maintained GMC van- and drove to the hospital parking lot. Joe came out a few minutes later, at exactly 5:00 p.m., and took the wheel. We pointed south. <br>Panama City, HERE WE COME!! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We drove down I-75 to Dayton, Ohio’s La Quinta Inn (dogs welcomed for no extra charge) just off the expressway. It was now ten p.m. <br>We fell asleep, pleased that <em>five</em> hours had been knocked off a 22-hour journey. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">4:00 a.m. Friday morning dawned cold and dark. <br>We ordered drive-thru McDonald’s coffee and bacon, and drove for 16 hours down I-65, then through the rich greenery of Alabama’s back roads, pausing only for gas, fast food, and to see to Bryn’s needs. (A great traveler, she loves looking out of the window at the changing terrain. Our doggie never eats en route, drinks just a bit, and sleeps a lot.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Friday evening, at nearly ten o’clock, we staggered into the parking lot of Panama City Beach’s La Quinta Inn, and stopped under a palm tree. The air was fresh, with a very light breeze. Fragrant flowers perfumed the air. It was 62 degrees, calm, and forecast to warm to 70 +... <br>Ahhhhhhhh.... <br>Bryn staggered out into the night, blinking, and sniffed appreciatively. <em>Hey, Boss, this is different! </em><br>Yeah! For nearly six lovely days, there’d be no more shivering. No more feeling trapped inside the house. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">While I checked us in, I had an idea. <br>“We’ll be here for 6 nights; how much more would it cost to upgrade to a suite?” <br>Concentrated mutters, and a furrowed brow. <br>Computer keys clicked. And clicked. I held my breath. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The clerk finally looked up, smiled, and told me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>“Only $100.00 more for the whole week??” </em><br>Wow! <br> The room we <em>had</em> reserved on the road- the usual hotel sort- was really cheap right now, as it was the slow season. No tourists. Very soon, though, spring break and Easter would change all that. <br>But for now... <br>I’d just been offered the upgrade deal of the century. <br>She even let me see it before deciding. <br>I looked. Was delighted. <br>DONE! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We left a sleeping Bryn in the van, deciding to unpack later, and walked 100 feet to a bar and grill. It was well after ten p.m. Two glasses of merlot and 6 delicious hog wings were just the thing to celebrate. <br>The reward for that marathon drive? Nearly six days in paradise. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There’s a trick to enduring the trip to the bottom of the continent. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-We listened to stories- sea sagas for Joe, thrillers for me. So time passed quickly. We didn’t notice our numbed bottoms. <br>-Another essential gadget really helped- active noise-reducing headphones that, with a flick of a button, stopped the low highway rumble that leads to extreme ear-fatigue, while allowing normal conversation. (We realized their value very early in my flying days: our super noisy Grumman Tiger Snoopy-dog cockpit was instantly converted to one where Joe and I could chat with airport controllers, or our passengers, in a normal tone.) <br>-Plus, the weather kept getting <em>warmer</em>, pulling us further and further south. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After moving into our suite, we looked closer at it. <br>O.K, it <em>did</em> look a bit tired, but it was only a mile from the beach. It boasted a kitchen sink, a nice microwave, and enough counter space for our own coffeemaker. It had a fridge, a huge bedroom with two closets and a big bathroom, a big living room with nice couch and a curvy, jet-black desk for our computer perusals. <br>It was perfect. <br>I set out our pile of books, and Joe unpacked his guitar.... <br>Bryn cleaned her bowl, washed it down with a big drink, settled down to chew a nice Bully Stick, and then sniffed every inch of the rooms until she chose where she wanted her bed- under the desk. I obligingly shifted it there, and that was that. <br>We fell into bed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And woke very early Saturday morning, made our own coffee, filled our heat-retaining thermos/mugs, microwaved some bacon and drove straight to the beach. In dawn’s first light we stared at the astounding sight. Bryn went crazy. Receiving permission to run, she dashed full speed up and down that endless expanse to smooth out her travel kinks. <br>She found a stick, threw it herself, retrieved it a few times, then stopped dead to stare at the white sand. Oh, boy! <br>She began to dig. She dug and dug, threw the smallish stick into the hole, inspiring more furious digging from every angle as she pretended to bury it. Sand flew as her front end sank lower and lower, until until only her hinder and plumed tail showed. Chuffing happily she lay in the cavern’s depths and peered out at us sitting in our camp chairs, laughing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Throwing off our shoes and socks we grabbed our mugs and walked along the water’s edge. Bryn sampled the ocean, only to spit it out, confused, and we noted giant ocean liners far, far away... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The peace, quiet, and incredible beauty had attracted only one or two other walkers barely visible in the distance. Squawking, low-flying gulls and a few large sandpipers shared our pleasure in the eastern horizon’s pastel-colored dawn. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This new southern world offered clean, warm, pure white sand, instead of clean, cold, pure white snow. (No wonder the sun winters here!) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Vive la difference!<br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/8141a40350ad45b90b07a68dd1c58253412329ca/original/img-3008.jpg?1487513136" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/2c0ca554cb2855d8455503acd98808b8a114e94c/original/img-3007.jpg?1487513134" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/1e0f83a7d34d4780c7fdce0b5fc1a979e83f09f2/original/img-3018.jpg?1487513143" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></em></span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/45867812017-02-12T08:30:13-05:002017-02-12T08:30:13-05:002/12/17: Daffy<p><span class="font_large">I’m babysitting my younger daughter’s three budgies at Sunnybank House while she’s on an archeological dig in Rome, Italy, and have been patiently learning the birds’ special ‘tells’- certain micro-behaviors that telegraph what is going on in their feathered heads as I play with them each day. There are three personalities- BB, the people-oriented soul, and her two friends, the much less social Daffy and Gray, who weren’t hand-raised. These two are close friends. <br>A year before before Lisa flew to Rome, the fourth bird, Blue, succumbed to cancer. Blue had been a happy, somewhat socialized birdie who was learning to appreciate her Lisa-human. One day, though, Lisa found a cancerous lump on her feathery body, and shortly after that, the tiny creature died quietly at the veterinarian’s clinic, with Lisa holding him. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now there were three birds. Gray and Daffy, and BB. As a threesome, Daffy and Gray stayed cozy, and often shooed BB away. She wasn’t overly upset by their exclusionary behavior, because she has Lisa, and now me. Humans are far more intriguing to BB, who’d been lovingly brought up by our species. She enjoys exchanging sounds, sharing food, and otherwise communing. So now, even with the two-to-one situation, all was harmonious. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, last week I entered their ‘bird room’- one of the commandeered bedrooms at Sunnybank House- and counted only two perched birds. Daffy was lying on the large cage’s floor, dead. <br>BB and Gray rocked on their perches, squawking in nervous confusion as I gently picked up Daffy’s tiny, beautiful body, knowing at once that there was no life there. She had died during the night. <br>The cause will forever be unknown. She was a mature bird; old age was not an unlikely cause. <br>There was one other thing, though- Daffy had always had the unusual habit of ‘gulping.’ She’d bob her head, elongate her neck and gulp-swallow frequently, and not just after eating. The behavior could manifest any time. Lisa, finding the gulps peculiar, took her to the doctor. X-rays and a careful manual exam revealed nothing unusual. The vet finally decided it was probably just a personal quirk. <br>Daffy looked fine, otherwise, and was behaving normally. She even sang. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’d observed the strange behavior too, but wasn’t alarmed because Lisa had mentioned I shouldn’t be. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After telling Joe of Daffy’s death, he thought a while, and then offered another theory. Daffy may have been coping with an esophageal stricture. The (congenital?) narrowing might finally have caused her death. Perhaps a bit of ingested food had settled in her throat in exactly the wrong way. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">With Daffy’s body removed, BB and Gray settled into shocked silence. They knew that she was dead. <br>They remained quiet, not eating or flying that whole day. Frequent checks found them huddled close together on their shared perch. Once in a while one bird would touch the other in a caring way. I stayed with them to make soothing sounds, and play soft, gentle music. <br>We were all stunned, and so very saddened by Daffy’s sudden demise. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The next morning when I opened their cage door they flew immediately to their food, inspected it, then left without eating. They remained silent, fasting, until late afternoon, when BB flew straight to my shoulder when I entered the room. She sat on my finger and swayed back and forth for quite a while before issuing her greeting- a soft musical <em>Brrrrrr</em>... which I answered using the same tone and pitch. We chatted in this way for some minutes before she flew back to join a depressed Gray, who remained silent. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After a while I approached their open cage and offered them two fresh spinach leaves. BB bit down on hers. Gray sniffed it, thought, and, after backing away, warily approached it again to begin grazing, albeit unenthusiastically. I was heartened! It’s worrisome when eating stops; there’s not an ounce of fat on these tiny bodies, and their energy stores can quickly be depleted. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">As I approached the bedroom door that evening, I heard them singing together. Wonderful! <br>And they’d made short work of their usual dinner while I was out. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">They were adjusting, doing what we all must do when someone we love dies- mourn, cope, with support, accept what cannot be changed, and grab firmly at the life we have. Life is tenuous, confusing, sweet, rewarding, loving, difficult, and <em>never</em> is it forever. <br>Death has the peculiar habit of helping everything acquire a sharper focus. Hopefully those of us left behind will resolve to try to love more, dump resentments and anger, and relish the time we have. BB and Gray have grown much closer in these following days, forgetting all the sharp pecks and cheeky blow-offs they’d traded in the past. They’re chatting, exchanging songs, and Gray is suddenly doing things she didn’t do before. She downs the treats I bring to the cage on a fat tablespoon- a peeled green chopped grape, or a millet-laden twig, where always before she’d skitter away to the far side of her perch and admire herself in the birdy mirror. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, two full days after Daffy’s death, something amazing happened. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Across the room I sat in my usual upholstered chair and complained that I missed her. Sitting on my finger was BB, eating all the good stuff, as usual, while, again as usual, Gray chose to swing on her cage swing, looking the picture of ‘don’t need you, don’t care, won’t visit, and so there.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“For goodness sake, Gray,” I sighed, thoroughly exasperated, as I watched her swung with her back to me. (I’d been trying to lure her out of it since Lisa left.) “Gray, come over here! <em>Come</em>, Gray, and have a yummy bite! You’re missing a treat I know you love! Will you <em>never</em> join us, you lonely bird?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She stopped swinging, and cocked her head, thinking. Then, to my <em>astonishment</em>, she squawked loudly, left her cage, flew straight at me, lighted on my knee, cheeped, then stretched her neck to pluck out a green yummy from the big tablespoon. <br>By golly, she scarfed the whole thing down. !! !! <br><em>Wow</em>!!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/45771232017-02-05T02:31:39-05:002017-02-05T02:31:39-05:002/05/17: The White Invader Sleighs England<p><span class="font_large"><em>Dear readers: Currently deep into a remodeling project I ran out of time to pen a column, so I offer a repeat of a really thumping bad winter in England in 2009, written while I was living there to restore my flooded cottage. </em></span><br> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">English upper lips have wilted significantly. This shocking snow dump, while fairly ho-hum for Michigan residents, has unraveled much of Britain’s population. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Things began innocently enough on Monday afternoon. By evening an inch of powder was on the ground in Herefordshire, and the wind was blowing hard. Deep in the countryside, relatively snug inside my battered cottage, I feel a bit nervous about what is happening. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The scenery is magnificent, though. Through binoculars I observe shaggy-backed, white-powdered sheep baa-ing forlornly on steep hillsides; lambs peer gape at their white world, uncertain. For them this white stuff isn’t uncomfortable; it’s just odd. Sheep are dim and have relinquished their curiosity, but their lambs are still inquisitive. Between playful bounces they high-step, sniff the snow, and bleat, but elders ignore the situation to focus solely on grazing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I have no TV, but the radio reports that trains, including the London underground, are at a standstill. Schools have closed, businesses have shut down, and roads are hopelessly clogged with millions of commuters trying to get home before more accumulation traps them in mid-London. Buses aren’t running. Moving at all is a challenge. <em>“This is definitely the worst snowstorm in 75 years,”</em> trumpeted the announcer. <br>Good heavens! Such a lot of fuss over a few inches. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But think about it. Palm trees thrive in Cornwall, which has the gulfstream to keep winters quite mild. Parts of Scotland do know all about powerful, monstrously deep snows, but here in the English Midlands, chaos reigns. <u>No one</u> owns a snow shovel. (‘What’s that?’) There’s no salt to put down, and no snowplows exist to manage the icy, snow-packed roads. Slip-sliding cars wander crazily into other cars or kerbs; seasoned drivers have no idea how to cope. Frantic commuters can’t clear windscreens- no tools to do this are available. <br>Motoring our narrow country lanes is surely very dangerous. People, especially the elderly, dare not step outside their cottages for fear of falling. (Villagers, who frequent local shops every day or two for basic needs, are finding these shops closed. The shopkeepers can’t get there to open. And trucks can’t deliver supplies.) It’s a shocking 19 degrees out there, not the more usual high 30s or low 40s. Folks caught away from home risk their pipes bursting, as our cottage’s had. This sort of cold and snow is practically unprecedented. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Tuesday, all the airports gave up. One big jet skidded right off the runway at Heathrow. Ten inches is simply overwhelming. And still, the snow falls. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dire weather predictions of ‘worse to come’ pepper radio reports. People hike through London streets, begging for taxis, but alas, those drivers have abandoned their cabs right in the streets to try to walk home. Most will not make it, and so will have to find accommodation somewhere. (Imagine walking through that much snow with just casual footwear- or high heels!) <br>Good luck to them. Millions of other folks trapped without transport are scouring the city for digs too: competition will be fierce as this continues. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Buckingham Palace’s Changing of the Guard looks ethereal, reports the BBC. Coal-black horses draped in red, carrying snowy guards with plumed hats crushed from snow weight, check constantly to make sure they have firm ground under their hooves. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here at Bryn Garth Cottage, three hours west of London, my long, steep driveway leading down to the busy two-lane motorway is a sheet of ice. I’m trapped up here, maybe for days. So I’ve had to make do with three pieces of sliced ham, tea, and half-loaf of stale bread. <br>I snooze by the fire, waking to robins coaxing food from the wire feeders that line our porch. I’ve witnessed these little birds simply freeze on their branch-perches and topple to the ground, dead. The few who’ve found my feeders may survive; oily seeds and nuts are great fuel. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Throughout it all, amid reports of school-free kids gleefully constructing snowmen and thumping cars with snowballs, I look out at a scene of incredible beauty. Our giant, centuries-old oaks are etched in white; the huge laurel hedge sags; wet snow makes curious changes in its posture. Snuggling my hot water bottle I retreat to an icy bed with the radio still squawking about impassable roads. Accidents clog the few that are still open. The government has ground to a halt. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Good heavens! The English are actually suffering Wilting Upper Lip Syndrome. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It’s not a bit funny, but I smile, anyway. At least, regarding snow management, Michiganders are made of tougher stuff. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Visit www.deeblair.com for recent columns, garden pictures and music.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/45680462017-01-29T04:13:22-05:002017-01-29T04:13:22-05:001/29/17: Igloo Intrigue<p><span class="font_large">Not too long ago, when we had a mega snowfall here in Traverse City, I ran out to make snow angels, and then eyed a particularly large mound more carefully. Hmmm…Was there enough to fashion a small ‘igloo’? (I could certainly heap on more snow to make a bigger bump. Then, after packing it down I’d carve out a room. I’m good at it, because it’s what I did as a child.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It required hands, knees, and a garden trowel. Kneeling down on a part of my snow-covered brick path that was never shoveled, I carved out a reasonable tunnel, taking care to pack the walls tight. Ta-da! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Well, truth to tell, it was more a wormhole. I wriggled inside on my belly. Darn. I would need to keep piling up snow on the spot further ahead, so I could form a decent sit-up place. Never mind: we’d get more snow soon enough. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Memories flooded back. All during my childhood my mother, after first securing my mittens with a long string that traveled from one mitten up my arm and around the back of my neck and down the other arm to its mate, would zip me into a thick, two-piece hooded snowsuit. Finally, she’d wrap a scarf around my neck, tug on my snow boots, and release me, a living Pillsbury dough girl, to waddle outside. All the youngsters in our neighborhood were similarly ‘stuffed:’ we could scamper around in freezing weather for long periods with little discomfort. (Kids with glasses suffered, though; they’d accidentally smear the lenses with their wet mittens, rendering them effectively blind.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Below is some important ‘igloo’ advice I’d listed in my diary (rediscovered sixty years later in a moldering cardboard box in the basement): </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>1. Cut an 0 through the roof to look at the night sky. <br>2. Use a rolling pin to pack the walls. <br>3. To block the door hole, but not with snow, use a white rag. <br>4. Sit on a dishtowel to be less cold. <br>5. It’s lots warmer in igloos. No wind. <br>6. Pack a candy bar. <br>7. Push back hood to hear better. <br>8. Use the potty before starting out. <br>9. Poke very thin holes to hear what is happening outside. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Each igloo ‘room,’ by the way, was only 4-6 inches thick. If one collapsed, no worries. (None ever did.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Anyway, when about seven or eight, I’d move into the breezeway, ‘mitten up,’ then zip into my snowsuit top- my snowpants usually stayed on me, so I could go out without my mother having to help me- and creep outside in the early evening darkness to tunnel into the snowy mound by the sidewalk that I’d staked out. When done building, I’d cover the entrance. Then, after using a specially prepared skinny stick or butter knife to slice tiny slits through the wall, I’d sit inside it and wait. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Once, when three neighborhood bullies gathered nearby to trade information, I found out that Billy B., the boy who lived two streets away, had deflated one of their Schwinn bike tires last fall, as part of an effort to fight back. They were now making plans to wash his face with snow, then ‘pound him.’ I knew about that torture. These three meanies were always pounding the kids who tried to protect their lunch box desserts. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A big conch shell, brought home from Guam by my soldier-uncle, produced a low, haunting moan when blown in just the right way. When one of the bullies passed by I made it moan, causing the rascal to look nervously around, then hurry away in the twilight. <br>I’d listen to passing women, their winter boots crunching through the snow, discuss runs in their stockings, their babies’ behaviors, and once, The Farmer’s Almanac prediction that our very snowy winter would usher in a cooler summer. <br>Very occasionally, a dog on his evening constitutional, leashed to a bored owner, would hike his leg on my snow mound. I worried that big dogs could pee a hole right through it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Every overheard conversation was thrilling! I was right there, very close to the public sidewalk, but invisible. It was instructive to hear our immediate neighbors air what my mother called ‘their dirty laundry,’ as they shoveled out their driveway. They had no clue that a pigtailed busy-ears was right there, absorbing fascinating swearwords and insults. <br>He: “That pot roast tasted like overdone cowpats, Marlene...” <br>She: “You’d know, of course, because you’ve <em>sampled</em> cowpats, moron!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Struggling to keep from laughing out loud, I recorded his accusation and her retort in my diary, and remembered to ask my (nun) teacher about cowpats. She arched her eyebrows and told me they were “reconstituted grass.” My mother was specific. “They are cow poop. Just that.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally though, one of my bigger hideaways was destroyed when a kid tried to sled down the mound. It promptly caved in, dumping the spooked urchin into the largish empty space. Rumors flourished that a boogey-man had been hiding inside, itching to snatch anyone that interested it. One bully-brat swore he’d heard it moan with hunger. (My conch shell!!) <br>On the fringes, I couldn’t help yelling, “It could have been a boogey <em>woman</em>!" I was ignored. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sometimes small children know things that might help sort out the world, if people would only listen.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/45593422017-01-22T03:01:46-05:002017-01-22T03:01:46-05:001/22/17: Heavy Threads-Deep Mystery<p>I notice the small stuff; little bugs in big battles, butterflies quarrelling with hummingbirds over nectar- stuff. Life is crammed with little discoveries that ignite my curiosity. And sometimes Nature will burp up bigger finds. </p>
<p>We took Bryn to a dog-friendly, in-town beach on this cold, foggy winter afternoon, noting that there was more park grass exposed by the shrinking snow that we’d seen in a month. The wide, sandy beach was devoid of people: a light, cold rain had seen to that. Slate gray water lapped the beach halfheartedly; the wind was light. We’d brought her here because the dog parks were sheets of jagged ice dotted with thin, half-frozen ponds that cracked when dogs tried to run over it. Canine ankles were painfully scratched by icy, sharp edges, which certainly discouraged exercise. </p>
<p>Joe found a decent sized stick and tossed it far down the honey sand. Bryn, desperate to run, charged after it joyfully—then skidded to a stop half way there. Her neck stretched toward the water; her nose busily sampled the damp air. We looked too- saw nothing unusual, save for one very large white bird far off shore. She continued to stare, then waded out a foot to investigate something quite big and formless moving languidly under water, with only the tip floating, She tried to tug it closer. Way too heavy. </p>
<p>We moved toward it. How odd. Here was big, patterned comforter that, even submerged, had that touch of class. It was thick, well stitched, and was probably lovely, once. </p>
<p>“Joe, grab that far edge; Let’s try to pull it to shore. I want to get a better look.” </p>
<p>Wooo. Much easier said than done. It was utterly saturated, with sand in every crease, and incredibly heavy. But after much huffing and puffing we managed to get half of it onto the sand. Lake bottom sand clung thickly to its surface, doubling the weight. </p>
<p>This large cover had traveled a long way, I thought. It just had that look. Maybe it had ascended from the depths, helped by vigorous lake currents, high winds and waves. Now, finally, it had managed to (almost) reach this beach. <br>There were just about three feet to go. <br>Might it have fallen (blown) off a big boat? <br>I saw a large square white tag sewn to a corner. Croccill! Oh! I <em>love</em> classically patterned Croccill bedding and curtains. Huh. This definitely had a respectable pedigree. The design- multicolored flowers set into wide burgundy stripes offset by cream, with a soft gold back and thick piping- if cleaned up, could be grand. <br>And what story might it tell? <br>In the background Joe nervously shifted his feet. He knew what I was mulling over. I <strong>wanted</strong> it. </p>
<p>He examined it carefully. “Look. Clean cuts, about two inches long, here- and here, self-mended by sand and swollen fabric so that they’re barely visible...” I peered. They <em>were</em> all but invisible. I never would have spotted them. <br>A propeller, perhaps? A knife? What? </p>
<p>With a huge effort we got it all the way out. I shooed helpful Bryn away; her teeth might wreak it. Joe sighed and muttered that it had probably been used and then discarded by some homeless person, or by campers, or had fallen from a yacht ages ago. Ignoring his exasperated grousing about rubbish, I suggested we fold it over onto itself, and then again, and then walk on top of the ‘tube’ to squeeze water out. Wow! The lake gushed out in great gouts, further reducing its enormous weight. Even so, we struggled mightily to pull it farther onto drier sand, where I tried to rid it of tons of soggy sand clinging to every thread-y millimeter. <em>Still</em>, it was far too heavy to try to shake. We could barely lift it. Joe rolled his eyes when I suggested we refold it for <em>another</em> foot-stomping session, but he was a good sport. </p>
<p>Hooray! More water abandoned ship. Now it was just <em>barely</em> possible for the two of us to drag it, groaning and panting, to the park bench over 50 feet from the water. ”Our backs could go out- this is nuts!” squawked the peanut galley. I ignored this. <br>We eventually managed to drape the thing over the bench’s back, allowing one end to hang down to the cement, for even more drainage. Drier, the sand would eventually drop off, grain by grain. <br>Then we’d see. </p>
<p>Only then did I realize that this big, monstrously heavy comforter could not be put into the van. It would break us. Not to mention soak its nice carpet. Water and sand would wick everywhere. (That van is the apple of Joe’s eye.) It would have to stay here, like this, I mused out loud, to drain dry enough that we could shake it, then take it tomorrow. (Out of the corner of my eye I saw him go limp with relief. <em>Oh, thank God!</em>) <br>We’d come back first thing in the morning to reassess, I declared, cheering up. <br>By then I’d have figured out a transport solution! <br> ***** <br>So. It’s tomorrow. <br>We tossed a decent tarp into the van and motored off to the beach at 7 a.m. And there it was, exactly as we’d left it. A bit lighter, too. <br>We managed to load it onto the tarp, dragged it the rest of the way and heaved the lot into the van. Home again, we spread it out on a tabletop in our dry garage. I’ll wait a week. Then see if it’s salvageable. </p>
<p>During my lifetime, Lake Michigan has occasionally coughed up stuff- a metal-clamped wad of big bills, an 18-carat gold ring (18 carat gold is 75% pure gold, 25% other so-so metals); a set of new tennis shoes neatly tied together; an old fashioned porcelain doll with shredded clothing, whose lashless eyes could still open and shut; a soft, pale blue angora pullover sweater that I dried, dry-cleaned and wore to death. (Yeah, I was literally wrapped in mystery, for years. And only <em>I</em> knew! Which was part of the fun.) </p>
<p><em>Everything</em> has a story. I’ve spent many a night conjuring possible ‘what happened’ scenarios that might explain intriguing bits of flotsam. </p>
<p>PS: Joe, after downing a mug of coffee he said, cheerily, “Let’s buy a metal detector, Dee! Heaven knows we have enough beach real estate around here to poke around with it.” He showed me a fine site. We researched what model would fit our needs and, by golly, bought one. </p>
<p>Yay!!! Another new hobby is born! We’re in the snoop ‘n scoop business!</p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/45507272017-01-15T02:07:44-05:002017-01-15T02:07:44-05:001/15/17: Bird Rapture<p>Just before I fall asleep I’ll ask myself what I learned that day. Usually I come up trumps. (It needn’t be a big, impressive thing- just <em>something</em> new.) </p>
<p>Let me explain. (But first, a little background...) </p>
<p>BB Birdie is very different from Gray and Daffy. She was hand raised from infancy by a couple who showed her much affection, and who took the time to interact in meaningful ways with the little budgie. She loved them, and when they had to part with her to move to a faraway land, my younger daughter Lisa and her husband Peter, who knew nothing about budgies, agreed to adopt her. First, though, there was an introductory period, where they visited, and got to know her. The couple explained what games BB enjoyed, like tug-o-war, and ‘lets sing together,’ and taught them how to keep the bird healthy. </p>
<p>It was a good fit. BB took to Lisa and Peter right away. When she would occasionally droop, or go silent from missing her first family, they took care to smooth those times with lively conversation. </p>
<p>Gray and Daffy, though, were ignored in their formative years. Oh, they always had food and water and clean cages, but no steady, meaningful human contact. Lisa and Peter adopted them a few months after obtaining BB, to provide her with companions, but these budgies aren’t ‘tuned’ to humans, or to other birds. They might fly toward her, or me, but will rarely land, and almost never chat. They have habituated to each other, and prefer to spend almost all their time close together inside the big cage, though the door is open much of the time. In there they feel safe. Secure. </p>
<p>(Children thrive on the same sort of contact, especially during the first three or four crucial years of their lives. If they don’t experience this warm, affectionate connection they’ll tend to be more solitary as adults, and less able to adapt to change.) </p>
<p>BB is such fun to learn about, and from. When Lisa came to visit a few days before leaving for Italy, she taught me, by example, how to interact more fully with the tiny bird. </p>
<p>Today I tried two of her techniques- with great success! </p>
<p>I bought a bunch of green grapes, plucked one off the twig, diced it into tiny sections, put the grape bits onto a tablespoon and took it to the bird room. BB flew to my shoulder, chirping a welcome. I settled in my chair and put the grape-full tablespoon to my lips, then made gentle ‘yum-yum’ lip-smack noises. BB watched me happily nudging the spoon, and so ran down my arm straight to the grape offering. We were beak to mouth, <em>sharing</em>. She <em>loved</em> the fruit, and loved being so close to me. She actually gave a kind a purrrrring sound to show her contentment, and approval of this new treat <em>presented properly</em>. (I’d offered budgie-approved fruit before, but on a flat plate set down on the table. It was ignored. Nobody was even curious. <br>BB, annoyed that I didn’t understand ‘Ugh,’ had even nipped me. <br>I’d finally given up.) </p>
<p>Now Gray and Daffy watched BB feasting, but would not come over to investigate. It isn’t who they are. New experiences, especially with a giant, tentacled human, don’t tempt them, even when a favorite food is presented. </p>
<p>Nature vs. nurture: so much of an animal’s early experiences with or without its own kind, and the ability to accept and adapt to environmental changes as they grow older, have to do with the latter, I reckon. </p>
<p>After BB had feasted on the grape she flew into the cage to settle on her perch and preen. So, with everyone ‘landed,’ I played ‘<em>In Paradisium</em>,’ from Faure’s Requiem Mass. All three birds froze, shut their eyes, and Listened. That glorious music, sung solo by a boy chorister, with three other boys harmonizing in the background only at the end of a long musical sentence, with no orchestral accompaniment, enchanted them. (Birds love sounds in higher registers. Beethoven, for example, tends to pounce and growl in much lower, more powerful tones, which would certainly unsettle them. So, I wouldn’t play his work.) <br>When Faure’s masterpiece finished, they kept their eyes shut and remained silent and still, absorbing the experience. Ten minutes passed. Quiet still reigned. <br>Wow! </p>
<p>Lisa says they fancy J.S. Bach, and even sway to his musical rhythms while they cheep along, so tomorrow I’ll offer his more delicate compositions. </p>
<p>Sharing is such fun!</p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/45419932017-01-08T18:09:54-05:002018-06-23T20:17:18-04:001/8/17: ...All I’m Learning About You, Day By Day.<p><span class="font_large"><em>(Title is a song line from the musical ‘The King and I’) </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’m becoming slightly more adept at Birdie-speak. It’s a complicated language; I’ll never become more than just barely proficient. But retirement has its perks; it offers time for patience. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Every morning I go up to the warm bedroom and open the big cage doors. BB Birdie, always plastering herself to the door, squawks a reprimand: <em>You took long enough! Open up! </em><br>I do, and she immediately zips around the room a few times, cheeping birdie hoorays before landing on the upholstered armchair to look at me expectantly. (Gray and Daffy might fly around the room, and even perch on my head for a microsecond, but then they’ll fly back to the open cage’s roof to chat between themselves, and watch events unfold. I’m hoping they’ll copy BB and be more inclined to ‘mix and mingle,’ down the road,) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I begin my various greetings. <br><em>BBBBbirdie? </em><br>Three second pause...then I add, <em>Hello! </em><br>Pause. <br><em>Lee-saaa</em> (Lisa is my daughter’s name). <br>And then, a crisp <em>Bye-bye</em> every time she flies off. I do different tonal pitches for each word, to further distinguish them. She listens intently. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But the interaction I enjoy most happens when we try to chat. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">First, - a ritual ‘hi, how are ya?’ which goes like this. <br><em>BBBB Birdie? </em><br>She cocks her head, eyes me, and answers. <br><em>bbbb...</em> in a soft, high pitch. <br>A fractional pause. I respond. <br><em>Hello! </em><br>She listens. Squawks. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So then I launch into ‘birdie-babble,’ offering a rapid, complex series of sounds: tongue-brrrs, clicks in rapidly changing vocal registers, bits of nursery songs, mouth smacks and high cheeps- before ending with <em>‘mamamamalalalalabababa.’</em> This last usually induces body-bobbing. When I stop, she bobs vigorously, and cheeps for more. <br>Something about these softer, consonant-blurred sounds appeals to her sense of rhythm. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Today I brought in two fresh, organic spinach leaves, and when she rushed out of the cage and flew to my finger, I offered one. With no hesitation she began taking teeny tiny bites, which rapidly diminished the leaf, while making happy smacking sounds. She especially enjoyed the fat center vein, probably for its flavorful moisture. All the while, I talked to her. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(Gray and Daffy seem to enjoy being together, mostly inside the cage. One smoothes the other’s wings. They click beaks and have long, intricate conversations. They’ll eagerly eat a proffered leaf, but from their perches <em>inside</em>, if I stand there, patiently holding it high.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Not BB, though. This bird is Social. She wants to head-ride- or fly- out of the room to explore. Socialized early in her long life (she’s moving into year 8 or 9, by my count) she enjoys humans and their giant nest’s interiors. Hairy heads, tall shoulders and index fingers provide favorite perches to launch from to investigate all my domicile’s nooks and crannies. BB’s an explorer. <br>Still, <em>people</em> are her main focus. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She likes me well enough (though she’ll peck my fingers if she’s displeased, or annoyed). I still don’t know her enough to let her fly about more freely outside of this room. (She’ll always come to Lisa, anywhere.) Another concern: The rest of the house is kept considerably cooler. (Joe and I exercise (clean a cupboard, sweep the floor, vacuum stairs) and add a layer of clothing if we get a bit chilled at the highest (68 degree) setting. These efforts keep us warm for another couple of hours.) But BB is a tropical bird. She needs steady warmth. We have a heating unit, a humidifier, and temperature gauges in the birdie room to monitor conditions 24/7. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Anyway, she scolds me for not taking her downstairs. <br>Tough. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I deflect her annoyance by beginning a ‘conversation’ as she sits on my finger. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I make a sound, say, a high squawk- <br>She makes it, too. <br>I wait. <br>She clicks twice. <br>I copy. <br>She thinks. <br>Clicks again. <br>I wait a few seconds, then duplicate it. <br>This delights her. She bobs vigorously in approval. <br>After a decent pause, I throw out a rapid twenty-second string of my own sound collection: clicks, lip pops, squawks, murmurs, high cheeps, a ‘hey babe-you’re hot’ whistle, a musical phrase, and end the babble with a low, soft ‘boom.’ She loves that, and hurls back her own long, much more complex string of sounds and songs. It’s absolutely amazing how many she can rack up without taking a breath. <br>I’ll never be able to keep up with such diversity. <br>Satisfied, she flies back to the big cage for a drink and a seedy breakfast. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I sit back, thoughtful. That bird is truly talented. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She’s also full of mischief. <br>This afternoon she flew to me, perched on my library book’s top pages- looked at me slyly, then, quick as a flash, began to nibble notches in the pages’ edges, exactly as she did with the spinach leaf. Horrified, I yelled NO! and thumped the book with my hand, once. She flew off, squawking gleefully. <br>Her point. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A minute later she returned to page-perch- with her <em>back</em> to me, and looked over her shoulder to see if I was paying attention. <br>Quick as lightning she dipped her beak to nibble off another microbit, but this time I was quicker. Fast as a snake I snapped out a sharp ‘NO’ and banged the book just enough. She flew off, squawking with annoyance. <br>Ha! My point. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The third time, though, she flew to perch on the page tops, faced me and looked into my eyes. <br>That bird was wondering if she could wear me down. Could she go for it quicker than I could react? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She’d give it another try. <br>But- if one knows what to look for, one can clearly spot signs that a certain behavior is about to happen. Tiny ‘tells’ telegraph <em>intent</em>. When I saw her stiffen just a micro-second before lowering her beak to strike, I reacted. <br>“No!” and thumped the book as her beak descended. <br>She flew off, squawking; she was, I dare say- embarrassed. <br>Another point for me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s the thing. <br>The <em>fourth</em> time BB flew to me, after ignoring me for five minutes, she page-perched to dine on the remains of the spinach leaf, <em>ignoring the book under her feet</em>. Sated, she chirped and sang, and we traded more creative ‘chat’ back and forth. <br>The ‘eat-the-book’ game had been abandoned. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Thirty minutes later I left the room to fetch an ancient appointment book. I set it on the bed for her to shred (I’d read that budgies get a kick out of tearing into old books). BB page-pecked it a couple of times, then paused to listen and look at me. <br>I was silent. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Observation: BB was never alarmed or upset by my admonitions. How did I know this? Because she’d flown right back to me. <br>She’d tested, learned what I would not tolerate, and so had given up that behavior. (She could have torn the appointment book into pieces, but where’s the fun?) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I find this absolutely fascinating. How does she do this with a brain smaller than a new pea? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Next test: Would she remember not to attack my book-in-hand on another day?</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/45328752017-01-01T11:34:16-05:002017-01-01T11:34:16-05:001/1/17: A New Home<p><span class="font_large">It’s been a lovely, peaceful week. Bryn has mostly recovered from her near-death experience, but she’s certainly thinner, and her left front leg sports a four-inch high bare-skin area that looks odd. But who cares? The IV infusion line there saved her life. <br>By the way, hundreds of readers from as far away as Australia, England and Canada sent me caring notes- far too many to individually respond to, but please know that I <em>deeply appreciated</em> your thoughtfulness. You made those terrible few days bearable. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We’re fattening her up with a bit more of her special kibbles and perhaps a few more bowel-friendly treats... <br>She loves the attention. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Since bringing Bryn-dog home from the hospital we’ve acquired three new guests: our younger daughter Lisa has entrusted her budgerigars, BB, Gray and Daffy- to our care until mid-March. (She’s in Rome, Italy helping a University of Michigan friend excavate an ancient Roman temple. Oh, boy!) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The birds have always settled nicely into Sunnybank’s front bedroom during other weekend visits. But now they’ll be residents for a long time. so we’ve covered the twin beds with heavy 6ml plastic tablecloth covers and removed anything that might injure or entangle these tiny creatures. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One problem: their regular traveling cage was small. Yes, they’re out of their cage a lot, flying about the room, and landing on us. But their acidic poo leaves tiny white scars on the wine-red carpet, and when Joe and I want to leave them we must set aside about half an hour, and offer a millet bribe, to get them properly caged again. (Lisa has a fine cage downstate, but it wasn’t possible to haul it up to Traverse City. So, we’d need to figure out how to provide proper exercise and stimulation, but never leave them untended in the bedroom, where they could get into trouble. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was an interesting challenge. <br>I would put my mind toward designing a solution. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I began to research big aviary designs that would allow the birdies almost the same freedom they enjoy when free in the big bedroom. With a large enclosure, I wouldn’t worry that one tiny soul might scramble underneath the 6 ml plastic laid on top of the carpet...(Budgies are soooo curious. It would be easy to step on one as I walked in. And, one could fly <em>out</em> the door, too, if I wasn’t quick enough entering or leaving. They’d fly around, confused and cold, and eventually roost in some impossibly high place where I’d never find them. They could freeze to death in the night. The heat’s turned down to 50 then. <br>It took hours to find them the last time I babysat a few years ago. (<a contents="Click here to read the chapter called: Lost!" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://www.deeblair.com/weekly-column/blog/lost" target="_blank">Click here to read the chapter called: Lost!</a>) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So, I thought, let’s begin. <br>I went online to investigate big bird cages. One giant beauty was black, round, and had a door. It could be disassembled if one was patient, and didn’t mind the tedious task of rebuilding it elsewhere. But it cost $4,000.00! No way! I needed a structure that would dismantle quickly for transport or storage. One that was truly <em>affordable</em>. Out came pencil and paper. I sketched a long, high rectangle with a tinker toy-like frame using white PVC poles at each end. Les could secure window screen to a simple wooden frame, and the birds could climb all over the structure. PVC elbows would join up the poles. No screwing. No gluing. No pain, financially. Quick up, quick down. easy access for cleaning.... I could tip it to vacuum underneath, or, Les could fashion a hinged window to I’d open to make cleaning easy.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The long pipes, elbows, window screen and thick visqueen were duly purchased. But it was quickly apparent that regular window screen, designed to block flies and mosquitoes, wouldn’t do for birds. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Maybe Tractor Supply would offer wire-y half-inch square hardware cloth... <br>Joe and Les wandered the aisles, then stopped in their tracks and gasped! There, on sale for $189.00, was a beautiful, well built, rot-proof chicken coop, complete with hardware cloth. Gorgeous! It even boasted a shingled roof. The whole thing- 6’d x 5’h x 4’w- would take one hour to assemble, the box cover assured us. Just screw each section together. Everything was included. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The other stuff was immediately returned to Home Depot. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Les screwed that classy chicken house together right up in the bedroom while the birdies watched. In an hour, as promised, he’d finished. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was--- <em>almost</em> perfect. Light years better than the tiny cage, but still...not quite right. It wanted modifications. We tossed out the heavy asphalt roof, as this cage would never go outside, and in its place set two rectangular hardware cloth screens attached to wooden frames, with simple hinges so the roof would fold for transport. Finally, we raised the whole coop three feet higher, also using 4 slim wooden frames and more hardware cloth. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now, it was absolutely PERFECT. Airy. High. Aesthetically pleasing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, I dragged a large (6ft) branch upstairs that had three offshoot branches, which would lend an outdoor feel. It had blown from my giant tulip tree out back during a recent windstorm. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What a hit! The birds LOVE it. Ignoring their cage they roost on that branch all night long, rub their beaks on it, walk up and down its length. There is still plenty of room to fly around in there. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Every day for a couple of hours we open the coop’s three doors so the budgies can fly happily around the room, or sit on our heads and listen to <em>our</em> silly songs. Birds are fascinating creatures. They chat, groom, argue, sing, share meals, play ‘follow me’ and cheerfully fly back into their roomy house for a millet treat when we leave. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn sits on the floor watching with great interest as we interact with BB, the most social bird. Bryn seems to enjoy BB’s incredibly diverse repertoire of cheeps, and cocks her head in amazement when BB lands on our heads and grooms our eyebrows. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here we are, three utterly different species, who are: <br>-eager to learn each others’ preferences, <br>-willing to listen to, and try to understand, the many different sounds that make up our different, complicated languages, <br>-happy just to be together, as friends.<br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/f438eb360c25e49df4beaf84ad984b6e6b969688/medium/img-2949.jpg?1483288378" class="size_m justify_center border_" /><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/ad6ab8b870b946cd17159b43700afa9cd3679bae/original/img-2955.jpg?1483288387" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/378384cbe0d83982095de7c16cdcc7c1fc82c5db/medium/img-2964.jpg?1483288429" class="size_m justify_center border_" /></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/45251502016-12-25T11:16:24-05:002022-05-23T21:57:54-04:0012/25/16: Bryn’s Near-Death Experience<p><span class="font_large">The first hint that something was amiss came at 2:30 a.m. on Friday morning, December 16, at our Saginaw home. I was jolted out of a deep sleep when Bryn came to our bed and gave a tiny whimper. This <em>never</em> happens. My eyes shot open: there she was, looking frightened, her bewhiskered face inches from mine. I leaped out of bed to follow her as she dashed headlong down the stairs to the front door. I let her out, and she vanished into the freezing darkness. Throwing on a robe I ran outside too, to see her frantically squatting by the far fence. Squat, run, squat, run- she never ‘assumed the position’ for more than a breath. After a minute more of this erratic behavior she crept back to the front steps. We moved inside and she went right to her bed. <br>What was happening? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ding! Suddenly, I knew. Bryn had spent Thursday at a favorite Saginaw doggie daycare, a place she really enjoys. I’d dimly remembered a new worker there... <br>Uh-oh. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I rang at opening time, 7 a.m., enquired, and when they checked it was discovered that the new caregiver <em>had</em> fed her some doggie cookies containing wheat flour, cane sugar and other additives. Everyone else knew Bryn couldn’t have anything except what l prepared. But the new employee had not been briefed yet, on her first day, which had begun that mid-afternoon, about two hours before I picked her up. <br>(I so appreciated that they’d told the truth. What a class act! It would have been easy to deny everything, but the animals’ welfare came <em>first</em>, with possible down-the-road legal problems a distant haunt. Their information led to a quick diagnosis and effective treatment.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Small intake mistakes had happened before, when, for example, our houseguests had unwittingly slipped her a forbidden morsel. No big deal. <br>We’d just monitor her. The gastric distress would likely resolve itself, as it had in the past... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We packed up to return to Traverse City after walking the property with Bryn one last time to insure that she was good to go. <br>But halfway to our destination, at a rest stop, she produced watery, faintly reddish stools on her walk, and looked uncomfortable and anxious. She resettled into her backseat nest, however, and slept the rest of the way up. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She refused all food for the second day (her last morning meal had been eaten early Thursday morning, before daycare), wanting only sleep. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Very early Saturday morning, though, poor Bryn fell apart. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She woke me at 4 a.m. wanting out again- <em>highly</em> unusual- and when she staggered up the back steps again, she was trembling. I gently cleaned her red, tender hind end. Suddenly she made retching noises, and brought up copious amounts of bloody foam. Then I noticed the kitchen floor. My God! Pools of bright, opaque red vomit were everywhere. Horrified, I ran into the living room and dining room to find eight more areas of thick, vivid red, odorless vomit on the carpet. <br>Bryn was deathly ill. <br>I rushed upstairs to wake Joe. We drove her straight to the 24/7 Bay Area Emergency Veterinary Hospital, about two miles from our door. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The doctor examined her, noting alarming dehydration. Her skin was two sizes too large. Bryn stood quietly in the lobby, legs spread so as not to tip over, and looked into space vacantly. It was a thousand-yard stare. <br>She walked weakly into the treatment room. <br>The doctor drew blood and ran tests. <br>Her lab results were alarming. <br>Hematocrit up, electrolytes askew, pancreas, liver and kidney indicators tentative, heart fluttery... <br>X-rays showed a distended bowel with no obstructions. <br>The diagnosis: acute Hemorrhagic Gastroenteritis, HGE, a potentially lethal condition that manifests suddenly in otherwise healthy dogs. <br>Usually because they’ve eaten something they can’t tolerate. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn has always had an irritable bowel, a condition that sometimes manifests in white labradoodles. After meticulous research and food tests to determine what works for her, I’ve developed a successful dietary plan. On it, she’s been absolutely fine. The daycare centers know never to offer alien food. But just that one innocent mistake- offering a few dog cookies to cement a budding relationship- was killing her. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn was gently settle into a roomy, thickly padded cage, and an IV was started. She was so dry! (She’d drunk deeply from her bowl just before we left for the ER: seconds later every bit of it came up again all over the kitchen floor.) <br>She barely noticed when we left the hospital. <br>(Interestingly, Cholera’s (human) victims can be saved with IV rehydration, if administered without delay. Antibiotics should follow, but first and foremost is <em>fluid</em> replacement, to prevent organ failure. In the Third World, though, prompt access to this simple life-saving treatment is often unavailable. Death comes quickly.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">All night long the staff monitored her re-hydration. It took three bags. Drip by drop, she began to gain ground. Lab tests were repeated twice to check her blood chemistry. An IV anti-emetic helped prevent retching. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn refused the staff’s attempts to hand-feed her the food that I’d left. She could manage only a token urination when they took her wobbly self outside early on Sunday morning. <br>Later that morning the doctor asked <em>me</em> to try to hand-feed her. (She hadn’t eaten in three days) so I brought in a very small portion of Wellness 95% grain-free ground lamb, sprinkled with a few Orijen kibbles, a favorite meal. She sniffed my palm, then, with encouragement, slowly managed to get it down her ravaged throat. An encouraging sign! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I took her outside to see if she would void. She stood absolutely still, staring blankly at nothing, but then suddenly sidled up to the snow bank to scoop up the cold stuff. The doctor was delighted! Who cared <em>how</em> she took in water? She bit into the pristine snow over and over until sated, then urinated a tiny bit. Her kidneys were reviving! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The Big Question: could she keep down that bit of food and snow-water? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We left her in their care, much more hopeful now. “Well,” mused the Doctor, “if she doesn’t vomit her intake, or show signs of lower bowel distress, and if her lab results continue to show improvement, you can take her home this evening.” <br>My doctor-husband would monitor her closely. We’d rush her back to the ER if necessary. <br>She’d need Metronidazole, an intestinal antibiotic- twice daily until all pills were gone. And, we’d need to note her water intake, and make sure she was taken outside, especially during her first night home. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn <em>didn’t</em> vomit, and so was released Sunday evening. (She’d been there two days and one night...) She was thin, exhausted, and so very glad to settle into her own bed. We had to coax her to go outside, but it was a good thing we did, as she urinated for a long time, every time. Hooray! Her kidneys were up and running! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Monday she downed a bit of warm mash, twice, from her bowl, but then retired to her snug cave bed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Tuesday, she ate well, and began to look around outside. Still, her nose didn’t even twitch. She simply stood motionless on the driveway and stared vacantly, moving only when I absolutely insisted. <br>She still hadn’t pooped. <br>And what about that stillness? It was as though she’d ‘switched off.’ <br>Maybe she’d thought she was done with life, and then realized she was <em>not</em> –which required a massive mental recalibration? <br>Maybe I was overthinking this... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">On Wednesday I began to really worry about her lack of a poop, and that weird immobility outside. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What would happen if I kick-started her psychological engine? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I helped her into the car and off we went to PetSmart, where she stood, taking it in, and then slowly wandered about, sniffing food bags and other visiting dogs. This small adventure, on a less busy shopping afternoon, really cheered her. Her nose, awakened now, got busy; she happily followed it up and down the aisles. The sight warmed my heart. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hmmm, thought I...We’re only ten minutes from a favorite dog park. It’s 36 degrees outside right now (practically a heat wave)- not 5 degrees. Dare I take her there? Might it be too soon? Would a little gallop wake up her bowels? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I dared. <br>She whimpered with pleasure, and trotted into the park to sniff two friendly Labrador retrievers. A gangly pup happily began to chase her. <br>But then- in mid-gallop, Bryn skidded to a stop. <br>Thought. <br>Ran to a far corner... and, by golly, she pooped. After nearly a week of nothing! I was so happy! I collected it, noting that the color and consistency were NORMAL. (We’d been warned that bloody stools <em>could</em> show up until her intestinal wall had completely healed.) <br>Hooray! Dangling the poo bag, I did my Snoopy dance! Bryn had turned the corner! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Five minutes later she sidled up to me and asked to leave. We drove home in triumph. She slept deeply for many hours. <br>Ahhh, so did I. The weight of the world had fallen from my shoulders. <br> ***** </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Epilogue: <br>-Bryn lost over <em>four</em> pounds in the first two or three days of the HGE assault, falling from 53.5 lbs. to 49. That’s a scary-fast drop. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-The bill was almost exactly $1,000.00. But that wonderful hospital <em>saved her life</em>. This is exactly the sort of situation that our savings account lives for. (By the way, Joe pointed out that the same diagnosis and hospital treatment for a <em>human being</em> would cost over $5,000- and achieve precisely the same result.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-Our bloody carpets are done for. But hey, they’re elderly, anyway. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The most important thing: Our beloved Bryn is alive! And well! <br>It’s an awesome Christmas present! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">And No, we won’t sue. I hate that sort of thing. <br>There was <u>no</u> malicious intent, for heaven’s sake. <br>They were horrified by the oversight. <br>Mistakes <em>happen</em>. No sense smacking down a small, excellent business and its caring staff. <br>And Yes, I’ll certainly take Bryn back there. They’ll do their best for her, as usual. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">Happy Christmas and a joyous holiday to all!!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/45158682016-12-18T00:21:25-05:002016-12-18T11:48:03-05:0012/17/16<p><span class="font_large">Bryn-dog has been hospitalized for hemorrhagic gastroenteritis, so I haven't the mental energy to offer a column this week. The doctor thought she should do well, as she is a young dog, and we caught it early. She became severely dehydrated very quickly, and couldn't eat or drink, and so hospitalization was imperative. <br>Next week I will certainly know more details... <br>Thanks for your patience.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/45058712016-12-11T00:16:46-05:002016-12-11T00:16:46-05:0012/11/16: Bone Chiller!<p><span class="font_large">Looking at the big winter storm unfolding this morning in Northern Michigan brought back memories of living in Chicago for three months in the winter of 2007. It was so cold there that all the schools closed, because the buses wouldn’t start. It was so cold that breath froze on face scarves, and thighs quickly became chunks of ice. It was so incredibly cold that the streets were full of abandoned cars unable to handle such devastating temperatures. They’d just gasped, and died. <br><br>City officials warned everyone to stay home, if possible. <br><br>I was there to cook and clean for my exhausted oldest daughter, who was doing her medical residency at the University of Chicago Hospital. She had never had time to eat properly or grocery shop, or wash her clothes, or iron- any normal task- and finally became desperate enough to ring me to ask for help. I rode the train to her modest apartment the next day. <br><br>She would come home after 15 hours of non-stop doctoring and collapse into bed after downing a few bites of something nourishing. This insane existence would end June 31, when, at a stroke, she’d have a much more reasonable life, for the rest of her life. <br><br>I could tell you terrifying stories, but will content myself with just one tiny bit of advice. If you find yourself a patient in a teaching hospital, ask one question of the physicians treating you. “How long has it been, doctor, since you slept a reasonable amount of time- say six hours?” <br><br>Most especially, ask the residents. You’ll be shocked. <br><br>Anyway, I would walk for miles through Chicago’s huge downtown when apartment chores were done. The cold didn’t bother me. I wore three layers under my thick sweater, then donned two down coats, two scarves, a knit cap and down hood, long underwear under my cargo pants, and thick socks, fur boots and mittens. I was a short, snug, round green and blue polar bear who found the whole experience exhilarating. <br><br>Joe and I moved to Traverse City in 1990 because we love all the seasons; Chicago, part of the Midwest experience, can certainly demonstrate the worst parts of them. Fearsome, icy winds frequently drop the temperature to -20 degrees and lower, but I walked everywhere anyway, or hopped buses to downtown, and explored the length of Michigan Avenue, perhaps five miles, to check out the wonderful 19th century architecture, and admire the magnificent library façade. Once in a while I’d pop into a church to thaw, or a coffee shop to sip a hot brew, or, just as often, a mug of hot water. Cheerful attendants seemed amused by that request. <br><br>One day I rounded a corner and literally bumped into a street person just before entering one of those shops; the woman was walking toward the same door with bulging bags full of essentials dangling from her arms. More stout bags hung from a large, tired backpack. She looked me up and down, and then laughed a rich, mostly toothless belly laugh. “You as round as you is tall, girl; How can you see wit all dem caps an’ scarves?” <br><br>I grinned, liking her immediately. Together we strolled inside, where I bought us two lattes. She sipped her drink thoughtfully, comfortable with silence. Finally, she turned and, in response to my question about how she coped with this terrible cold, said; “Library’s warm. Early is best. Don’t nobody notice my sort.” <br><br>Another pause. “Why <u>you</u> out?” <br><br>I took my time, blowing on the coffee, and then grinned. “Why not?” <br><br>She laughed again, showing a few dark teeth. The reply pleased her. We sat there, watching hunched people hurry past the window, and shared a fat cookie. She told me she’d just been to a concert “over at the bus stop. Frien’ plays a hot clarinet. I gets mellowed out...” <br><br>Music. Oh boy! My passion! We exchanged blues and jazz favorites, and mourned Billy Holiday, and Louis Armstrong… She kept banging my padded arm to emphasize points. <br><br>I admired her beautiful headscarf, which had bass fiddles all over it, portrayed in burnished brown colors that complimented her dark coffee skin. “Dis here’s a gift — it jus’ blew by,” she grinned. “Dem’s de best sort.”<br> <br>Soon it was time to move on; we two layered bundles ambled out and parted after exchanging grins. She disappeared without looking back. I felt much better, as I hadn’t chatted with a soul in ages. (Jen was always too tired to do much more than eat, stumble into her PJs and collapse into a deep sleep.) <br><br>That homeless lady’s name was Irma. She was 56 years old. <br>She’d lived in the city’s center, on the edge, for 22 years.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/44955642016-12-03T23:55:00-05:002016-12-04T10:22:51-05:0012/3/16: Senior Moments, Finn-Quacks, And ‘Uncle Donald’ <p><span class="font_large"><em>Here is a column I wrote in 2009 upon my return from six months of living in England’s countryside, where I began the huge restoration of our flood-ruined cottage...It would take another six months in 2010 to complete. </em></span><br> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">Clutching my errand list I locked Sunnybank’s front door and meandered along Sixth Street on a lovely late spring morning, noting snoozing mallard ducks squatting on the neighbors’ lush green, sun-lit lawns. Grinning, I quacked at their indifferent backs, then gleefully recalled a fascinating factoid I’d learned in England: Donald Duck comics are banned in Finland- because he doesn’t wear pants! Silly me nearly died laughing then: I’d stepped into traffic after looking dutifully- the <em>wrong</em> way! It was a very close call. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The horrified driver stood on his brakes and shouted, “Are you nuts?!” Apologizing, I sought the safety of the sidewalk. I’d come safely home to the U.S., only to be nearly flattened by a two-ton car while giggling about ‘Uncle Donald’ running a-fowl of Finnish political quacks. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">That near-hit got my attention: when walking about I’d concentrate on <em>American</em> traffic patterns and trash silly thoughts of ducks in pants. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Speaking of cars and confusion, I’ve just remembered a curious incident. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One morning, while a team of electricians were busy rewiring my cottage, one man had to pop out for a part, but my car blocked his. “I’ll move it for you,” he said. Paint-spattered and perched high on a ladder, that suited me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He got in, turned the key, then actually broke into a sweat when he discovered it <em>wasn’t</em> a stick shift. My poor car jerked and hopped as his left foot pumped the brake and his right foot pressed the accelerator while he shifted the protesting gears. It was too much. Exiting hastily, he returned the key. “YOU do it. I could never drive one of <em>those</em>; I’d ruin it, or get distracted and cause an accident. Automatics are far too confusing.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I was amazed. <br>(Cars in Britain are, with <em>very</em> few exceptions, stick shift models.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Anyway, while reorienting to America, which usually takes a week or two, friends- or buses- have trundled me to appointments. Yesterday, just because, I walked all the way home from the dentist’s office, from well up M-22. I found 62 cents on the sidewalk, admired Traverse Bay’s elegant swans and diving, noisy ducks (all without clothes), while subliminally re-learning American traffic rules. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Passing Tom’s Market I popped in to purchase a cinnamon roll. Walking through the parking lot I noticed a mother and grandmother trying to round up four small, rambunctious children to buckle into their car seats. Mountainous folded clothes sat in stacked plastic laundry baskets, which were squeezed into their car. Seeing me, gran looked startled, then grinned. “Oh, I remember you; you were <em>thee</em> topic at dinner two months ago. Where do you get your ideas?” I thanked her happily, visibly puffing up, while mentally reviewing my columns. Which one…? Expertly corralling another youngster, she went on- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“You’re really clever, you know, pulling tons of laundry through snow and ice to your car without breaking a sweat, using bungee cords to connect your 3 baskets. Inspiring! That idea changed how my daughter and I manage laundry. I’ve got four grandkids, you know- including triplets. My washer collapsed ages ago, along with my back. Now, leaving the Laundromat, we just hitch four baskets together, settle the kids in with the folded clothes, and ‘pull the train.’ Easy as pie! Thanks!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Waving, they drove off, honking goodbye. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Staring after them, I downed the last bit of roll and licked my fingers thoughtfully. <br>It wasn’t me they’d remembered. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Walking along, I reflected that the elderly, white-haired, but still vigorous Donald doesn’t duck helping his mischievous nephews, triplets Huey, Dewey, and Louie: however, he draws the line at doing laundry. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, featherheaded, PC-obsessed Finns have completely forgotten that Donald Fauntleroy Duck <em>always</em> wears a swimming suit.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/44850672016-11-26T20:19:08-05:002016-11-26T20:19:08-05:0011/27/16: ‘Let It Rain, Let It Pour…' <p><span class="font_large">Funny, the memories a cool, drenching rain recalls. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One wet day I grabbed my biggest umbrella and strolled across the street to Hannah Park. Every so often I’ll get the urge to walk in the rain. It didn’t hurt that I’d just enjoyed Gene Kelly making dance-magic in a downpour; I wanted to recapture his exuberance for a while. My day had been ‘bumpy;’ gazing at the Boardman River, dotted with vocal ducks, always lifts my spirits. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I carefully descended the steep cement stairs to the river—and came upon an amazing sight. A large golden retriever stood squarely in the middle of the meadow, eyes closed, legs spread out, paws splayed, head slightly raised, utterly transported. The rain was pouring buckets; even the ducks had sought shelter under one of the big trees. But that dog, drenched to the skin, had planted himself there, willing it to fall even harder. The wetter he got, the better he liked it. His fur actually parted in the middle from the weight of the water. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">His owner, decked out in raingear, waited patiently under a tree. He noticed me watching his dog, and chuckled. “Sailor lives for these times. He does his rounds, then finds the perfect spot and places himself like that. Odd, eh? He’s too old to manage the river; it moves pretty fast- so he gets his ‘fix’ this way. I think the experience must be similar to a massage…” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Sailor? What a great name!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The man sighed. “Yeah; my wife and I brought him home when he was ten weeks old, and pretty quickly we noticed he took a great interest in the kitchen faucets. Then, when she decided to take a shower, and turned it on, Sailor was riveted! He yipped, then hopped in and began snapping at the spray, inspecting the drain, and generally making himself at home. Eventually he just stood there, in the same position he’s in now, and let himself get pummeled. I swear that pup smiled. We knew then what to call him.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I looked carefully; Sailor hadn’t moved. And, by golly, he <em>was</em> smiling. That dog was the picture of contentment. <br> “He’s lucky we’re willing to indulge this; it’s rarely convenient for my wife and me to walk him in torrential rain, but we’re always rewarded.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">For nearly ten minutes we enjoyed his enjoyment. Chatting and laughing, raising our voices to accommodate the downpour, we swapped dog stories. Sailor was nine. They’d adopted him from an animal shelter in Wisconsin, where they lived. The couple had seen their daughter off to college, but within two months began suffering an acute case of ‘empty nest syndrome.’ Sailor was their cure. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The rain lessened; it was time to break the spell. The man whistled and shook the leash. “Wrap it up, partner!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Reluctantly Sailor opened his eyes, gave a heartfelt sigh, and shook himself mightily. A ton of water flew every which way. Two more vigorous shakes, and they squelched over to a blue van. After a thorough toweling, Sailor hopped onto the tarped front passenger seat, accepted a large milkbone, and dispatched it with relish. “We bought a heck of a hairdryer when the house started to reek of ‘sopping canine.’ Making him acceptable takes time, but it’s necessary. He settles down to wait for rain; when he dreams, it’s not about squirrels, believe me.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A cheerful wave, and they were off to join his wife. Sailor sat, sodden and happy. Obviously this was a familiar routine. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I sloshed home, grinning in the rain.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/44757002016-11-19T23:39:49-05:002016-11-19T23:39:49-05:0011/20/16: Down in the Dark<p><span class="font_large">Bryn, Joe and I saw our Sunday dinner guests to the door, and I commented: “It’s going to be dark very soon; let's take you-know-who to the beach for a little romp before that happens...” <br>The evening was glorious- no breeze, cool, with autumn’s distinctive fragrance scenting the air. <br> “Excellent plan,” Joe agreed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We hopped into our car and made our way toward Grand View Parkway. Just as we passed the local bakery, though, I distinctly saw a lady stagger, then tip backward, her face radiating alarm and confusion as we flashed by in the half-light. <br>Time seemed to tick by in slow motion. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I registered that she was slim and older- maybe late 50s- tidily dressed in jeans and a crisp white shirt and sweater, and definitely in trouble. Staggering backwards against the lamppost she flailed her arms, but then awkwardly slid down toward the pavement before gently toppling backward. Her legs remained in the street. One hand clutched her large purse. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Joe, STOP! That lady we passed has fallen: she’s lying on the pavement back there! It’s only just happened! Go back!” <br>By now it was nearly dark; I peered out the van window, but could barely see her. Joe immediately U-turned and drove back he way we’d come. <br>“There!’ I pointed. She lay quietly on her back, legs in the street, body on the walk. What was happening?? <br>I leaped out and ran over to her while Joe parked the big van. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She looked up at me, confused, but not alarmed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“How can I help you?" I asked quietly, kneeling by her side. She stared up at me for a bit and then, slowly and shakily, said, “I need to visit a bathroom but I don’t know where it is.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Shall I call an ambulance? I know there’s a bathroom at the nearby hospital.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This reply confused her. “It’s not here? It should be here. I don’t know where I am; I think I’m lost. Am I lost?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Absolutely not. We’ve found you, and know exactly where you are. You’re safe and just resting, but it’s dark. Bathrooms can be harder to find when it’s dark... Help is coming. We’ll wait with you until then.” <br>She nodded, not completely comprehending. Trying to assemble her scrambled thoughts, she inquired again if I would show her the bathroom. <br>“Soon,” I said. “Just rest. We’ll take care of it. I know people who will show you where it is.” <br>Joe, a doctor, had dialed 911 by then, and had given the response team his assessment, and our location. <br>“She probably had a grand mal seizure. She’s confused, and sleepy, and her words are slow, and a bit slurred.” He listened, answered a few more questions and rang off. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“They’re on their way. Good thing you saw her go down, Dee. She could have lain here in the dark for some time. No one would notice her with the light gone...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Less than two minutes later the ambulance pulled up: two young, calm medics took charge. Oh, we were glad to see them! Thank heaven for the ability to effectively communicate! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We carried on to the beach in the lovely, calm evening, and enjoyed Bryn’s pleasure as she moved up and down in the cool sand, sniffing the news. <br>It was such a comfort to know the lady was in the best of hands. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">These sorts of situations are quiet reminders of just how fragile and tenuous life can be. We hugged, each knowing the other’s thoughts about that. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Love the life one has, I mused; pick out and savor the little, special parts of it that often go unnoticed, and admire how everything seems to interconnect somehow, to make existence better, or worse...</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/44641762016-11-12T23:43:19-05:002016-11-12T23:43:19-05:0011/12/16: These Last Few Precious Days...<p><span class="font_large">Oh, the outside world is so lovely! Under the ancient maple trees that line Sixth Street, Bryn and I scrunch through zillions of flame-colored, drying leaves. This is one of several long daily outings. She’s sprained her ankle, and so must be kept from running flat out and wrestling other dogs, so we walk to keep her limber, yet curb vigorous movement. Another week ought to do the trick. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Today, I’ve carefully selected about fifteen particularly gorgeous leaves to set down on my big kitchen butcher-block table, to bring autumn inside, as it were. My mother showed me how to iron these beauties using waxed paper: make a ‘sandwich’ under and above them, and press the wax into the leaves’ bodies, and especially the edges, while keeping the iron’s temperature exactly right. The result: semi-glossed leaves, whose tips don’t curl. Their colors last much longer. They look splendid scattered untidily over the kitchen’s flat surfaces. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn loves to trot up the hill at the Silver Lake Recreational Park, carefully lower herself and roll down to the bottom. So I do, too, laughing as I bump downward, a clumsy seal in a sea of grass, my dark coat collecting nature’s decoration. Her soft, fleecy white fur coat snares countless bright leaves. When she stands up she’s a living, breathing, flame-colored Picasso-like collage. This wild art lasts only an instant before she shakes vigorously, making their fire fly everywhere. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We two enjoy walking along the Boardman Lake. A generous, paved path wears a riot of colored leaves that swirl to their own music and the whims of capricious breezes. White swans dot the lake: some float closer to the shore, parting more bright leaves lying quietly atop the opaque water. It’s a stunning, movable feast. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I occasionally catch the scent of a barbeque in progress somewhere; that aroma is spiced with pine, dried vegetation and moist earth. I need only my sweater to feel comfortable, though it’s well into the second week of November! Mother Nature cares not a whit about schedules. She’s in a self-induced autumn trance, reluctant to break it off to blast the landscape with icy rain and snow. <br>Soon, She yawns lazily; <em>soon enough...but for now, stasis.... </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn vacuums up a myriad of delectable perfumes- doggy droppings, a discarded Halloween wrapping that had hugged a Snickers Bar, a low branch where yellow leaves have been blessed by canine waterings- and- there is even a decent tuft of dark fur caught in a small twig that dangles, broken, on that same bush. Bryn takes her time sniffing its story. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A bit of raccoon fuzz, perhaps? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Pick a place, Bryn, and I’ll brush you...” Ah, loving this ritual, she chooses a sunny spot in the lush park grass and lies down with a sigh. I bring out her brush and begin, going against the grain, making sure there are no fur mats, moving slowly up and down her long body, always leading with my free hand so as not to startle her. The goal: to do the job without her moving, or startling even once. Sometimes I can. <br>Half through, I tell her its time to turn over. Grasping a front and back paw I say, “Oooover we go...” and turn her over. Her eyes remain shut as she allows this. Then, the brush gently begins again, always following my open, smoothing hand. <br>The only tricky part is combing her legs. I must brush each one in such a way as to keep her from tickle-jerking, a challenge I enjoy. Her leg fur feathers out, making each appear twice as large. After a minute she lies on her back, helping, as I address her belly. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, about ten minutes later, I’m done, and signal this by saying, “ All done, Bryn: bye-bye.” She immediately rises, shakes vigorously, and looks at me, posing expectantly. <br>“Yeah, you’re a stunner.” <br>She sneezes, pleased, and trots off to inspect another shrub. I remove white fur caught in the brush’s teeth, pocket the fluff and stuff the little tool into my backpack. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn gleams after grooming, but it never lasts, as she tends to collect burrs, some quarter-sized, that are the devil to remove. They’re everywhere, especially right now. Sometimes she’ll trot back to me with an odd gait and stand absolutely still at my feet, signaling that a bur is wedged between a paw-toe. I’ll feel around, and sure enough, a nasty one is revealed and dislodged. She’ll bound off, relieved. <br>I’m her ‘fix-it’ chappie. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The sun is playful, peeking between fat clouds, and the vivid blue sky serves as a spectacular backdrop to all this stunning color and motion. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Northern Michigan autumns can leave a poet mute, I think...</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/44541872016-11-05T23:56:15-04:002016-11-05T23:56:15-04:0011/6/16: Thoughts About Ageing<p><span class="font_large">Odd creaks and cracks in the façade make me wonder just how long I can manage even this much reduced garden; today I feel a twinge in my wrist that’s brand-new. Always spooked by such specters as arthritis, I try to think why this ache exists. Could it be because I shoveled huge mounds of dirt from wheelbarrow to earth yesterday to fill in lawn holes? Surely just lifting three 40-pound bags of horse manure from the trunk of my car wouldn’t provoke it... and oh, yeah… I did dig out huge roots (dead, but still deeply attached to Mama Earth) left over from the ill-fated viburnum, fatally gnawed by a rabbit a few years ago…Slamming the hatchet into those thick, recalcitrant remains was all in a day’s work—so, is this ageing? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Other souls have pondered getting old; I love Jimmy Stewart’s wry comment; “After 60 it’s just patch, patch, patch…” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And wasn’t it Phyllis Diller who noted that- “Maybe it’s true that life begins at 50- but everything else starts to wear out, fall out, or spread out.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Certainly I’m not immune to these same things, but I’m doing work important to Internal Security here, and should manage to wrangle an exception to the rule. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ve mentioned my cranky knees before; surely they aren’t protesting the hours I crawl about hunting invaders? I’ve always done that. Never mind that I sometimes forget to fetch my kneepad when working on brick paths. These knees have accepted that it’ll always be business as usual. There’s no excuse for my various appendages getting grumpy. I take Omega-3, vitamin C, exercise, and laugh a lot about nothing at all. All these things promote excellent health. I eat once a day, and drink lots of water-- although I must say that W. C. Fields’ observation about that gives me pause: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“I never drink water because of the disgusting things fish do in it.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Gulp. But I bravely down decent amounts, with ice, and try not to think about it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Visitors often share wonderful comments about frequently malfunctioning body parts; one lady sighed and said her back went out more than she did. A spry elderly couple noted that their address book contained only names ending in M.D., and another delightful man observed that for him old age would happen when he’d sink his teeth into a steak, and they’d stay there. He’d feel safely youthful until then. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> So I take a deep breath. There is only today, and these still-blooming lovely geraniums and roses, and the pleasure that I take in simply admiring them! I can still run, so my get-up-and-go hasn’t got-up-and-gone! My teeth are NOT in a jar (yet), and various other parts don’t reside outside my chest, or on my dresser. I must focus on what matters, and stop thinking depressing thoughts. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The neighbor cat has just wandered in. I haven’t seen him in a good while, but here he is. I’m amazed to find that I’ve missed him. He makes me laugh, sneer, snarl and snort with disgust, but he’s an old acquaintance too, in an odd way. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ll take tea today in the gazebo, along with one ripe pear, of which I am inordinately fond. <br>These things, plus my dear husband, two delightful daughters, Bryn-dog, books, music, and dear friends, offer much to embrace. <br>So, with a good shake to shed the earwigs, I will carry on.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/44438082016-10-29T23:00:09-04:002016-10-29T23:00:32-04:0010/30/16: Words as Candy- or a Canon<p><span class="font_large">For me, words are frequently a chuckle-feast for eye and ear. For example, exhausted young doctors who examine a patient must enter their comments and findings in medical charts., but their tired sentences often become garbled, which provide lots of light relief for the other sleep-deprived colleagues who review them. Some fun examples: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>-This man is a healthy-looking decrepit 69-year-old male, mentally alert but forgetful. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>-The patient refused autopsy. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>-Rectal examination revealed a normal-sized thyroid. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>-This patient was scheduled for a bowel resection. However, he took a job as a stockbroker instead. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>-He complained of occasional, constant infrequent headaches... </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>-While in ER she was examined, X rated, and sent home. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>-Patient had waffles for breakfast and anorexia for lunch. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>-She is numb from her toes down. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Nurses collect some of the best bloopers to share... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Single words can be confusing to spell- and say correctly, for the uninitiated. <br>Take, for example, ‘<em>gnat</em>.’ Why plunk a G in there? Why are certain first letters duly written, then speak-ignored? (Pneumonia? Gnaw?) <br> (A grammarian would probably answer, ‘Why not?’ <br>That’s always a conversation stopper... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">‘<em>Discombobulated</em>’ precisely describes ‘rattled,’ and seems exactly tailored for how I am too often. But it’s wonderful to say. <br>I envy the soul who first penned it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Scintillating</em> is packed with motion; though for me, it lacks color. (One must ignore the second letter, here. (Or is it the first? Who knows?) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ann Landers, the columnist who became an ‘agony aunt’ to her readers, rethought the splendid word ‘<em>boing</em>,’ declaring that people initially “fall in ‘boing,’ defined, by her, as the shallow, bouncy beginning of a nascent relationship. Then marriage happens too soon, before they have time to explore the next two levels, friendship and love. <br><em>Falling in boing</em>...I wish I’d thought of it. It’s a champion switcheroo. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Asinine</em> succinctly describes idiotic. I think of that word like this- “9 times an ass”- and chuckle. It needs another ‘s’ though, to get it rite. <br><em>Rough</em> on the other hand, is weird. Why not ruff? Every time I write it, I grimace. Don’t forget <em>tough</em> and <em>laugh</em>. <br>These ‘gh’ danglers give schoolchildren and foreigners brain fits. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Hour</em>. We say ‘our.’ But ‘our’ is light-years different from hour, especially if your native language isn’t English. <br>We say <em>hotel</em>, not <em>otel</em>. (The French do, though. Initial written aitches aren’t spoken.) <br>No wonder learning English has been described as ‘a challenging puzzle, with a dash of humour.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Mississippi</em> possesses a perfect body. By that I mean it’s gorgeous. Just look at it. Feel the rhythm. The balance. That word is made for mouths and pencils. Nobody in my third grade class ever got it wrong on quizzes. This is the word that kids with low self-worth, who thought they couldn’t spell anything, ever, always spelled correctly. <br>Initially they’d look at it on the big chalkboard and panic. “Too long, Mrs. Blair, too many Ss- no way!” whispered one horrified little boy, intimidated by even tiny words, like ‘the.’ “I’m only eight!” (Then there is ‘<em>ate</em>.’ So different in every way. Those darn ‘other’ meanings and ‘gh’ letters certainly haunt the lexicon.) <br>Anyway, the class agreed with him. But then we chanted it, rhythmically banging our desks, and ‘S’d it to death. <br>The blissful look on that child’s face when he spelled it perfectly the first time was simply priceless. <br><em>Mississippi</em> makes me smile, every time. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious</em> just rolls off my tongue. When I first heard it said-and sung- in a London cinema, I fell in love. It’s a beauty I unwrap very occasionally, preferring to save its magic for my infrequent down times. <br>It was the second word those eight-year-olds learned. We chopped it up, reassembled it successfully, and the children spelled it perfectly. <em>Anything</em> I put before them after these triumphs was eagerly pounced on. Absolutely nothing intimidated them. <br>They never looked back. <br>Mastering monster words straight away guarantees self-respect. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But words can be effective in other ways. A lifetime ago I organized and used them to signal ‘enough!’ <br>In fourth grade at Catholic school I finally decided to respond to an overbearing nun who liked to lob multifaceted catechism questions my way, all the while suggesting that I, a pigtailed nincompoop in the last row, last seat (which wasn’t my fault; my last name began with Z), was an unimaginative, not terribly clever child. She made my school life miserable. Finally, I’d had enough of her verbal attacks and the class’s tittering. With a deep breath, I stood up next to my desk in my crisp school uniform, looked straight at her, aimed, and fired. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Not being fully cognizant of all the aspects of this situation I hesitate to hazard a supposition I cannot conscientiously substantiate.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I said this substantive gobblygook slowly, and deliberately. <br>Then I sat down, still staring at her. (My mum told me that keeping our visual connection would make the sentence even more effective.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(I’d spent the evening before composing this monster, then committing it to memory. To deliver it flawlessly, under pressure, was immensely satisfying.) <br>The whole class- 60 of us, in six perfect rows- froze. Anything could happen. That nun could be fearsome. <br>She stared at me for a very long time, then adjusted her wimple and said: <br>“Well.” <br>After that, she left me alone. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was the first time I’d fired off a verbal canon- and scored a perfect bullseye. <br>Sixty-five years later I’m still gleeful.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/44327152016-10-23T01:05:08-04:002016-10-23T01:05:08-04:0010/23/16: My ‘Don’t Forget’ List <p><span class="font_large">Three weeks after closing I’ve finally finished my secret garden’s important work, like cleaning all five fountains and covering the huge one, raking and reseeding the front lawn, and mowing one last time. Having stuffed forty-six bulging bags with plant debris, I’m pretty much done out here. <br>And so tired... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My tropical plants, featuring, among other things, two nine-foot high banana trees and five huge black colocasias, were gorgeous and happy, but alas, they had to go, too. This much colder air serves as a stark warning: don’t wait. The job gets much, much more difficult in freezing weather. <br>But I feel terrible about killing such beauties. (No, I couldn’t bring them inside; they’d be miserable. And, it would have been impossible to get them through the doorway.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now I’ll wait for a hard frost (when the ground freezes to two inches deep) so I can trim back shrubby perennials like the boxwood hedge, lavender, buddleia, asters and roses. Lots of heavy snow tends to split these vulnerable beauties unless they’re shortened to just 3-4 inches. Dormant then, they won’t notice, or care. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s my annual list of other essential plant management tasks: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">1. By mid-winter, ravenous rodents and rabbits will gnaw on the lower bark of young trees and shrubs, killing them. So I’ve securely wrapped tender trunks to two feet high with plastic coil, or a paper-like tree wrap. (I forgot to do this years ago, and lost a wonderful viburnum.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">2. Weed-yanking continues: happily, the offenders, forced to root in my nutrient-rich cocoa shell mulch, can’t find a firm foothold. Plucking them out now, and in spring, is dead easy. <br>Worms, by the way, find this mulch delectable. I have zillions more of the creatures than before I began using it ten years ago. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">3. After pulling out the still blooming annuals, the newly bare areas needed an earthy blanket. So after one particularly drenching rain I laid down an inch of cocoa shell mulch, then immediately watered again on a ‘mist’ setting to lock the shells together. Now the soil’s protected. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">4. I won’t prune my hydrangeas until spring. Their bare sticks collect fallen leaves, which form a thick, insulating blanket. I’ve kept their nether regions deeply mulched and moistened. (In the wild they do just fine without being fiddled with,<em> if </em>they have consistent water.) <br>Remember the first five letters: <br>H Y D R A. <br>It’s hard to water a hydrangea too much. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">5. I took all the enormous hostas down, too, right to the earth, leaving no sign they were ever there. They’d get slimy and turn to mush otherwise, and slugs love that. (By the way, a serrated bread knife transforms hours of cutting into just minutes.) <br>In spring new little hosta bumps will rise out of the warming earth. Then they’ll rocket up, unfurl and look majestic all summer. <br>I love these huge plants, especially the blue ones... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Most of what I grow are rated for zone 4, one zone <em>lower</em> than we who live near the lake usually experience, making their chances for survival greater when nature occasionally goes nuts and drops the temperature to sub-basement levels. Early snowfalls really help: under that soft white blanket it’s just 32 degrees. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(By the way, it’s way too late to transplant anything. New rootlets won’t have time to grow.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">6a. Icy, fierce winds desiccate plants. Evergreens, young trees and shrubs, for example, insufficiently hydrated in fall by rain or irrigation, die of thirst, so I’ve soaked the earth, mulched, and then watered again and again. Every drop is appreciated. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">b. Years ago I loosely encircled each columnar evergreen with thick green twine so their branches wouldn’t sag in heavy winter snows, and then pounded six-foot tall metal stakes, like the hole-y ones that hold stop signs, close to each one for extra, nearly invisible support. Twined loosely to these steel ‘backbones,’ the evergreens won’t bend to the ground in heavy snows. It only has to be done one time. (You’ll need a tall ladder, a heavy mallet and a strong arm.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In summary, I must: still: <br>-Rake, rake and rake <br>-Wait ‘til a hard frost happens, and trim. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then I’ll relax, play with Bryn, do music, read, and muse in my favorite chair by a nice fire. <br>Bliss. </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">*One more important tip: <br>Consider buying a garden meter in spring (about $25) to register the your soil’s acidity. This gadget can be found at any good nursery center. </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">But wait! Don’t just poke its prongs into the earth: water that area very well first, wait a few minutes, then insert it, or wait until after a soaking rain. The meter can’t accurately measure acidity in dry soil. <br>If it indicates that the earth is too alkaline for some acid-loving plants (registering 7 +), buy a bag of sulphur – not expensive- and sprinkle around. Water deeply. Wait a few weeks, and then enjoy your plants’ delighted response. <br>Retest regularly.</span></em></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/44214022016-10-16T10:38:57-04:002016-10-16T10:38:57-04:0010/16/16: Never Assume<p><span class="font_large">I’m truly tired. But now I can look out at the rainy landscape and feel pleased. My secret garden is nearly ready for winter. The first hard frost will be the signal to trim back the rest, such as the lavender and Buddleia. <br>I still can’t bear to chainsaw the two gigantic tropical banana trees. Their nine-foot tall, glossy gorgeous purple leaves love the cool rain, and I delight in their towering presence. The fountains are mostly drained and scrubbed, but not covered yet. Just a little more garden nitpicking is necessary- pulling clover and other weedy ruffians hiding under the huge assortment of annual flowers still blooming vigorously. I can’t bear to terminate them yet. <br>Next week, though... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn, who always chooses to sit near me on the grass, has watched the daily dismantling. She’s had an unexciting week nursing a sprained ankle from stepping into a small hole while rocketing around the Garfield Township dog park with her friends. I immediately removed her. The ankle will need time to heal. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So she limps about the house, bored to death. I’ve tried to make up for the enforced rest by taking her on long, interesting walks. The ‘sniff potential’ is fabulous. She appreciates the novelty, but it’s just not the same. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two days ago I took her into the secret garden. She won’t poo there. (Bryn knows the rules now, seeing our property as an extension of the house.) Watching me work can be exciting, because I tend to disturb bold-as-brass bunnies, who rush out from under a bush’s shelter as I crawl into it. She pierces them with hot eyes, but doesn’t chase, or, if she does, she’ll brake at the grass/flower boundary. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She studies me carefully as I gabble on to myself about earth-shaking rubbish while I work. Occasionally, a delicate nose-bump on my arm conveys her sympathy or support. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I tell my dog everything. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Because she sticks so closely to me I’d grown increasingly lax about ‘pause mode’- where I stop suddenly while I’m working, and meet her eyes for ten seconds. No words pass my lips. My blinkless Look serves to reinforce The Command. <br>“Stay Close.” <br>This mistake nearly cost me everything when I forgot to reinforce again as we moved into the front garden, where she’s not surrounded by tall walls. Bryn is prone to impulsive behavior when in a fever of passion or delight. Squirrels don’t tempt her to bolt. Even bunnies don’t. But --multiple dogs strolling past on the other side of the street, attached to their harried dog walker, were an irresistible lure for lonely Byrn. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She hadn’t dashed for days, and so was overflowing with energy and eager to connect with her kind. Now, just feet from me, she spotted the group, who’d naturally invited her to come to them. (Oblivious to what was unfolding, I was bent low near the front porch, cutting away hosta stems with my big serrated bread knife, which makes the job so easy!) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Next to me my helper Spencer suddenly shouted, “BRYN! NO!!” <br>I looked up, confused. My God. There she was, standing in the street in her fleecy white coat, arrested in mid-stride by his voice. Just an instant before, she’d been right next to me! Now a car trundled toward her at about 20 miles an hour. <br>Spencer’s shout had stopped her forward momentum. <br>Time slowed. <br>A confused Bryn looked back at us. She’d moved past her home’s boundary without thought. <br><em>Uh-oh. I <u>shouldn’t</u> be here! But Boss, the sniffs...the fun... <br>Sorry, sorry. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">All I could do was stare helplessly at the approaching car. <br>The driver braked firmly, and it jerked to a stop just a whisker away from clueless Bryn. . </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After that I’m a bit vague about details. I just remember my huge yell: “COME”!!! She came back to me immediately, looking sheepish. <br>The driver shot me a look, which I deserved, and continued slowly on her way, probably as horrified as I was. I stood rooted, trembling and sick, overcome by a flood of ‘what ifs.’ <br>What if she’d been chatting on her phone? <br>What if she’d been thinking about how lovely the autumn leaves were and hadn’t noticed Bryn? <br>What if she’d been going just a <em>tiny</em> bit faster? <br>What if Bryn hadn’t heard Spencer? <br>What if Spencer hadn’t <em>noticed</em> Bryn’s bolt? <br>What if... <br>What if.., </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He’d saved her. He saw what I should have seen, and reacted instantly with a shouted command that alerted both dog and driver. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He’d saved me, too. <br>Oh, yes. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I mimicked a jellyfish for a time, then regrew a spine. <em>Qwn your mistake. Learn from it. This was a close encounter of the final kind, and Luck was a lady today. </em><br>My shaking legs managed to support me. I moved her into the house, and made myself a bracing cup of tea. She crept to her kitchen nest, knowing she’d messed up. I didn’t have to say one word. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The sun continued to shine, and the mug of tea warmed my horrified heart. <br>I still had Bryn. <br>Never assume. Oh, my God...Never. <br>Lesson learned.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/44107942016-10-08T20:53:46-04:002016-10-16T10:34:40-04:0010/08/16: An Enchanting, Time-Capsuled Treasure<p><span class="font_large">Walking through my still lovely October secret garden, and then through misty Hannah Park, which lies just across the street, I recalled another enchanting place near my cottage home in England, deep in the Herefordshire countryside. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The eleven-acre garden, about fifteen car-minutes away, was a stunning, semi-wild place, and an integral part of How Caple Court, a huge Edwardian mansion built high above it. <br>Being far from the madding crowd, it didn’t draw hordes of tourists. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Early one misty April morning six years ago, I decided to visit again. The owner, a slim, handsome man of about 50, was just leaving in his Aston Martin. We exchanged smiles and nods in his large, walled courtyard. He drove off. <br>I’d be alone amid wild glory, likely for hours! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I left my watch in the car, dropped the four-pound admission fee into the empty ‘honesty box,’ strode through dew-damp grass to the arched entrance, and into centuries past... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Britain’s National Trust, established in January of 1895, preserves wonderful old gardens- and great houses- almost gone to rack and ruin, but they hadn’t been invited here. Someone occasionally tended the wide, rolling lawn that prefaced the garden rooms; little else had been done, thank goodness. Groomed beds and perfectly planted borders would erase How Caple Garden’s peculiar magic. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Wild peacocks screamed as they shook out their magnificent finery. Songbirds’ lovely melodies echoed through much of this immense sunken garden. Lost in wonder, I recalled scraps of Lord Byron’s poetry as I paused under crumbling arches that still supported perfumed delicate roses, whose scent seemed to recall the wispy revenants of once-living human beings. </span></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">I love not man the less, but Nature more, <br>From these our interviews, from which I steal <br>From all I may be, or have been before, <br>To mingle with the universe, and feel <br>What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all <br>Conceal. </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I love Byron. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">How Caple Garden is certainly haunted. <br>I think this place relives memories it loves. I absolutely did hear threads of classical music, barely discernable, that seemed to come from the wet earth and its sun-warmed riot of spring flowers. Light and shadow played together, suggesting fanciful wisps of people in motion. It was just possible to perceive faint laughter, damped by the thick, springy moss that blanketed everything. I felt I could slip into yesterday and never come back, should I choose to… </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sometimes bushes rustled, though there was no wind. A sunken, leaf-choked, rain-filled pool appeared bottomless. My reflection rippled with each drip-drip of moisture that shivered the flat, black water. Narrow, channeled, barely moving streams appeared and disappeared into and around other large and small pools and overgrown paths. Thickly rooted vegetation, with its power to uproot whatever blocks the life-giving sunlight, was gradually cleaving- and heaving- acres of ornate, massive stonework. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There were places so overgrown I had to trace their weatherworn, indistinct shapes to discern what they had once been. Inside one vine-smothered nook I found an ancient, dew-damp stone bench. Spiders wove complex, glistening webs above and below it. Broken branches and twigs lay strewn about. Nearby, lush ivy cloaked high stone walls and enveloped Corinthian columns. The rhythmic sound of dripping water, nature’s patient clock, softly ticked away the decades. In a few centuries this wondrous place will blur and blend into the rich earth, like an ancient, forgotten photograph left outside.... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The garden knows nothing of modern life—of a world that’s moved on to highways, jets, fast cars, and pop culture. A faun half-hidden in the tangled undergrowth wouldn’t seem strange, or fantastic. <br>It’s the most wildly romantic place I’ve even been to. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, hours later, driven by hunger, I left, feeling somehow—shifted. No other word will do. There was a <em>shift</em> in my perception of how I fit into the grand scheme of things. <br>This unforgettable garden had called me back one last time- to listen to the clean silence, to look deeper, to feel the life that was still there. I eliminated distractions, like watches, companions and chatter, and found a kind of nirvana. </span></p>
<p><br><em><span class="font_large">Update: Six years later. How Caple Court is now hosting weddings. Aerial overviews show a more ordered lawn and garden close to the house. (Perhaps the proceeds earned are being used to slowly resurrect this vast place. I hope the tidying will be confined to areas close to the mansion...) </span></em></p>
<p><em><span class="font_large">In the end, though, it doesn’t matter. The magnificent, timeless, wild beauty I experienced has left a soft, permanent glow in my memory.</span></em></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/43999172016-10-01T23:59:21-04:002016-10-01T23:59:21-04:0010/2/16: One Word<p><span class="font_large">Dum-de-dum-dum… I hummed as I crept up on three beautifully dressed beetles huddled together, contentedly munching my once- lovely canna lily leaf. Whack! I smacked them, and the leaf they were disfiguring, soundly between my palms, and winced. This technique, though effective, hurts my wrists. The creatures dropped off the plant with satisfying mini-thuds. I surveyed the damage they’d caused. Awful. The beetles lay in the dirt belly up, multiple legs feebly waving. Unmoved, I scooped the dazed insects into my pail. Japanese beetles can reproduce at incredible rates, and they always hit the dirt ravenous. These were now effectively neutered. Ha! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ding. The garden bell rang, and in strode a tall, elderly, stick-thin woman. She carried a black cane, wielded like a laser pointer. Wherever the cane went, her eyes followed. I watched, fascinated, as it efficiently directed her eyes toward whatever she needed to observe. I know, that sounds dumb. But that’s how it seemed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I heard a soft “ Humph.” She marched to the bench, sat ramrod straight, and obediently looked where the cane pointed- at the big fountain. The stick hovered horizontally, its tip unwavering. Her wrists were certainly stronger than mine. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I surreptitiously inspected her while she examined the fountain’s stylized swans. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She wore a perfectly fitted old-fashioned, belted, paisley-patterned tube-slim, zillion-buttoned dress with no pleats. Long sleeves finished with a froth of cream wrist lace. Its hem stopped inches short of stout brown tie-shoes. On her head was a brown pancake hat, topped with one pink silk rose that stood at attention. The rim was decorated with a gathered brown veil. Underneath, her white hair was swept back into a smooth, hair-pinned bun. This woman, Perfectly Proper In Every Way, could easily have been Mary Poppins in her later years. <br>Hmmm. I felt a twinge of camaraderie. <em>My</em> veil kept mosquitoes at bay when I poked around in the shrubbery every morning, stalking weeds; hers softened that no-nonsense hat. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The cane still hovered- not an inch to the left, not an inch to the right. Eventually it rotated to me. I offered a weak smile as that steady, cane-guided gaze moved unhurriedly from my grubby sunhat down to my well-worn shoes. Would she ever speak? The cane eventually lost interest in my frame: its rubber end dropped to the dirt. Something warned me to keep my trap shut. She wasn’t <em>menacing</em>, just- commanding. I remembered being measured like this by the teacher-nuns in elementary school. We children knew never to speak unless spoken to. <br>I waited. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The odd ‘inspection spell’ was suddenly broken when two boys, flirting with thirteen, came through the arbor into the sunlight, punching each other’s arms, laughing boisterously and arm-wrestling as they danced around. Their rotund dad padded in behind them, blinking through his spectacles at the colorful main garden. Knobby knees emerged from pressed khaki shorts; his brightly flowered Hawaiian shirt seemed at home in here. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The youngsters, noticing my silent guest, suddenly straightened up and arranged their hair and clothes. “Hello there,” I ventured. They returned the greeting, but their eyes never left the old lady on the bench. Their behavior altered. Now they looked around quietly, pointing here and there, like perfectly trained Edwardian era children. Well-mannered. Correct. <br>She had that effect. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A chipmunk dashed past her ankle. She sat there, unruffled. Surprise and this lady had never met, I decided. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The family moved on quickly, and disappeared around the corner. I heard the distant garden door squeak as they left. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She rose then, and her cane pointed at the cluster of lovely little blue and white flowers sporting ridiculous faux-bristles that stuck out like silk threads at attention. <br>Her caterpillar-eyebrows rose. I grinned. “These little beauties are ‘love-in-a-mist.’ The spiky-looking seed pods they’ll form later will modify that delightful name to ‘devil-in-a-bush,’ but their attempt to look formidable is just a sham: Those bristles are as soft as a baby’s bottom. Nigella, its proper name, landed in here years ago, from bird poop.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Oops! Any dumber and I’d need to be watered twice a week! If she took offence at bottoms and poop, would the cane rap my knuckles? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Instead, I glimpsed the tiniest up-curved mouth: she was smiling! Barely. Rising effortlessly, she walked briskly along the walk toward the back of the secret garden. I followed, curious, and somehow drawn. That ‘almost’ smile had captured me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She inspected everything before moving up the path again to the Ram’s Head Garden. She paused, and her cane poked the huge tulip tree. “It’s a tulip tree,” I said, obediently, “and its fat yellow tulip-flowers are gorgeous in June. But oh, Gawd, the petal-mess lasts for weeks.” <br>Idiot, I raged silently. You swore, sort of. Where’s your discipline! But, she only nodded and moved on. At the door to the Brick-Walled Garden her gaze dropped as her cane nudged the necklace of cheerful impatiens lining the base of the first step. I babbled on about how they served to warn folks to step down. She pondered that. <br>Still, not one word. Jeez. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We moved on, to the big mirror. Her cane rose in surprise and pointed to her reflection. Eyes round with delight, my visitor smiled hugely. Staring, she adjusted her hat carefully, nodding approval at what she saw in there. For a good while she probed its depths, noticing the reflected pillar fountain, the potted plants, the cattails, the way the view seemed to alter one’s perception, somehow. <em>Mirrors are a bit mysterious, aren’t they?</em> I thought, and she caught my eye and nodded. She’d read my mind! <br>It was unnerving. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Eventually cane and lady moved along the garden path to the last gate. She examined the latch, opened it carefully, and then- she turned to me. That pointer rose to my shoulder and rested there. Her gray eyes met mine. She spoke at last, her voice clear, and gentle. <br>“Nice.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Her stick dropped its tip to the ground, then led the way up the step. Opening the gate she strode away rapidly, and never once looked back. <br>I decided I’d been ‘knighted’ by a monarch. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was a peculiar, but oddly satisfying moment. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_regular">The word ‘odd’ stands out, though…</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/43893832016-09-25T08:32:35-04:002016-09-29T17:01:22-04:009/25/16: A Magical Hour<p><span class="font_large">This is one of those weather-perfect days I wish would never end. There is no breeze, and my lovely clematis vine, draped over the alley fence, exhibits a billion white perfumed flowers. The grass is alternately bright and shadowed as the playful, sleepy sun flits between fluffy pink clouds. The secret garden is open a bit later in the evening these last few precious days- to 6:00 or so- in case visitors might want to venture in to absorb the glory. <br>Soon enough the garden will shed its leafy finery; worms will dive deep into the cooling beds to escape the first frost, birds will abandon their morning songs to stock up on procrastinating worms and perhaps navigate south to warmer climes. I’ll look out at the multiple shades of fading green and gold and sigh that the season is done… </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But, not yet! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I stare in disbelief at the massive sweet autumn clematis vines, whose countless delicate starflowers are an irresistable attraction for delighted honeybees. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The sweet alyssum, gently cut back in mid-summer, has a freshened, fragrant display, along with purple basil, Russian sage, lavender, mint and feverfew. The entire walled garden is bathed in the early evening’s fragrance. Dozens of bees happily hover above the ‘Autumn Joy’ sedum, sipping nectar from the ripened pink broccoli-like buds of that charming succulent. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sitting quietly on the lawn I hear a steady hmmmm. There! A ruby-throated hummingbird (whose wings beat up to 70 times per second) pauses just inches away to probe the last lovely hisbiscus flowers before joining the bees to enjoy the ripened sedum. Four more tiny birds hover so close I could reach out and touch them! <br>Heavens! There are <em>three more</em> hummingbirds on the other side of the path, sampling sedums. And on my left, two more mini-avians explore the mint. The secret garden is awash in perfume and hummingbirds. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One tiny creature lights on a lily stalk just inches from my nose, and I realize how short its legs are. Hummers don’t hop, or walk. They only perch, and fly. This tiny beauty rests for just a few seconds before lifting off again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I move closer to the huge sedums. There, gleaming in the sunlight, is a gossamer spider web woven between two of the stalks. Suddenly a hummingbird darts to it to steal a tidily wrapped dinner, and when the outraged spider rushes to the spot, it’s snapped up as well! I’ve read that hummers, who usually weigh between four and six grams (a penny weighs 2.5 grams), use sticky webs to line and strengthen their nests. They feast on mosquitoes, aphids, ants, and even caterpillars. Though no bigger than my thumb, hummers are very aggressive, fearlessly bullying bees that bumble into a feeding area they’ve claimed. It must make a busy bee dizzy to charge a hummer, only to have it vanish, then magically reappear behind him. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now I witness something even more amazing. A gorgeous hummer is hovering <em>upside down</em> by the alley fence, effortlessly probing for nectar inside a drooping canna flower suspended seven feet above the ground. It’s an astounding display of aeronautical skill. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’m immersed in this micro-world, spellbound by iridescent feathers, brilliant flying, and that soporific hummm, which intensifies and fades as the tiny creatures move close, then further away. I’ve never seen so many of these living jewels at once, and probably never will again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Suddenly the garden bell rings; two older men stroll in and notice me sitting on the grass. I point to the hibiscus and say, quietly, “Look at all the hummingbirds!” <br>Enchanted, they stand there quietly, watching them hover and feed. A small beetle is parked inside a large white hibiscus flower, and then, suddenly, it isn’t. Has the world’s tiniest avian eaten it? Well, one just devoured a decent-sized spider and its fly-dinner. So, why not? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We chat quietly about hummingbird migration habits. So much about their lives remains a mystery, as it’s nearly impossible to track their movements with accuracy. (Workers on oil platforms 200 miles into the Gulf of Mexico have reported sighting the walnut-sized birds whizzing just over the waves toward Central America and Mexico. Scientists do know that they lead solitary lives, which can last over a decade. Recently one bird was miraculously recaptured; its tracking device was 12 years old!) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It is well after closing time when the dreamy-eyed men leave, eager to describe the garden’s natural magic to their families. <br>This fall display is Nature’s final fling before she moves down south. Soon I’ll close, and prepare everything for snow, <br>but for now- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I look around. <br>A small breeze stirs the fragrant air. <br>One small rabbit peacefully nibbles clover close by my shoe as this lovely evening moves gently into night...</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/43781742016-09-18T06:13:30-04:002016-09-18T06:13:30-04:009/18/16: Small Triumphs<p><span class="font_large">It can take a long time for living things to adjust to traumatic changes in their environment. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When I planted a second lovely dogwood tree in my garden six springs ago it rolled up its leaves and brooded for two summers. The poor tree looked ill. Some of its foliage was sun-scorched despite ample watering. It needed lots of support. I drove stout stakes into the surrounding soil and connected thick twine strands to a rubber trunk collar surrounding the tree’s girth, to help steady it during high winds. I had the tree doctor inject the soil with vitamins to encourage the tiny rootlets. But it still looked awful. People asked me what on earth had happened to make it fold into itself like that. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I sighed. “Well, it’s been jerked out of its snug nursery and planted in an alien environment; inevitably, lots of its roots were severed. Radical change is always traumatic. It’s trying to establish new roots in here, and that takes time. All I can do is keep offering support...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The <em>next</em> year, though, to my immense relief, some of the leaves had unrolled, and a few lovely white starflower blossoms gleamed on higher branches. My young dogwood, gradually adjusting to its new home, was finally beginning to perk up and bloom. <br> *** <br>Visitors to the secret garden, a young child and an elderly adult, had had to endure a similar traumatic change. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One sunny day during our Cherry Festival the man entered the main garden with a thin, depressed-looking four-year-old boy holding his hand. Unnaturally quiet, the child didn’t look around, or explore. He simply folded his arms around his knees on the big bench, stared straight ahead and didn’t move. His guardian left him there for a minute and wandered over to me. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“My wife and I brought my grandson to the festival, hoping a change of scene would…but no.” He sighed, “We live in Ohio, where my son and his wife died in a car crash recently. Now Kev’s making his home with us. But he hasn’t smiled, or even talked spontaneously since.” He sighed. “I know that it takes time to adjust: we still feel as numb as that boy. But he’s so folded into himself that we can’t reach him. He hasn’t wanted to leave the house, and is too inwardly-turned to make new friends...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We talked a bit more, and then rejoined Kevin. I began commenting about things many people miss when they visit the secret garden, such as the giant spider webs and the big fountain’s elegant swans. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The little boy sighed, and spoke softly. <br>“That blue lion’s nice.” <br>Pause. <br>“It’s a safe place for fairies, isn’t it?” <br>I nodded. He contemplated the big fountain and pool for a while, and then asked: “Can fairies swim?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I nodded again as he glanced at me. “...’Course they can…My daddy can swim too, but he’s moved to heaven now so he can’t teach me how. Mom went there, too…” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Well,” I ventured, “I taught myself when I was ten, at a lake near here. You could, too.” <br>That surprised him. He unfolded and looked at me closely. “I don’t need lessons?” <br>“Lessons are fine,” I responded, “but I bet you could teach yourself, with your grandfather’s help.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The man sat straighter and took his cue. “Your daddy learned to swim with my help, Kevin. He’d want me to teach you, too.” He smiled. “Actually, I was a lifeguard, once.” <br>Kevin said suddenly. “Grandy, did you save anybody?” <br>The man’s face lit up! <br>Contact! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">They left soon after, hand-in-hand, the child listening intently as the man shared his experiences while on guard duty at a local public pool. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s the very best part. The following year I saw them again, moving toward the rides, with a lively looking grandmother in tow. Kevin was too excited to notice me, but his grandfather did. We exchanged pleased grins, and he gave me a double thumbs-up sign as Kevin urged them to hurry up. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hooray! Like my tree, this family was blossoming!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/43665752016-09-10T23:27:46-04:002016-09-10T23:27:46-04:009/11/16: A Garden Nerd's Portrait<p><span class="font_large">Four a.m. My day began under our king-sized bed. I’d hopped out, finished making it, but then suddenly wondered what lay beneath. An ancient Popular Mechanics magazine, a cheap golf club (don’t ask) and two dusty antique wall clocks lay there, forgotten. The clocks, flat on their backs, hadn’t ticked off time in a decade. Hmmm. It was long past time to renew an old vow: sell anything not used for a year. <br>I mentally composed an ad right then. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Mid-morning. It was so hot and muggy! <br>I set to work weeding behind a big shrub, sweating in the intense heat, pondering mad dogs and gardeners out in the midday sun- when two men strode in, talking rapidly. One was really agitated. It wasn’t flowers that dominated their conversation, but bedbugs. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">…“and the exterminator’s there, but I <em>won’t</em> let ‘em spray poison on my clothes and pillow. Janet’s mad – wants me to toss ‘em, but I <em>love</em> that pillow…#%$&! Prolonged heat does kill the buggers, but are we supposed to seal and cook the house? Bake them in our oven??” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Excuse me,” I interrupted, hoping they wouldn’t mind. <br>“I couldn’t help but overhear. There’s a solution. Use your big portable oven.” Startled and confused, they peered down at me. I plowed on. “Go home, seal your pillows, blankets and clothes into <em>black</em> contractor bags and toss them into your car or truck- which you gotta park in <em>full sun</em>. <br>Wait a few hours. <br>100% Megabugadeath.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">They stared. I carried on. “It’s getting so blinking hot now that metal cars’ interiors are near to roasting. And the heat just keeps rising. Every bedbug will be six feet up in record time.” <br>The victim’s angry, frustrated face blossomed into a wide grin. “You know, that. just. might. work.” <br>They hurried out, muttering, “...and it’s only 10 o‘clock…” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I sat back on my heels, grinning with satisfaction. I’d been educated about bedbugs. Friends in another state had fought an epic battle with the creatures, which had invaded their home, probably via a visitor’s suitcase. From their despairing conversations, <em>one</em> interesting sniglet of information had taken root in my brain. Now I’d passed it on. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Why had those men come into the secret garden in the first place? I adjusted my mosquito veil and grinned. The world is full of mysteries. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Another pernicious weed yielded to my probing fingers. <em>See? You don’t always ruminate about garden-y things, Dee</em>. Well, yeah, I do. I constantly ponder the bugs who live in here, usually with angry admiration. Bedbugs weren’t so different... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Enough of that. I switched to ordinary grass thoughts. <br>Wily green grass blades often tiptoe into my flowerbeds to arrange themselves among the innocently accommodating blades of, say, flashy, low-growing Red Baron grass, and I’m fooled – for a while. Fortunately, though, ordinary grass still hasn’t figured out how to turn red from the waist up. So I knelt out there in the boiling sun and stared quietly for a while at the <em>invited</em> Red Baron grass- which starts <em>out</em> green- then did a slow scan. What didn’t look quite right? Aha! There! With a growl of satisfaction I yanked a tall, skinny masquerader out, and pounced gleefully on others that had quietly hunkered down amid the Cranesbill geraniums. <br>Cheap triumphs like these keep me going. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Still on hands and knees I peeked under lavender and daisies, hunting for another obnoxious invader- horrid Houttuynia. Years ago this little groundcover’s gorgeous, multicolored leaves had made me swoon. Love-struck, I brought one little honey home and tucked it in, ignoring my own rule- because she was so beautiful! (The Rule: Never Invite Anyone into my Beds Until I’ve Done a Thorough Background Check.) <br>I’ll pay for a long time for allowing passion to overrule common sense. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Darling Houttuynia had lived here for only one summer when, checking under another plant, I saw seven more... <br>But denial ain’t just a river in Egypt. <em>Nah,</em> I’d thought; <em>she wouldn’t have had time to fool around so soon...She’s so sweet, so little and pinkly delicate. It’ll be fine... </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Uh-huh. Once again, I’d underestimated a plant’s capacity for mastering multiplication as it basked in cow poop. Months later <br>I dug out upteen fat newborns, slowly coming to grips with my idiocy. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It got even hotter. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ouch! Somebody had crawled up my pant leg to dine on my calf. Bugged, I bolted out of the bushes, ran into the garage, hopped out of my cargo pants and shook them, hard. Something little fell out and flew off. A closer inspection revealed a trail of bites. Rats! I’d forgotten to rubberband my cuffs. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bugs absolutely love me. It’s mystifying and maddening. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hot and bothered I threw on my pants again and snatched up a hose. <em>Full blast</em>, I thought, and bent over to unleash a torrent of cold water that drenched my neck, hairy head and entire upper body. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>Much</em> better. Sopping wet I stood there, not thinking a single thought, when- <em>Ding</em>! In walked four somberly dressed visitors, who’d probably come from the funeral home two doors down. There I stood, hose-to-nose, soaking wet, grinning sheepishly, with my fly still unzipped. The visitors stared, laughed nervously, and edged away. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ah, well. They’d just witnessed a garden nerd in full bloom...</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/43564632016-09-04T09:48:19-04:002016-09-04T09:48:19-04:009/4/16: Frog-In-A-Pipe<p><span class="font_large">I woke up as usual at four a.m., tackled in-house tasks, and then went out to the garden to deadhead and feed every plant that might appreciate a nip of fish guts and sea kelp. Today, though, I felt really tired, and my legs were lead-lined. Something wasn’t right…but the work had to be done, so out I went. The garden wove its magic, as usual, and soon I was well into my stride. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The front garden wanted attention next, so that’s where I was when a jogger paused to chat. “Hi! Is this your garden? I love to run by here every morning.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I looked up, grinned, and tried to say “good morning,” but nothing came out! I tried again. A deep, gravelly croak emerged. Good heavens! A frog had crept into my voice box! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Noting my confusion she said, tentatively, “Oh… you must have a bad cold; <em>that’s</em> why you’re wearing a veil…” <br>“No,” I protested- I haven’t a cold… it’s for mosquitoes and gnats… but I’m amazed by this basement voice.” <br>I sounded so ridiculous that we both laughed. Or rather, she did. All I could produce was a hoarse, choked gasp. <br>Laryngitis was in full bloom. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And that realization marked the beginning of a confrontational, peculiar morning. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A bit later a twenty-something man and his rather large dog sauntered by. The animal sniffed happily next to my fence. Finding a delectable scent he lowered his shoulder to roll in it. His owner, ignoring me, jerked the leash to discourage the behavior. Resigned, the dog sniffed again at my daylilies, and assumed the position. A huge load later they began to walk away, leaving me kneeling there amid his deposit’s objectionable perfume, feeling shocked at the fellow’s colossal indifference to doo-doo etiquette. <em>I</em> was supposed to pick up this mess? Uh-uh! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Assuming an outraged ‘woman on the warpath’ position I stumped right up to him. Skewering the man with a glare and trying to appear as fearsome as a 5’ tall old lady can look, I pointed behind him at the steaming offense and said in my deepest frog-vampire voice, “Clean. That. Up.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Unnerved by my-ah- unique sound, he turned back, red-faced, and muttered, “Yeah, yeah, fine.” He used a stick to poke and wheedle the pile of pooch poop toward the street while the dog and I watched. It seemed to take forever. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally the last big turd was nudged into the gutter. Arms folded, I fired off one more sally in my deepest basso profundo voice. <br>“Next time, bring a doggy bag.” <br>He muttered something (‘…old bag…’)? as they walked rapidly away, and shot me a look that seemed to say, “Imagine waking up to <em>that</em> every day!” <br>Thoroughly rumpled by his attitude, all I could think to toss back was-“Ribbit!” before continuing my work. Clearly, he didn’t appreciate gardens. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Just before opening time a young woman pulling a small boy in a bright red wagon paused to say hello. “Your flowers are lovely! We’re on the way to the Farmers’ Market to buy some, too.” The boy gazed at my mosquito-netted face with intense curiosity. Without thinking I returned her greeting, and his face blossomed into a huge grin. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“You sound <em>awful</em>,” he stated firmly, and I heartily agreed. <br>“I woke up with a frog in my throat, young man, and it won’t leave. Got any suggestions?” <br>He thought. “Cough it out! But take off the net or he’ll get stuck!” <br>I coughed carefully, lifted my net, waited hopefully, then sighed. <br>“He won’t budge!” <br>“Eat lots of ice cream! Froggies don’t like ice.” <br>“Hey! Great idea! Thanks,” I croaked. (It <em>was</em>!) <br>He beamed. <br>“Say something else,” he pleaded. <br>I obliged, and tried to sing ‘Ba-ba Black Sheep’ in my best frog-in-a-pipe voice. It was hideous, and I faltered after the first phrase. He listened, rapt, then clapped as I went mute, defeated. <br>Laughing, his mother said goodbye, despite his vigorous protests. <br>“Nooo… I wanna hear more! ” <br>She pulled away, waving, while he continued to toss out suggestions from the wagon. <br>“Throw up!” <br>“Squeeze your neck real hard!” <br>“Do cartwheels- he’ll get dizzy n’ fall out!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Oh boy! The first passerby’s doo-doo indifference had left me indignant and out-of-sorts: here was a young boy who cared! <br>I grinned, moved wearily into the house, and downed some ice cream. <br>Why not? </span></p>
<p> </p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/43453902016-08-28T00:36:44-04:002016-08-28T00:36:44-04:008/28/16: Delicious Absurdities<p><span class="font_large">In 2010, when I was living in England, some folks were laughing in the Ross-on-Wye town library about weird laws that are still on the books. I shamelessly listened, retrieved a rumpled grocery receipt and scribbled some of the best ones in my well-thumbed notebook. Have a read... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">*No one may die in the Houses of Parliament, except the Queen, because the deceased would be entitled to a State funeral, and that costs money. If someone does turn up his toes, he should be discretely shifted before authorities are notified. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">*If a whale washes up on a British beach the head is considered the property of the King, while the tail goes to the Queen, as she might desire the bones for her corset. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">*No one may place a stamp bearing the Queen’s image upside down on an envelope. This offence could be considered treason. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">*One may not fire off a canon in metropolitan London, or shake a rug near a police station, unless it’s after dark. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">*A British taxi driver may legally “spend a penny” in public, but only if he relieves himself on the back wheel of his own cab while placing his right hand on the fender. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">*In Liverpool, home of the Beatles, a woman may not walk about topless, <em>unless</em> she’s selling exotic fish in the local pet shop. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Silly laws remain in force in Europe, too. <br>*In France, for example, it’s forbidden to name a pig Napoleon. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">*Luxembourg has decreed that cars must have working windscreen wipers—but a windscreen is not required. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">*And in Denmark, it’s illegal to start a car if someone is underneath it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dopey “don’ts” exist in the United States, as well. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">*In Ohio it’s illegal to get a fish drunk. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">*Alabama law prohibits a citizen from carrying an ice cream cone in his back pocket at any time. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">*In Alaska it’s an offence to push a moose out of a moving plane. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">* In Baltimore it’s illegal to take a lion to the movies. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">*Donkeys may not sleep in bathtubs in Arizona. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">*In Harper Woods, Michigan, one may not paint a sparrow and then pass it off as a parakeet. <br>And in Detroit- <br>*A citizen may not tie his alligator to a fire hydrant, or let his pig roam free <em>without a nose ring</em>. Nose rings prevent swine from rooting, you see—that’s the important bit. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dan Quayle, on the campaign trail, once made a comment that seems to fit the folks that passed these laws: [Detroit lawmakers]…are "<em>ready for any unforeseen event that may or may not occur.</em>" </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ll also share some fascinating factoids I’ve collected: <br>-Eyelashes hang on for about 6 weeks. <br>-Termites are affected by music. If you play it loudly in a wooden house in the south, termites will dine on your domicile much faster. <br>-A cubic mile of fog contains just a bit less than a gallon of water. <br>-The average beardless man will shave off 28 feet of hair in his lifetime. <br>-There are 336 dimples on a regulation golf ball. <br>-Cockroaches detest cucumbers. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">How does one monitor vital facts like these? Who’d want to? Were they paid? Why? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dan Quayle once observed that… "<em>people that are very weird can get into sensitive positions and have a tremendous impact on history.</em>" </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Maybe. Maybe not. But political space cadets and factoid-collecting nerds like me can reliably trigger twirling, ear-directed forefingers, and wide grins.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/43347492016-08-21T00:13:02-04:002021-08-10T05:08:30-04:008/21/16: A Snapshot of Skye<p><span class="font_large">Wednesday: cleaning day. I was dusting the shelves in our small children’s library upstairs when I jostled one of our picture albums. A photo fell out onto the carpet. It shows my mother, my two-year-old daughter Jenny and me when we visited her beloved husband David and her for two months on Scotland’s Isle of Skye in 1977. <br>Memories tumbled out, too... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">They owned a centuries old two-bedroom croft house with two-foot-thick stone walls, needed to rebuff force 10+ gales on the island’s northernmost Trotternish Peninsula. Their handmade clocks sold briskly. It also served as a bed-and-breakfast when I wasn’t visiting. Hiker-tourists, many from Scandinavia, would hang their hats there for a night or two, and leave with full bellies and at least one wall clock. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Just a hundred yards away from their door stood our neighbor’s small croft house. Willie, a shepherd in his sixties when I first met him in 1977, had lived there all his life, and was quite a character. On a whim I went down to my kitchen to Google Earth the North Duntulm area of Skye, looked around, and sure enough, there was his extremely spare little home, now named <em>Willie Mcleod’s Cottage</em>, in his memory. It’s been totally redone and refitted, and serves as an attractive rental. Willie would be incredulous. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He seemed utterly impervious to awful weather. His ancient, ragged overcoat served as feeble protection during April blizzards, when nearly a hundred ewes would give birth, sometimes to twins. He never complained. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We helped, taking in the more fragile lambs to revive them in our kitchen’s gently warm oven during that busy time. Right away, Willie (and most sheep farmers) tightly rubberbanded three-quarters of their very long, woolly tails, cutting off the blood supply; eventually everything below the band would shrivel and fall away. Why do sheep owners do this? When ‘woollies’ eat and poop their hind ends would otherwise snare and retain an excess of that rejected stuff, which encourages maggots and intestinal worms, which fosters infections- and sometimes death. Tail-bobbing keeps flocks much healthier. <br>Willie’s babies weren’t in the least bothered by the procedure. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One sunny afternoon my mother crossed the meadow to give Willie a treat she’d made, and got a terrible fright. His ‘pet’ stud ram, brimming over with testosterone and boredom, took offence at her trespass and charged. Willie was up the hill checking on his ewes, so there was no immediate rescue. Realizing what was about to happen she dashed into his croft, slammed the door and yelled for help! The huge ram battered and banged at the semi-secured door, which eventually yielded. He ran straight in after her! Fortunately, Willie heard the crashes and her shouts and ran home to wrestle the fuming beast outside. Bracing cups of tea with lots of sugar helped mitigate her shock. In the end, she thought the whole episode was very funny. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Maybe. I thought that ram was a dangerous ‘friend.’ He minded tall, spare Willie most times, but still tended to butt him too hard when they ‘played,’ knocking him flat. (The beast would eye me and paw the ground as I hung out the wash, making me truly appreciate the wire fence that defined our border...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I remember hiking to an ancient ruin with my mother one day. Duntulm Castle, situated dramatically on a huge basalt promontory directly above the pounding North Atlantic Ocean, was not far from our little cottage. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was a spooky, forlorn place. Wind found its way through every crack in the giant stones, producing a weird, wailing sound every now and then. (It’s a rare day when there’s no wind at all on Skye.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Built in the fourteenth century, the castle was inhabited until the middle of the seventeenth century by various powerful chieftains and lairds. As with any castle, it has its share of shocking stories. For example, in the sixteenth century a nursemaid set her infant charge down on one of the castle’s deep windowsills to reach for something; the baby rolled over, fell out, and was dashed against the rocks far below and swallowed up by the heaving ocean. As punishment the wretched maiden was put out to sea in a tiny boat and left to drift into oblivion. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I remember making my way down into the castle’s dank dungeon. The echo and thump of huge waves constantly battering the basalt cliffs below this still massive edifice was extremely unsettling. I couldn’t imagine being held captive in there, even briefly. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Eventually, in the mid-seventeenth century, the final owner decided to build another castle a bit more inland. Most of the stones for that new fortress were taken from Duntulm Castle. Today there is little left but wailing rocks and a hugely diminished, shattered façade that is starkly dramatic at sunset. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The Google site showed an additional modification: little stretches of picket fencing, white paint scoured away by wind, have been placed near potential entrance sites near the cliff’s edge. Looking slightly askew and inadequate, their design allows the constant wind to blow between the slats. <br>Inquisitive tourists who ignore the fragile barriers and venture too close to the crumbling castle and that sheer, magnificent 100-foot cliff, might simply disappear. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Funny how a single old photo can evoke <em>such</em> a flood of vivid memories...</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/43242192016-08-13T23:37:35-04:002016-08-13T23:37:35-04:008/14/16: Tidying Up...<p><span class="font_large">Sometimes I feel a need to gabble on about the garden, a quiet, peaceful place where I spend most of my summer days. Lately I can be found crawling about on the lawn, digging for treasure. But not the usual kind. I hunt for collapsed clover flowers lost in a sea of clover. When the dead head of the blossom is located, I’ll gently follow it down to the root and pull. And pull. The rest of it <em>slowly</em> emerges from its lair, just a hair under the soil. If I do it right, a foot or more of clover root is exposed. I love it when this happens! Reaching the root’s base I’ll extract it using careful <em>circular</em> motions. (If I hurry, the darn thing snaps; then any tiny bit left underground will simply regrow another long, shallow-rooted clover.) <br>Extraction is truly a delicate art. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This year there is so much clover devouring the front lawn it can hardly breathe. I won’t resort to spray, as the worms would be miserable. So, when my other garden chores are done, it’s ‘crawl time.’ Actually, this task, or grass roots rescue, as I prefer to call it, done in the cool of morning, can be really satisfying. Yes, there are lots of bald spots where this invader’s kin used to squat, but grass soon takes over when cleared areas are copiously watered for a few days. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Another lawn job involves pulling out crab grass. Bright green, easily seen crab babies are rather feebly anchored, and so more easily pulled out. <br>I can fill two big crab buckets in a morning. Finished, I’ll add a handful or two of good soil and sprinkle McGough’s best grass seed mix on the bald spot, water vigorously, and the problem is solved- for a while. (Waiting to remove this noxious weed makes the job tougher, because the wretched crab is busy 24/7, burrowing straight down.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One vital thing to remember: Cut Grass <u>Long</u>- 3.5 to 4 inches, at least. Weeds are choked out, the grass grows thicker and loses that tell-tale yellow, a sign of sun-scorch. Short grass is an engraved invitation for weeds to move in. <br>Mowing slightly more often shouldn’t be a big deal. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, I water often, especially lawn growing under trees, which absorb most of the moisture... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But, another task happens first. I deadhead every single lovely flower in the garden, tiny or huge, every single morning, a two to three hour job. In August, deadheading is much easier, lasting only about an hour. (For example, the prolific evening primrose, which took about thirty minutes to clean every day for most of July, is finished for the season.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Day lilies, so named because they enjoy only one day of life, deserve to bloom free of their dead, limp brethren. I like this job, as the results are quite satisfying. It’s easy to snap off each exhausted one, so that the newborn flower a half-inch away is ‘Queen for the day.’ When all the buds have changed to flowers and are done, I snap off their long stems close to the ground. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I do this for hosta flowers, too. Hostas bloom for a meager few days, and leave tons of dead bits. The remaining stem-sticks are so ugly! I don’t allow mine to flower, as cleanup is such a pain, but would certainly do it cheerfully if what they produced would last more than a blink. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The reward for tidying up ‘plant poop’ is huge. <br>-Perennial geraniums (cranesbill) remain lovely for weeks longer. <br>-A second flush of Shasta daisies and asters will often appear because I searched the stem supporting the old flower for a tiny bud half way down, and THEN cut, just above it. A couple of weeks later, ping! A fresh, much shorter-stemmed white flower opens. <br>-Thick, healthy, huge annual geraniums stay that way because I snap off the old stem and withered flower <em>right down at the stem’s base</em>. New buds hanging around the area wait for that signal. Then, Bang! They open into more loveliness. Over and over! <br>-New roses form (on remondant roses) if I hunt for <u>5</u> leaves, not three, and cut just above that. <br>-Fresh, fat marigolds appear if I snap off old ones. <br>-Johnny-jump-ups continue to ‘jump up’ because I eliminated the old flowers- <em>and</em> their stems. This job is tedious because they are so small. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My two burgundy banana trees, relieved of their enormous tattered bottom leaves, will promptly grow fresh new ones that unfurl in afternoon sun. Both trees have shot up from one foot to seven feet in just two months. And they aren’t done yet! Soon, if I keep them hydrated, they’ll rise as high as nine feet, their elephant-sized fat purple leaves glistening in sunlight, as though waxed. Alas, banana trees die at first frost. (They are <em>far</em> too big to dig up and bring into the house to overwinter. But they make an impact out here!) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My ten-foot high Hibiscus bushes display countless lovely flowers- that live for just a day. Old blossoms drop off constantly during their grand show, necessitating a crawl deep underneath the spreading branches to collect large fat, withered ones that seem to fall like snow. If I don’t patrol three or four times daily the ground- and grass- underneath will be thickly littered with dead blossoms. That annoyance is offset by what’s above: glorious five-inch white flowers with deep purple throats that attract bees, who become so coated in pollen that they stagger and wobble when they try to lift off. Today one sat on my shoulder, loaded to the hilt, resting. I bet it had made a dozen trips. Bees never complain. <br>. <br>My bright red dinner plate hibiscus flowers are half done. This bush’s blooms are huge and prolific. But one-day-old blossoms turn a blackish-purple that looks truly awful next to newly minted flowers. Daily cleanup here is vital! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My tall Buddleia, or butterfly bush, is growing happily in the alley garden, but when those lovely bottlebrush flowers turn brown they want cutting away. Fresh new blooms fill in soon after. Butterflies swarm that bush. <br>Plants I’ve mentioned panic when pruned; they’ll immediately grow another flower- which is exactly what I want for July and August. <em>But</em>, I stop deadheading everything perennial on September 1, to encourage settling into dormancy. They need about a month to think about it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A visitor asked me the other day when would be appropriate to trim back the lavender and spirea. <br>Lavender should be <em>trimmed</em> hard back, to perhaps just 4 inches, <u>after the first or second HARD frost</u>, when the ground is frozen to 2 inches below the soil line. The sleeping lavender won’t have a clue you’ve done this if their bottoms are frozen. In spring they’ll grow back vigorously. <br>If I cut it back to just above the first few tiny white bud nubs it will likely live a full life- about 6-7 years. If I cut <em>too high</em>- say, half way up- it will eventually get grumpy, thick-waisted and woody, and die sooner. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">General rule; cut certain larger perennials, like Goats Beard, back almost to the ground after couple of hard frosts. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Leave others, like clematis, miscanthus grasses and hydrangea, until early spring. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Remove every single annual in late autumn, or when they give up. It’s really tough to pull them out in early spring. Not all of these dead plants come out easily, so I must dig the rest up with my trowel. What a tiresome task that can be. <br>So I never wait. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Autumn has given the first hint that things are about to change. Today I found lots of beautifully colored maple leaves on the sidewalk. September’s just around the corner! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn watches everything as she sits close to me to nibble long clover roots thoughtfully. But she’s learned not to ‘help.’ I’d be engrossed, then, trying to change position, I’d glance back at her and find multiple little holes dug, and limp clovers dangling from her mouth. My reaction to her ‘assistance’ made it clear she was only to watch, and wonder why I would lavish such care on those long green, grubby lines. <br>She’s pleased, though, that I carefully collect <em>her</em> pooh into little bags on our walks. It’s obvious I treasure everything about her. How nice, she muses, to be considered so important. <br>Still, her human does value some peculiar things...</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/43133912016-08-06T23:16:18-04:002017-01-11T09:52:04-05:008/7/16: Dog-in-a-Bog<p><span class="font_large">If one owns a dog long enough, one will likely face a long list of familiar mini-calamities, such as skunks, porcupines, burrs, insects, fleas, tar- the lot. <br>Here’s the story of one thing that wasn’t on the list. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Twilight time. About 8:15 p.m. Joe and I decided we’d drive Bryn back to The Commons for another romp through that beautiful place (read last Sunday’s column for details of our previous visit). In less than six minutes we arrived. Bryn was, of course, more than happy to chase a stick we’d brought along, and then wade again in the very shallow brook that cuts through the spectacular Commons area. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We humans hopped back and forth over the water, mimicking Bryn, who loved that her pets were copying her. After about thirty minutes of fun in the lovely evening, we headed back to the car. It was just after 9 p.m. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, a peculiar sort of mini-disaster unfolded. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The little stream, about four inches deep everywhere it meandered, had always presented a pristine sand and stone bottom. But. There was one. particular. spot where the stream was channeled to flow under the street, that turned out to be <em>very</em> different. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn hopped down into that six-foot wide space for one more refreshing wade before she had to leave, but failed to notice that <em>this</em> water was opaque. Tar-black. We saw her go in from the corner of our eyes as we chatted, but then---Something wasn’t right! The poor dog had practically disappeared! She was more than chest-high in a viscous black bog! Her front legs were so firmly entrenched she couldn’t lift them to claw her way out. The bog held her firmly. She sank a bit deeper as she struggled. <br>We wasted seconds staring in disbelief: then Joe and I ran over to help as she tried again to free herself. This time her muzzle dipped into the muck as well, rendering it jet-black. Yuck! She coughed, sneezed and gagged when she tried to lick it off. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, after another mighty effort, she managed to claw her way up the steep embankment and out onto the rich green grass. We stared at our formerly white dog, bewildered. Bryn was black from her chest down. Her muzzle, right up to her eyeballs, was filthy. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My husband scratched his head. “What in the heck just happened??” <br>Clueless, astonished silence. <br>He sighed. “Oh well, I’ll just take her a few feet upstream, ditch my shoes and socks and wade in to clean her off.” Bryn trotted into the sandy two-inch deep water and stood there patiently as Joe began, but his strenuous efforts yielded almost no change. Oh, Woe! How could we put her into the car coated with muck! The back seat’s dog cover would never recover! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Scrub, scrub. The black goo refused to yield to sand-scouring. Finally he admitted defeat. It was getting darker; we had to go. So our dog hopped into the back seat as we cringed, trying not to look at the smears. “Hey, I think you managed to lighten her paws slightly,” I chirped, trying to lift the gloom that blanketed us. I got a grunt for my trouble. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We motored home, deciding that what we were dealing with here were many, many fallen leaves mixed in with other vegetation, that had, slowly but steadily <em>over many decades</em>, rotted into this viscous black muck that was tucked into a place nobody would think to wade in. Furthermore, it was an area that rarely saw the sun. An ancient tree’s huge canopy had seen to that. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">At home I dragged the garden hose into the alley. Joe ran into the house for Bryn’s shampoo, and then, just before I began to work on her in the gloom of evening, he whipped out his iPhone and snapped a picture. <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/f138cb0e8a9d42b0ee709c7e7dac1d1751f8e857/original/1e5eb054-5064-4d5f-a7c8-6702a7eacc8d.jpg?1470539583" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Glum Bryn kept looking down at herself. What <em>was</em> all this stuff?! <br>She was incredibly patient and helpful, raising each leg upon request, and holding off fur-shaking until given permission. The job took nearly thirty minutes. I used her special shampoo brush to scrub away most of the worst of it, and yet- there was still a distinct line of gray to remind us that the goo wouldn’t go that easily. Blackened water pooled on the alley’s asphalt, reminding me of a mismanaged oil change. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">By now it was dark, past ten o’clock, long past my bedtime. Mosquitoes were signaling their buddies that fresh blood was right there for for the biting. So we hastily brought her inside after drying each paw at the door. I looked down. A thin gray film dirtied the towel. Bother! I’d have to wipe the kitchen floor that night and scrub her again tomorrow. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Funny how one simple decision – to hop into water that was, in fact, a black hole- could instantly create <em>such</em> a dog-awful mess!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/43032652016-07-31T09:39:30-04:002016-07-31T09:39:30-04:007/31/16: Summertime Ecstasy<p><span class="font_large">The last Friday in July was absolutely lovely. The breeze was gentle, the humidity was way down, and flowers perfumed the air. Families meandered toward films they’d chosen to view, chatting and laughing. (The Traverse City Film Festival is hugely popular: thousands of people flock here annually to view the vast selection of national and international video art.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was moving toward twilight: time to take Bryn to the beach for a swim. At this time of day we’d have it to ourselves. She’d paddle alongside me as I swam, and occasionally sip the water, minding where her paws were...(When learning to love the water she’d raked me more than once. My pained yelps had upset her; now she’s much more careful, swimming parallel.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But visiting family members shook their heads at my announcement. “Not a great idea, Dee. We noticed on our walk that the waves are white-capped. There’re cold spots out there, and no one would notice you in trouble—with, say, leg cramps. <br>Take her biking today.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Hmmm. The wind <em>had</em> blown pretty hard all day as it ushered in the cool front; I’d forgotten that. Bryn would follow me anywhere, even out to sea through high waves, but today these <em>could</em> be daunting for us. <br>I followed their advice. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There <em>is</em> a lovely place not far away that features a very long, winding, babbling brook. Huge trees grace a massive, manicured lawn that carpets gently hilly terrain. We’d probably be alone, as most folks were at dinner. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I clipped her to the Bike Tow Leash, a cleverly designed flexible pole that connects to my cycle’s back wheel sprocket to hold it- and her- in place. (I’ve never been yanked off the bike when dogs/rabbits/squirrels/cats suddenly cross our path. It’s a masterful design, worth every penny.We began the sojourn. Bryn padded happily along, knowing something fun would happen soon enough. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ten minutes later we arrived at The Commons, a vast expanse of gorgeous, gently hilled parkland with paved, winding walks located just a mile west of my home. The former mental hospital’s classic Victorian buildings have been masterfully converted into condos, an indoor shopping area boasting some fine restaurants, and more recently- the Botanical Gardens are developing. I parked and locked the bike, unhitched and unleashed Bryn (leaving her harness on) and gave the order: “Stay close...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She looked around, thrilled. <em>Oh, Boss, let’s explore! </em>That’s exactly what we did. She indulged in an ecstasy of sniffing; the venerable trees fascinated her, and that vast shaded/sunny lawn, expertly cut long, made both of us sigh with pleasure. I felt transported to the English countryside. But it was the little burbling stream weaving between the giant trees, sparkling in the sunlight, that triggered a New York City Ballet display from my beautiful two-and-a-half-year-old 53-pound white labradoodle. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn lowered herself down a couple of feet and put a tentative paw into the shallows. The sandy, rocky bottom was walkable, so she hopped in, waded slowly upstream a bit, looked up at me, and then, suddenly- raced further up for perhaps thirty feet. Water flew! Then she leaped <em>very</em> high, from a standing position, straight out of the water onto the grass, and rocketed over the verdant lawn, zipping around trees gazelle-fast, before racing back toward me at full speed. Just when I thought I’d be run over she turned exactly enough to miss me, soared to the brook’s other side and instantly leaped back again, as light as air. She <em>flew</em> around the vast, empty Commons once more, hind paws touching her cheekbones, before bouncing over the stream at least a dozen more times in a traveling weave-stitch pattern, back and forth, back and forth. Micro-spray from wet legs in mid-leap created tiny diamonds as drops caught the dying sunlight.It was an amazing display of exuberance, confidence and perfect control. <br>Brynny-dog was having an ecstasy fit! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After all this spontaneous joy she stopped dead on the lawn, panting, looked down at the water, then up to me, eyes sparkling, relishing my delighted laughter. Suddenly, after that very brief pause to catch her breath, the entire process began all over again! What fun! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In fact, her solo dance was infectious! Joining her, I jumped the brook too, then dashed through the thick, lush grass and around ancient trees, copying. I flew over the water again and again in different places (albeit much slower and more carefully than she, as the stream, easily a foot below level ground, would go narrow or wide without warning.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Heavens, it was the best, most challenging fun I’ve had since- well, swimming with Bryn two days ago. The sun was almost down when we both collapsed onto the long, cool grass. Bryn grinned; her tail thumped once. (She never overuses it.) After a brief rest she sighed and dried her long muzzle by dragging it through the greenery, hind end in the air, paws scrabbling to push that slim body along. Finally satisfied, she dropped and rolled, head-over-teakettle, down the small rise, so as to fluff her fur...I drew the line at that maneuver, quite happy just to watch, clap and cheer her on. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally Bryn shook herself vigorously, and then lay back in the thick grass next to me. (She panted; I pointed out cloud formations.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">As a child at our Elk Lake cottage my mother used to say: “Don’t just sit there and read all day: go out and make a memory.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Today’s bounce-n-jump was another spontaneous one I’ll always cherish. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, as Evening drew her dark cloak over this part of the world in a more determined manner, we walked back to the bike. I connected her and we peddle-padded slowly home to a treat, a nice brush out, and a good sleep. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sure enough, Bryn relived our simple adventure in the night in her bed; I came half-awake in mine to smile at her muted barks and yips, and hug the memory close.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/42925342016-07-24T10:36:39-04:002016-07-24T10:36:59-04:007/24/16: The Negative Energy of Menace- and the Water Cure<p><span class="font_large">Bryn and I went to one of our favorite off-leash dog parks, so she could run free and frolic with other canines. For fifteen minutes she had a fine time sniffing everyone and playing keepaway with a couple of other cheerful dogs. Torn tennis balls and raggedy sticks were tossed and fetched. Everyone was relaxed and in chat mode. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But then, I felt a frisson of electricity, the sensation one gets when someone is watching covertly- that back-of-the-neck prickle of unease. Outside the long fenced-in park a man in his mid-twenties walked toward our group, allowing his leashed pit bull to pull him forward. (I felt that the dog, not his master, was ‘alpha’ in that relationship.) Before entering the gate the handsome, well-muscled animal stopped and stared at the interacting dogs inside. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This was unusual behavior. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Let me say that vast majority of pit bulls who visit these dog parks are delightful: they love to frolic around and dash after balls, and they’re obedient and quite lovable. Most are adopted, and settle into their new, lucky lives very well. This pit bull, however, was different. It walked stiffly toward the park gate, then stopped to study all of us with small, intense eyes that never seemed to blink. Its tail was down, and still. It looked battle-hardened- and angry. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Over the years I’ve developed an ability to sense the peculiar energy of this sort of menace, even from a fair distance.“Uh-oh,” I muttered to the guy next to me. “That pit bull coming toward the park-do you recognize it?” He wasn’t sure, but I thought I’d seen it before. I’d be surprised if trouble didn’t manifest itself today. My best course of action was to gather Bryn and leave. I said as much to the man sitting next to me. He made no comment, but became more attentive. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The owner clearly cared for it, and wanted things to go well. But the way he moved, and held the leash, telegraphed his uncertainty. He debated with himself as to whether it was wise to release the dog into our small gathering. Oh, boy. In my opinion that pit needed an Alpha Male who was firm, and unquestionably dominant- a man who would set down reasonable rules for the pit to learn, respect and follow, every single time. It wasn’t happening here. After a long pause its owner moved it inside the park, but didn’t remove the leash. Three or four canines rushed over to perform the usual ritual greetings and inspections, and then went back to their play. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The owner trailed his pet as it moved from dog to dog, sniffing. My ‘trouble’ radar wouldn’t stop pinging. But before I could gather Bryn and my stuff and leave, the man decided to take the chance. He removed the leash. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Things went downhill one minute later. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The pit bull ran among three playful dogs, grabbed the yearling black lab by its neck as it played, and snarled as it held the pup down. The upset owner tried to break its grip, without success. He needed the help of another man sitting nearby. Released, the terrified puppy ki-yied in pain, over and over, as it bumbled away. Too angry to trust myself not to yell at the owner, Bryn and I made a quick exit, with the raised voices of other unnerved owners blurring in the background. The puppy’s cries were heartrending; I hoped it wasn’t seriously hurt. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This shouldn’t have happened. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The owner had felt deeply unsure; how was it possible to misinterpret his dog’s tension and intensity? He had to have known that things might rapidly spiral out of control. Why else would he hover, and act so nervous? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Some dogs will never learn to mingle. They want only to dominate. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">That yearling puppy would never again enter the park with the same confidence. What a shame! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Incidents like this one are rare. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When Bryn became part of our family we discovered dog parks, which have added immeasurably to her- and our- quality of life. They’re great places for leash-free dogs to enjoy, and are kept mostly clean by responsible owners, who often have inspiring stories to tell about their how they acquired their pets. But every once in a while... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn has also become adept at identifying and avoiding potentially aggressive dogs. Never making eye contact she’ll move off in a non-threatening way to lap water, or sit next to me. Or, we’ll quietly leave by another, less used, gate. All the way home, though, she’ll mope. Park visits are a highlight of her day and it’s a wrench when we quickly ‘up sticks’ and leave. Past experience, though, is a good teacher. Bryn experienced attacks when a puppy that she still hasn’t forgotten, but certainly learned from. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So we’ll drive home; I’ll dash into the house, don my swimsuit, grab a towel, and drive us the few blocks to Lake Michigan. We’ll jump in. I’ll toss her floating bone well out into the water, over and over, and we’ll both swim vigorously toward it. She’ll yip and howl as she paddles hard to retrieve her prize. She always ‘wins.’ These little triumphs delight us both. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It’s the perfect way to shed frustration, sadness and anger. We just dump all our negative energy into that deliciously fresh, cool water, there to float off and gradually dissolve into the great scheme of things...</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/42823282016-07-17T10:14:39-04:002016-07-17T10:14:39-04:007/17/16: Trust is an Anchor<p><span class="font_large">Wednesdays I scrub the floors, vacuum, dust everything, and sometimes de-clutter. That last is always a challenge. It seems the older I get, the more I cling to things that just peer up at me, without purpose. Which is fine, but then they begin to breed, and soon I can’t see the tabletops for the <em>stuff</em> nesting on them. So, I put what I’ll never need or use in a grocery bag saved for the purpose, and set it by the back door, ready to transport to Good Will for another person to delight in. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Anyway, when I was finally ready to vacuum, Bryn would always skedaddle with an exaggerated flourish to a room far away. Her behavior irritated me. How could I discourage it? <br>I love a challenge. So, I had a think. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The best way to approach objectionable behavior was to move inside her brain- to Be Bryn, just for a minute. T<em>here am I, dozing peacefully on the carpet, when suddenly the Boss drags the Monster out of the closet and into the space I’m in-- iieeee....! Best to get gone right quick. It never attacks, but that loud huffing roar is scary. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ok. I got that. So, I decided to employ language she’d understand. I brought the vacuum out, fetched a damp paper towel with a sprit of Mr. Clean on it, and knelt before the quiescent machine. “Good girl. Let me brush you,” I said quietly, with a smile. (Bryn knows that phrase; she LOVES her daily brushing.) She watched with deep interest as I wiped the thing down briskly, then patted it fondly. (I know, I know. Dumb. But wait...) I rose, turned it on and began to vacuum, my back turned. She peered at it from a safe distance. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A bit later I took out a rug, shook it on the back porch; when I came in she was still leaning against the sofa, watching it carefully- wondering if I would reassure her. <br>She was ignored. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The payoff? Awesome. <br>I switched it on, patted it gently, and then pushed it around, gradually making my way closer. She stayed where she was. (I knew better than to get too close. Three feet was the limit. My gaze stayed glued to the vacuum. It roared. I pushed with predictable, slow, steady motions. Finished, I turned it off and patted it absently. “Good job! We’re all done...” <br>Bryn watched. I hugged myself, silently triumphant. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In the kitchen I quietly hopped around, grinning. Ahhh...the satisfaction was huge! She had abandoned behavior I’d refused to acknowledge. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn couldn’t help but notice that <br>-I <em>liked</em> the machine. <br>-It was <em>leashed</em>. It never leaped. <br>-It was fond of carpet, and <em>only</em> carpet. So, why should she dash off like a scared rabbit? Clearly, the thing wasn’t into vacuuming a dog. <br>An hour later I brought it out again to hoover the area, reinforcing the lesson. From her carpet spot by the sofa she cocked an eye- and stayed put. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Good work,” I muttered, patting the vacuum. Her ears pricked. Her head cocked. Thinking. <br>I shifted an upholstered chair and carried on cleaning. Finished at last, I knelt and quick-hugged the machine. “<u>Good</u> vac.” Then I reeled in the long leash-cord and stored it. <br>I still hadn’t acknowledged Bryn. <br>She yawned and ignored <em>me</em>. No threat here, so no reassurance necessary. <br>It was all ho-hum. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Wonderful! Another challenge met and sorted- for both of us! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The <em>next</em> day, though, she was introduced to the Ultimate Monster Machine- our red Stella motorcycle, complete with sidecar. This machine was <em>an order of magnitude louder</em>. It burped, jerked, clanked, shuddered and coughed. And by golly, it could roar. Would she trust our judgment? Would she remember the vacuum lesson- where all that sound and fury had signified nothing? She’d sat in this sidecar once last fall to pose for pictures when we’d brought it home. It was silent, then. Now, having brought it out of storage, we’d all ride in it to the beach for a nice swim. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I leashed her, and brought her near. She slunk away, refusing my invitation to come sniff it. <em>No, Boss. It stinks of gas...I don’t like this thing... no, and that’s flat. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I ignored her obvious dismay. She was told to sit and stay while Joe and I wheeled it out of the garage into the alley. She obeyed very reluctantly, wanting with all her heart to bolt back into the garden. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Oh, boy, we’re gonna go to the beach in style!” I patted the machine, then hugged it. Exactly as I’d done to the big, noisy vacuum. <br>Her head cocked. She remembered, but wasn’t even a little bit convinced. <br>Every inch of her wanted to bolt; I saw her tremble as she fought to keep the commandments: “Sit. Stay.” <br><em>Boss is nuts. No way. Run! </em><br>She stayed, though. Stiff, and leaning toward gone. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe and I agreed on a strategy. “You get into the sidecar, and then I’ll lift her in,” he commented. “She won’t <em>hop</em> in. Look at it from her perspective. This sidecar’s as alien as the Orson Wells Mars Monster. For now, I’ll simply lift her in, with the engine off.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Right. <br>I got in, dangled my legs out the sides of the sidecar, and smiled cheerfully at Bryn. Joe gathered her up and gently inserted her as far into the hole as possible, while I praised her quietly. It was like maneuvering a 53-pound stone. Only trust and love kept her from fleeing to China. Her body and legs were unbending, iron-stiff; her eyes were dinner plates. She occasionally trembled. But- she didn’t leap out. She <em>wanted</em> to, more than anything, but she didn’t. If she detected even a little tension on my part, the jig would be up. I focused on being calm, cool, collected. Even ho-hum bored... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Patting her briefly I gently maneuvered her fully extended clawed paws off the seat cushion and onto the sidecar’s floor. With her legs locked, that took awhile. I murmured into her ear. “Good girl.” She didn’t even blink, just stared into space. I held on to her harness with a light touch and nodded to Joe. We held our breath, and he turned the key. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">ROARRR! Clank! Rattle! Cough! Shudder! Smelly burp! Then, silence. Another try. The second time was the charm. He let it run for a bit. As it warmed up, the noise level lessened. Bryn stood stiffly in the smallish space, between my bare legs, horrified. Her eyes locked onto mine, pleading, <em>NO.NO.</em> I smiled and looked away, projecting relaxation, ignoring her distress. Oh, That was hard. But it was important for her to see that I wasn’t bothered. My hands stayed relaxed as I held her harness on both sides, and gently fingered her coat. <br>Then Joe put it in gear and we moved out slowly. I grinned and let out a familiar word: “Wheee!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She stared at nothing, and tried not to poop on the floor. We trundled down the alley at walking speed, feeling every bump and pothole. Rock-stiff, head low, she endured. I patted her sides and grinned as Joe moved faster. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bumpity-bump: we slowly rode on our dippy brick street to Union Street, then turned down an alley that led to another quiet, tree-lined street where the courthouse sat. After a minute or two Bryn’s nose unfroze and began to twitch. Fascinating odors wafted by as we moved along at about 10 mph. Then, after clunking over a decent bump, with the end of the world <em>still</em> not happening, she raised her head and began to look around. Two people walked an elderly retriever along the tree-lined sidewalk. She took it in, forgetting for a second where she was. Good. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ker-bumps. More mini-bounces. Stop signs. Motor coughs. Rough roars. Gear shifts--- and <em>still</em>, the world didn’t end. Suddenly, I felt her body relax. <br>This could be FUN! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The best part, though, was when she finally relaxed and sat, and then looked up at me and grinned. <em>Got it, Boss. Monster is fine. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I nodded, smiling. “Good girl.” I patted the sidecar’s sidewall. “Good bike.” It wouldn’t do to over-praise either one; this was ho-hum stuff. <br>She stuck her nose up high so as not to miss anything, then hung it out one side to sample the world. <br>I admit I got a bit tearful, but not so she’d notice. It was just so sweet a victory. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">At the beach I gave the ‘wait’ command and climbed out first. Then, released, she hopped out. We swam and frolicked for a half hour. Tired, we tramped back to our cool transportation. She popped back into the sidecar and arranged herself comfortably between my legs, which dangled out the sides to provide her maximum room. <br><em>Let’s hit the road, Boss! Wheeeee! </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What’s next? I’m considering goggles for three, down the road- just for fun!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/42719192016-07-10T00:43:48-04:002016-07-10T00:43:48-04:007/10/16: Mother Love<p><span class="font_large">Bryn, Joe and I drove to the beach with two fat sticks collected on dog walks. She brought her favorite blue rubber bone. The weather was breezy and hot, registering almost 90 degrees. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The plan: toss a stick far away on the warm sand so she would retrieve it, then be so hot from all that dashing about, that plunging into the turbulent water would feel wonderful. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">High waves vigorously thundered onto the beach. Lots of natural brown lake debris had formed a rough, three-foot wide band just short of the sand: entering the lake was a yucky experience. I decided not to get my hair wet today. But Bryn didn’t care. She bounced through it and we all paddled about happily about 40 feet out, tossing her bone here and there. She managed to grab it first 95% of the time, as we threw short and then pretended to paddle hard to fetch it before she could. Her satisfaction was delightful to witness. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bobbing up from a deep trough I noticed <em>another</em> family floating atop the waves. A mother duck, dressed in dowdy brown feathers, clucked to her brood of eight tiny ducklings spread out across the heaving water. It was hard for each ‘ling to see its siblings, as the large waves’ troughs kept hiding them. One little scrap of life seemed to be more disoriented than the others. After every big trough the little guy had paddled further out to sea. Huh. Almost 100 feet separated him from his family now, I reckoned, <br>He was all alone in the vast lake. <br>“Uh-oh,” I muttered... <br>I hoped the mother could count. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe and I eventually left the water; our dog was happy to keep retrieving tossed sticks without us having to swim. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But then, the mother duck noticed a Monster moving toward her brood- too close for comfort, in her estimation. She stretched her neck, trying to keep track of the carnivore moving quietly along, like a stealthy shark – Oh, No! The Monster had suddenly noticed her children! (Her fluffy infants were clueless. They just silently bobbed and paddled.) <br>Horrified, Mama leapt from the water, quacking rhythmically every half second, which immediately attracted Bryn’s attention. <br>Here’s the thing: Bryn <em>hadn’t</em> noticed the babies; she was too intent on retrieving her blue bone. Those ‘lings were so tiny and the waves were so large they’d gone unnoticed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But Mother Duck had a different opinion. Bryn was a THREAT! She zipped over her bobbing head, screaming curses. Bryn looked up, then ducked as Mama shot past her nose. <br>Quack! Quack! That strident sound echoed over the thundering waves. Mama would land close, then rise up and fly low, leading our dog away from her babies. <br>Oh, the noise! That bird never stopped quacking. Not once. Every half-second on the dot. On and on and on. <br>Baffled, Bryn swam to the beach, then ran along the lake’s edge in hot pursuit. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, wily Mama hatched another plan. Quack! Quack! Quack! She flew close, landed closer, and spit out more quacks. Bryn immediately galloped back into the water, heedless of the waves. That duck was nuts! And so close! Bryn would fetch her! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Flying j-u-s-t out of reach that duck lured Bryn further and further out into the deep. Our dog was so focused on the bird she didn’t realize what was happening. When <em>we</em> finally did, we ran along the beach cupping our hands and yelling her name. Bryn paddled doggedly out, out, following that Pied Piper’s Quack! Quack! The sound was apparently irresistible. She’d fetch/catch that noisy duck, by golly! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Worried now, I thought: <em>Surely</em> the mother would run out of quacks! Her throat must ache! <br>Surely she would check on her children! She was so far away! <br>Quack! Quack! Quack! Quack! She’d kept up that rhythm for at least twenty minutes. <br>Joe, realizing that duck’s plan when I did, ran along the beach yelling Bryn’s name over and over in his own rhythm, between her quacks- “Bryn!” Quack! “Bryn!” Quack! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Almost out of earshot, she <em>finally</em> heard him and turned back toward shore: we sighed with relief. After what seemed hours she dragged her tired self onto the sand, shook, and then looked at us, panting. <br><em>That bird is Bonkers, Boss! </em><br>That bird almost finished you, Bryn, thought I. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I leashed her and we walked slowly across the sand toward the car. Twice, Bryn tried to bolt back to the water: she <em>wanted</em> that duck! Both times I managed to hold her back. <br>Mother duck, bobbing amid her brood, watched our retreat. Quack! Quack! Quack... <br>When she was 100% <em>sure</em> we were no longer a threat, she <em>finally</em> shut up. Lord! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We stopped when we reached grass, and looked back. I recounted the ducklings. One baby was still missing! But that triumphant mama proved that she could count, too. Leaving her seven ducklings she flew high, spotted her errant baby way out there in the watery widerness, and sailed down to land next to him. Slowly, slowly she led the lost ‘ling back to his siblings. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Wow! That fowl had been absolutely focused. She’d identified Bryn as a threat, and dealt with her using three very effective strategies; scream while dive-bombing; slow-fly very low just inches from her nose; and finally, tempt her to swim deep into Lake Michigan. <br>To drown? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What a fascinating demonstration of duck devotion.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/42613882016-07-03T02:40:36-04:002016-07-03T02:40:36-04:007/3/16: A Faithful Servant’s Embarrassing End <p><span class="font_large"><em>A look back, to November, 2010. </em><br><br>Today I was forced to put down my elderly Macintosh laptop computer. It had begun showing signs of serious decomposition a few months before. For example, emerging columns would develop faint tremors; the text would inch toward the margin’s edges; re-centering was exasperatingly difficult, as it had trouble remembering the boundaries. Eventually the text itself would simply turn blue and vanish, then refuse to ‘Undo,’ which drove me nuts. Or, it would shrink. Over and over I’d reset the Times New Roman text size to 16. Over and over it would revert to a miniscule 8; my entire column would fit on the head of a pin. But then, unrepentant, it would summon <em>full</em>-sized ads for acne cures. Argghhhh! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Frequently it would indulge in too many commas, or open very large spaces between words, then slam them together. The hard drive would roar and pant, convinced that I was watching a video or skyping a friend, when I was just writing. Or, it would go to sleep unexpectedly, leaving me stranded on a narrative island. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I was washing dishes the other day when Mac piped up from the counter behind me. “Par-don me. My bat-ter-y is low; I will go into sleep mode in one min-ute to pre-serve the work done.” Its quasi-feminine monotone voice articulated each syllable precisely. But NO! The battery was fine! I tried to convince it by jiggling the plug and pointing the arrow at the charged battery sign. I was ignored. Then, thirty seconds later, exactly as promised, everything went black- <em>except</em> for the little glow-light, which continued to pulse bright and dim, simulating breathing. How annoying! Crossly I rebooted, which it resented. Bing! A vivid ad appeared, touting a cure for baldness that kept coming back no matter how many times I ‘x’ed it out. Gritting my teeth I tried to shut the machine down in the usual way. But no. It held its breath, waiting me out, before suddenly retrieving the balding guy still worriedly rubbing his pate. The ad’s bright red background shone with a fierce intensity. “Going Bald?” shrieked the text. “We Can Help!” Furious, I finally force-quit it by holding down the ‘On/Off’ button and counting slowly to 10 before stomping off. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Later, in a calmer state, I approached it again, thoughtfully. Mac <em>had</em> been through a lot in England, where I’d lived for many months through two awful winters trying to restore my deceased family’s flooded out cottage. The machine had stoically endured freezing cold, black mold, damp, and fireplace ash and soot, which would delicately coat the keys. The cottage’s belching kitchen wood stove had been my only source of warmth. I’d huddled next to it writing columns with only my computer screen to light the night. Mac had been so <em>dependable</em>. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Just look at the poor thing, I mused, gone to gray now, from a once-gleaming white. Most of the keypad letters were indecipherable. Furthermore, bits of the rim had broken off, giving it a mouse-nibbled look. I kept snagging my cuffs on the rag-and-bone plastic. When booted up it would groan, but comply. I was constantly tense; the unexpected was becoming disconcertingly routine. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, when it wouldn’t accept my email password without a fight, I threw up my hands and bought another computer. I managed to transfer the most important files before my wormy Apple wandered into the virtual sunset flashing ads touting whitening toothpaste and erectile dysfunction cures. It did manage to gather its gaga-bytes one last time to offer the re-order page for tea and Fairy Soap from the British Delights online catalogue. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was a funny, embarrassing last write from my elderly, demented servant.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/42491802016-06-25T23:13:42-04:002017-01-11T09:52:04-05:006/25/16: Graduation Day!<p><span class="font_large">It’s that ‘swim’ time of year again. Bryn needs more exercise than I was providing of late, as my garden requires tons of work and there’s only me... It rained periodically last week, or was too cold and windy to do much. We took long, interesting walks together but still, it wasn’t enough. On one foray to the beach, though, she began showing signs of renewed interest in water. Joe and I threw sticks the length of the sand, but after three full gallops, two pounces and one return, she lost interest and resumed pacing the shoreline, looking out to sea. Swimming was great exercise, but could she really <em>want</em> to go out there now? We tossed her blue water bone about two feet into the lake, but she whined, removed her wet paws, and threw us an incredulous glance. <em>No, Boss. No way... Too cold!! </em><br>I had to wade in, shuddering, to retrieve the bone. <br>Our dog was torn by indecision. O.K., We’d push it. We’d give her a day to think more about water, and then.... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The next day we pulled on our wet suits –never an easy task- and marched down to the beach again. The weather was much warmer- 89 degrees. (Up from the sixties the day before.) Joe waded in first, howling as the cold seeped into his suit, but he quickly acclimated. <em>Ah, how bad could it be on this season’s first hot day,</em> thought I. <em>So, do what you usually do, girl; go in fast, go under faster and get it over with....</em> Gulp. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’d struggled with that darn suit: stretching thick rubber over thin skin is exhausting. <em>Not</em> to go in after those contortions was unthinkable. And what would Bryn do when she saw us playing in chest-deep water? Curiosity overcame extreme reticence. Determined not to be a wuss I waded in quickly, gritting my teeth. My God. The shock elicited a small moan. As incredulous as Bryn I stumbled to shore again, my ankles numb, but Joe, having adjusted, paddled around happily out there. “Chicken!” He yelled... <br>Uh-oh: Red Flag! I <em>eat</em> chickens: I am not one. <br>Back in I went, quickly, deeper and deeper, gasping. <br>It was arctic! <br>Here’s the thing, though: if one can hold on just a bit, the water actually becomes bearable. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So I held on, teeth chattering, and suddenly, it was fine. Bryn, toes in the water, was at once intrigued and upset. I paddled further out, dangled her favorite floaty blue bone in front of Joe, and hurled it across the water. “Get it, Joe!” <br>Bryn was affronted. Her Bone! Her toy! Hers! She made a big circle in the sand at top speed and then plunged straight into the icy lake, focused on Her bone. <em>She’d</em> fetch it. She paddled so fast her front end rose like a speedboat’s prow, while he made paddling splashes, pretending to swim toward its bobbing shape. She redoubled her speed. Snap! GOT IT! With a triumphant glance she spun around and beelined the beach. Dog-paddling, we high-fived. She’d taken the plunge and done well, remembering all (but one) of the swimming rules she’d learned last summer! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Cough! Coughcough! Gag! Cough! <em>Oops. Next time, don’t drink and swim,</em> Bryn remembered, ruefully. She hacked and gagged loudly a few more times- and was done for the season. Lesson (re)learned. <br>Wisely, we made no teasing comments. Instead, I swam back to shore, ran onto the beach, grabbed up the bone she’d dumped and threw myself back into the water. With a mini-mighty swing I flung it way out again about 25 feet in front of bobbing Joe, adding the irritating command: “Get it, Joe!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What?? Splash! She charged back in, swam out at full throttle, grabbed it smoothly, and, with frequent glances back at Joe just to make sure <em>she</em> was swimming faster than he, returned to the beach, dumped the bone on the warm sand, shook off water and grinned. <br>Not once did she cough. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This happy nonsense went on for forty-five minutes. Twice she paddled far out to join us, just for the companionship, bone forgotten. We took care to avoid her pumping paws, to which are attached sharp claws. We’d been slashed more than once, having forgotten this simple rule. <br>Something under the water caught her eye. She spun around, noting a shadow on the sandy bottom. What?? She poked her head completely under water and peered around, to see what it was down there. Ah- an anchor, roped to the big boat nearby. Nothing interesting...Eventually Joe waded back onto the sand and tossed the bone far down the sugar beach a couple of times. She loved beach pursuits just as well. Each soaring leap and vigorous pounce onto her rubber prey caused the sand to scatter about. Life was good! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here was a dog, I mused, that had had to be carefully taught to trust her power over water last year, and yeah, tricked into enjoying it, too. (Finally despairing over her consistent refusals to enter the lake. Joe and I had paddled out to deeper water to play ‘Master and Dog.’ The plan: We’d ignore her completely. He’d toss the bone, I’d bark eagerly and fetch it. This appalling state of affairs had been too much for Bryn. She’d taken the plunge straightaway, howling in indignation. SHE was the dog; WE were the masters: We needed to grasp who gets what, so the world made sense!) <br>This year it seemed she hadn’t forgotten that experience. <br>With twinkling eyes and a dopey grin, sandy tongue lolling, she eagerly waited for Joe to toss her bone way out into the blue depths, -without <em>us</em> in the water, for heaven’s sake. (Who could have predicted <em>that</em>?) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Eventually, when Bryn tired of water and sand-fetching (and when her coat had all but dried in the heat) I reintroduced another game. Kneeling, I began to dig a really deep hole very close to the waterline. Wet sand flew between my knees as I muttered, “Diggedy-dig!” over and over. <br>Oh, boy! With a happy yip she joined me. <em>Digging holes <u>here</u> is allowed! I’d forgotten, Boss... </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Water gradually seeped in, making the task much harder. (Which was the point. I wanted her to be thoroughly pooped. Soaked sand is tough to shift and would certainly siphon off the last of her youthful energy.) She jammed her muzzle- and finally her whole head and front paws- deep into the wet glop, then withdrew to blow sand from her long nose- dig and blow, dig and blow, over and over, while I egged her on... At last, when we’d tunneled nearly to China, she stopped, snorting and panting. Her eyelids drooped, I noted with satisfaction. And- our excavation was rapidly filling up again with sand. <br>And- Bryn was truly drained. <br>That hour at the beach, running, swimming and digging had worn her out more than a full day of vigorous play at the Traverse City Happy Tails Doggie Daycare Center. Even our bike trips weren’t as effective. Now her claws scraped the pavement as we tramped back to the car. She barely had the energy to hop in. <br>That night she snorted and yipped, paws twitching. I heard a faint, triumphant moan. Her teeth clicked together smartly: her tail whacked the side of her dog nest. Hah! Dream-bone retrieved! (Before Joe could fetch it first, of course!) With two extra semi-webbed feet, she’d always have the upper hand- er, paw! And so there! <br>I heard my husband chuckle, even as he slept. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">No doubt about it: Bryn has graduated into a confident, fully-fledged swimmer.<br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/695c63a1348c1666068f2ff50d36b89f63d753c8/original/brynswim1.jpg?1466910697" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></span><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/9cd13cfb6cb8880c5a499e6f8fcff5c3d869d8f2/original/brynswim2.jpg?1466910738" class="size_orig justify_center border_" /></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/42377352016-06-19T10:03:22-04:002016-06-19T10:03:22-04:006/19/16: Wisteria Hysteria<p><span class="font_large"><em>(I wrote this article in July of 2006, and have added a note about what happened two years later...) </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">2006: <br>My vine-y twine-y wisteria, bored to death with simply sitting there, has decided to branch out and explore. It eagerly winds around anything its sinuous tendrils touch. Yesterday I caught it trying to strangle/topple the substantial cement eagle flying high up on my tall wooden fence pillar. So far I’ve managed to keep it from destroying the fence by constantly severing tendrils that slither between thick planks, there to expand and squeeze them apart. I must drag out a ladder, place it so as not to crush delicate plants, and only then reach for and amputate each thickening line before laboriously untwining each from around victimized plank(s). This tiresome task takes tons of time. And it’s all for nothing. The next week another vine-line will have crawled up the same thick plank until it’s positioned at exactly the same place with the same intention: squeeze tighter and tighter ‘til it’s ‘chairman’ of the board. Satisfied, it expands and strangles. I can practically hear it snicker at my attempts to keep this offensive behavior within bounds. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Wissy, never still, constantly sends out multiple <em>ground-based ‘scouts,’</em> too, which are absolutely focused on finding and overwhelming another plant’s stem and flowers. These innocents become ladders to climb so it can peer over the fence. Wissy’s always curious. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Lengthening at shocking speed the vines move stealthily through the garden under the lush foliage - yet, oddly, it avoids grass. (How could it possibly <em>know to do that</em>? Never have I found one line on the lawn. Doesn’t denying itself the easy way seem counter-intuitive?) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It gets worse: those high branch-fingers love to snake up through the cheerful yellow ‘Golden Mop’ Chamaecyparis (now five feet tall and wide). Today tendrils were busily choking the topmost branches of the hapless bush- until I had the wit to rescue it. Unraveling this vine isn’t easy. It has a powerful grip. <br>It’s also threatening three large hostas parked under its own leafy canopy. <br>I found one vine-line sniffing around the cement bench today. <br>Laser-focused, but not terribly bright, this arrogant antisocial climber even twines tightly around itself, probably giggling wisterically. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ve pounded a tall, thick steel pole into the soil right next to the trunk, and tied the two together in an attempt to teach the the darn thing to be upstanding; i.e.-more tree-like. It resents this attempt to control it, and so leans obnoxiously to the far left anyway, liking the rakish slant. <br>Every well-mannered plant eyes it nervously. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Why do I put up with such atrocious behavior? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Well, in late spring she’s her own magnificent hanging garden. Long, grape-like pale lavender-blue flowers cascade in artful profusion from countless slim arms, inviting exploratory noses and gentle touches. Artists set up easels; the paint flies as they try to capture her loveliness. Butterflies and hummingbirds visit. Utterly enchanted, I forgive- and forget- all that bad behavior. For two or three weeks she stands tall and queen-like, basking in visitors’ awed comments. <br>Even the constantly threatened Chamaecyparis seems impressed. <br>Peace reigns. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(Oh-by the way, I’d waited eight <em>years</em> for flowers to appear on the vine, already six years old when I’d put it in. (huh: nobody else wanted it. It had languished in the nursery for simply ages. Maybe that should have been a hint that I might be missing something...) <br>Finally, just before digging it out in disgust, an elderly gardener grinned slyly and told me what to do. “Grab that long-bladed, sharp shovel and attack its spreading rootlets in late April. Be ruthless: chop ‘em all, moving in a circle at the vine’s drip line. This operation will thoroughly frighten it: bloom will be prolific. <u>Guaranteed</u>.” </span><span class="font_regular">(When a plant –say, a tree- feels threatened it responds by dropping more than the usual lot of seeds, or, it makes more flowers- anything to continue the species. </span><br><span class="font_regular">After blooming, many popular flowers will gradually doze off ‘til next season. Deadheading, or removing faded flowers before the seeds drop, panics the flower into producing more flowers. And so I can force, say, perennial geraniums (cranesbill)- to bloom and bloom and bloom by deadheading daily....Cool, eh? They are none the worse for this treatment, either. Just sayin.’) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Wow! I did the deed with relish- and it worked! The panicked vine’s subsequent floral display was lush and stunning. I’ll happily frighten it every year to get what I want. Ha!) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Soon after the show, when her perfumed blooms have faded and dropped, Wissy gleefully resumes her ‘search and destroy’ ways. We revert to our former roles of cop and villain. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The time to prune this gorgeous ‘planter’s wart’ is right after it flowers. So I get straight to it, tossing endless severed long green tendril-invaders onto the tarp. (Each one must be carefully untwined from whatever flower it’s hugged too close- a long, tedious job.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Today it’s amused itself by constantly knocking my hat and glasses off as I try to weasel my way up the middle of it to trim. <br>Finally I step back, satisfied. Wissy’s been reduced to a manageable whine, er, vine, sporting the equivalent of a butch haircut. Not pretty, but effective. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">For a pleasant month or so I can safely ignore it, but I’m not fooled. In late summer my richly manured garden earth will reluctantly host a silent wave of strong new exploratory lines. Helped by the wind, tendril-fingers will, of course, rapidly develop higher up on this vine as well, and flail around searching for an intimate attachment, even that young. (A wisteria will live for many, many decades if it likes its aspect.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It’s a serious mistake to underestimate it. Pythons back off respectfully. Thick iron posts eventually buckle under its weight. Given world enough and time, it can actually bring down buildings. (One elderly, thick-waisted wisteria collapsed part of Albert Payson Terhune’s famous mansion in New Jersey fifty years ago. Enraptured by its perfume and gorgeous flowers the family had foolishly ignored its massive weight and constantly extending, probing arms...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’m hoping I can effectively manage the situation because, darn it, those big, scented blooms are stunners. Constant vigilance and sharp pruners help to calm my heavy breathing, a sign of barely stifled frustration- and yes, latent hysteria. “This plant is certifiable,” I mutter under my breath...“<em>but I can control it! </em><br>I <em>can</em>…” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">P.S. In 2008 I realized I couldn’t. The rapidly growing vine had learned to spread out even earlier, and had mastered fence-climbing much faster. Three big fence boards had cracked and split. It had nearly overwhelmed my huge tropical banana tree, effectively strangled a giant blue hosta, and was throwing out line after probing line ‘below stairs,’ hunting for anything tall, whether dead or alive, that it could climb up. <br>I simply couldn’t <em>keep</em> up. <br>So, one hot July day I threw up my hands, marched to the workshop, fetched my sharp ax and chopped that sucker gone. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Even decapitated, Wissy had the last laugh. Even moribund the seven-inch wide, slightly protruding stump <em>still</em> sent out long, strong exploratory lines that raced to the top and bottom of the garden unimpeded because they were nearly invisible underneath the garden’s lush greenery. I didn’t discover its shocking resurrection for <em>two </em>months. By then, one particularly strong, straight ground line had extended to well over twenty feet. It took all my strength to yank it out. <br>Shocked and furious I doggedly chopped away <em>every</em> baby starter vine every few days for <em>two</em> more years, until finally- <em>finally</em>, it gave up and properly died. <br>The slowly decaying stump still lurks just under the dirt, too deeply anchored to dig out. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">That wisteria, for all its winsome glory, was one scary dude.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/42257922016-06-12T09:38:50-04:002017-01-11T09:52:04-05:006/12/16: The Woman Who Can Think Like Cattle<p><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/33b7b68b1caadbbbee03ece0f44794c6c0f24baf/original/temple-grandin.jpg?1465738618" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>Temple Grandin</em><br> </p>
<p><span class="font_large">I worked with autistic children for years at a state hospital, and when I retired I had the time to better understand dogs, horses, chipmunks and other animals (including me). I admire Temple Grandin, a brilliant, highly educated autistic woman, hugely talented and Spock-logical. In her book, “Animals in Translation,” Grandin explains how her mind works, and how she ‘reads’ other autistic children, and yes, cattle minds, too. She’s a staunch advocate of their humane treatment, especially at the end of their lives. <br><br>Chicago slaughterhouses had always had a terrible time getting cattle to go up the ramps, around tight corners, and finally into the slaughterhouse. The beasts would shy away, panic or, in the noise and confusion, try to climb out and gallop away. Terrible smells added to the general mayhem. Grandin, with her acute sensitivity toward the ways animals signal fear and distress, got down on her knees and made the journey, ‘becoming’ the cattle. She found all sorts of scary things to shy away from and generally become distressed over-creaks, noise, shadows, bad smells - so she redesigned everything that had to do with conveying cattle to their deaths- a huge project that the corporation was extremely reluctant to undertake. But oh, what a huge difference her patented design made. Cattle walked their last mile calmly, chewing their grass bits. Each was dispatched painlessly, out of sight and sound of the animal following behind it. Quiet fans blew away the scent of blood. Her innovative design sparked a revolution in how slaughterhouses work. Almost every business has switched to her method. <br><br>Her mother was extremely reluctant to institutionalize her as the doctors advised, and instead, altered her way of learning to function by picking creative, patient private teachers. Comfortable with Grandin’s unique inner world, they were able to respond creatively to her particular needs. <br><br>I’ve included a link below to a fine article from Wikipedia explaining this remarkable woman’s life. By the way, she’s earned an excellent living creating remarkable inventions, like her ‘hugging machine,’ which helps calm and relax frantic autistic children.<br><br>- <a contents="Click Here to Read Wikipedia Article about Temple Grandin" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="%E2%80%8B%20https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Temple_Grandin" target="_blank">Click Here to Read Wikipedia Article about Temple Grandin</a> - <br><br>And: <br><br>- <a contents="Click Here to Visit Temple Grandin's Website" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://www.templegrandin.com/templehome.html" target="_blank">Click Here to Visit Temple Grandin's Website</a> - </span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/42137942016-06-04T21:48:07-04:002017-01-11T09:52:04-05:006/5/16: Little Astonishments.<p><span class="font_large">Working in the garden I thought about the huge sights Joe and I had experienced on our car trip to the Pacific Ocean -and Pop! A little detail I’d mentally mislaid suddenly resurfaced, fresh and ready to marvel at. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We’d driven to California and back in April, stopping in Pasadena to visit family. After dropping Bryn off at a nice doggie daycare center in downtown Pasadena we motored to the world famous Huntington Library, Art Collections, and Botanical Gardens, about five miles away. Though admission was steep- thirty dollars each, we forked it out anyway. I’d heard about this place and wanted to poke around for a bit. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It’s vast. His former home, 207 acres of some of the most valuable land in southern California, houses a huge library that houses incredible treasures. I could go on and on about the fabulous paintings in its museums- like <em>The Blue Boy</em>- but it’s the American Rose Garden (one of seventeen different gardens) that had one astounding thing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Think of a rose; it’s in there- 1400 different cultivars, one of the most comprehensive collections on the planet. Almost all were in bloom. Wow! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">In fact, for me, it was just too much of a good thing. My eyes blurred as I passed hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of colorful, huge scented roses. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Soon I found myself about to move into a huge pergola, a sort of tunnel three people wide, that went on for over a hundred feet. Large trees with trunks measuring 9-15 inches rose in two perfect lines to support a very long overhead trellis so filled with climbing roses that they blocked out the sun. There were benches scattered along one side, and the mature trees, so beautiful, so healthy, were lined up in a way that made me groan with envy. <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/148250281ea2ae5ba4af96f9c4e9823dc87ceb4e/original/img-2157.jpg?1465091112" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br>But, as I stood there, about to enter the walk, Joe poked me. “Look: you won’t believe what that guy is doing.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I was flabbergasted. Dumbfounded. Standing on a ladder a jeaned man was- making bark. He was. It <em>was</em> tree bark; in fact, the man was creating the entire trunk. And branches. All those wonderful trees were handmade with a sort of farrow cement, plus a few special things added to the mix. Even touching it I couldn’t tell that it wasn’t the real thing. I have never seen anything like this in all my life. The mix is called faux bois concrete, and the artist working his magic is Terry Eagan. Here is a video of him explaining his work - prepare to be amazed!<br><br><iframe class="justify_center" data-video-type="youtube" data-video-id="3GyRznQtryo" data-video-thumb-url="http://img.youtube.com/vi/3GyRznQtryo/0.jpg" type="text/html" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/3GyRznQtryo?rel=0&wmode=transparent&enablejsapi=1" frameborder="0" height="200" width="320" allowfullscreen="true"></iframe></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span class="font_large"><em>Go to <a contents="http://www.fauxboisconcrete.info" data-link-label="" data-link-type="url" href="http://www.fauxboisconcrete.info" target="_blank">http://www.fauxboisconcrete.info</a> to learn more.</em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I would love to try it!</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/42020752016-05-28T23:12:50-04:002017-01-11T09:52:04-05:005/29/16: Two Events I Didn't Mention...<p><span class="font_large">Joe, Bryn and I have settled back into our Michigan lives after returning from a month on the road. We’d driven through much of this great country before ending up at the shoreline of the Pacific Ocean. The best part was the time we spent with our extended family and their two beautiful children in Pasadena, California. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The whole trip went just fine- except....Life threw in two not-so-great experiences, perhaps to keep us from getting complacent. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Take Santa Fe, for example. I’d always wanted to visit that city, which is famous for its lovely Spanish architecture and huge colony of artists. Also, as it’s located on a plateau 5,000 feet above sea level, the starry night sky is clear, and glorious. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What we found, on the human level, was unsettling. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s what happened. <br>The Santa Fe Humane Society, located out in the high desert, has set aside 14 acres as a fenced dog park. Santa Fe residents bring their dogs there so they can run flat out, never noticing they’re confined. The hilly, cactus-dry terrain disguises the unobtrusive wire fence. There are wonderful trails; dogs and their humans love to explore the seemingly endless space. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After moving into our dog-friendly hotel the manager offered directions to this dog park. What fun! In under twenty minutes we were there. Our eager Bryn hopped out of the van, “Well,” I mused, ‘we’re a long way from the city; there’s literally nothing out here but desert for as far as the eye can see. Why bother to lock up...” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A lady leashing her dog on the other side of the fence heard my comment and spoke up immediately. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“I wouldn’t leave it open, you two, and here’s why. While everyone is monitoring their dogs inside this fence and chatting, a ‘spotter’ drives in, gets out and moves down the row of cars to look in windows for anything of value on seats- computers, purses, whatever. He relays the selected car’s make, color and license plate information to them on his cell phone. Right away they drive in too, like regular folks, but take a huge pile driver hammer to the chosen car’s driver’s side window, pull open the door, grab the valuables, and in thirty seconds, they’re gone. I witnessed it happen yesterday. So, put anything you care about out of sight. Oh- and car alarms don’t faze them at all. They know this place is far away from any immediate help.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We were astonished. Out here? In the middle of nowhere? Near posh Santa Fe? But the lady looked grim. “Trust me. Hide what you care about and lock up.” Then she muttered, “ For all the good it will do....” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Unsettled, we locked and armed the van after hiding our computers, GPS, my backpack and various little purchases we’d made during our trip. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn loved the popular dog park; she and perhaps twelve other canines dashed about, their spines bent into curves as they flew across the immense area. There were lots of dusty trails that owners could jog along as well. But, for this visit I mostly remained close to the car while Joe had a hike and played with Bryn. <br>No thieves came. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Run out, she slept soundly that night at our little hotel. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The next day dawned clear and cool; after a nice walk around the hotel area with Bryn we piled into the van, intending to explore the city more thoroughly and then leave in a day or two. (The previous afternoon, after we found our hotel, we’d driven to the city’s thriving artists’ colony to view gorgeous pottery, paintings, weavings, jewelry, handmade furniture, and lots of fascinating sculpture. I itched to own one small one in particular; a boy sitting outside with pad and pencil in hand, sketching; the detail was incredible. But the price was huge. $2500.00. <br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/21b8289fb038452419c0286c3705681aa2be5aa9/original/img-2100.jpg?1464491448" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/2df9d5c3d851ce806fe6c800d1ebf367eef68e39/original/img-2097.jpg?1464491448" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br>No way. <br>Art in Santa Fe isn’t cheap. But we saw tourists come prepared to spend their money on some really lovely work.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Anyway, after a quick hamburger lunch it was time to take Bryn back to the SFHS’s dog park. Then we’d leave her at the hotel to snooze while we carried on being tourists. <br>But, as we drove up the dusty road to the park, flashing red and blue lights caught our attention. Uh-oh: a police car. There’d been <em>another</em> smash and grab just a few minutes ago by the bold car thieves. A disconsolate late twenties tourist couple were speaking to the police. Their car sat amid glass rubble, and everything inside was gone: camera, computers, GPS, two cherished old books, their cell phones, and even their jackets. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Horrified and then sad, we exercised Bryn and drove back to the hotel. I went to the lobby for a paper and overheard two men talking as they walked behind me to the elevator. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“...I was stopped at the light downtown, when suddenly- before I could grasp what the hell was happening- two men tried to wrench open the car door and hijack the car- and maybe kidnap or rob me- who knows! Both were screaming in Spanish to open up- right there at the light, for God’s sake, with other people in their cars right behind me witnessing the whole thing!” He snorted. “Those men didn’t care!” Then, in a softer voice- “Thank God I always lock the car when I’m driving!” <br>“Well, I just accelerated out of there as fast as I could- ran the damn light! It was hard to shake them off! I’m so glad my wife wasn’t with me.” His voice was unsteady. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">His friend shook his head and pressed the elevator button. “Yeah, I know. It’s getting way crazy in this town, that’s for sure...” <br>The first fellow nodded. “I didn’t bother reporting it- the cops would just throw up their hands. They’re overwhelmed.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After a one-minute discussion back in our room we cancelled our reservation, packed our stuff and left Santa Fe, feeling relief. Three crimes- one we’d almost witnessed ourselves- in less than 24 hours, were too much. <br>Color us gone. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Later that evening in a comfortable hotel in Arizona Joe looked up the Santa Fe crime rate; it has increased by almost 500% in the last year. New Mexico is overrun by illegals, and local law enforcement simply can’t cope with the magnitude of the problem. The cost of hiring adequate numbers of police is prohibitive, and would take months, or years. Recruitment is difficult: who’d want that job in that area? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And the second ‘downer’ thing on our trip? On the way home, just before leaving Nebraska, we found ourselves part of a huge line of cars and trucks backed up for miles on the expressway. We sat. And sat. Eventually the line moved along at about two miles an hour. Up ahead a giant electrified sign attached to an overpass read: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> Major Accident Ahead; <br> Expect Long Delay </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Eventually we arrived at the site- and gulped. An entire semi truck was tipped onto its side, and the huge trailer’s steel side was burnt to black. The cab, except for the shattered windows, looked relatively intact, so maybe the truck driver had survived. There was hardly a trace of <em>why</em> the accident happened- we saw only a million chunks of charred metal scattered around the scene. The fire fighters were gathering up hoses and sweeping up, while police were doing their best to get the traffic moving again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Later that evening our hotel clerk told us that he’d heard the radio report that a man, driving the wrong way onto the expressway. from an <em>exit at full speed</em>, had plowed into the huge rig, overturning it and creating an inferno. The clerk hadn’t managed to catch more details regarding possible fatalities. <br>We doubted that the car’s driver could have lived through such a massive trauma. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Our journey, which covered over 6,000 miles of expressway, was otherwise uneventful, save for this one accident. That’s amazing, when you think about it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And, we certainly have a much better appreciation of what the southwest states are dealing with- a river of undocumented aliens, some of whom are wreaking havoc on the local population. The Santa Fe newspaper notes robberies, carjackings, drug-related crime, and all manner of frightening incidents that occur every day. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Tourists are beginning to notice.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/41914772016-05-21T23:35:53-04:002017-01-11T09:52:04-05:005/22/16: Heaven on Earth; Utah’s Glorious I-70<p><span class="font_large">Well- so much was going on with me in Saginaw- cement mixers laying car pads, being sent away because their cement was substandard; a new cement truck finally rumbling in with the right sort of slop. A huge, leaning tree felled, and 50 year old shrubs that had grown 50 feet high chopped gone, which left us with tons of heavy-duty landscape work, like hauling huge branches and logs a long distance, over and over, until finally reaching a great pile, then heaving the monsters into it to feed tree eating machines which will come another day; and delays, delays, delays as this and that machine broke down over and over- then the garage doors hung up; we inspected the working and found a cable unraveled, so the garage must stay open until next week. The kitchen remodeling is taking forever and forever- and after far too long trying to move things along I threw up my hands and drove to Traverse City on Saturday to work in the secret garden. <br>Saginaw has exhausted my patience. <br>And eeked away precious time. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The good news? Traverse City is lovely; the secret garden is growing at a shocking rate. I should be able to open in two weeks or so. Oh how fine to be here again!!! <br>The bad news: I’m truly exhausted. There’s been not one minute to spare from Saginaw outdoor work to compose anything polished this week. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But- I do have photos of our drive from Zion National Park up I-15 to I-70 (which would finally lead us to Moab, and Arches National Park). That one drive was-- beyond spectacular. Just when we thought we’d seen Utah’s best show at Zion, along came ‘The Gasper Highway’ (My name for it). Who would imagine that beyond the close, high walls on either side of the road is- Heaven on Earth. All one sees are a few small, innocuous signs just now and then that read, ‘scenic overlook.’ NO trumpets. Nothing to hint at what’s to come. You have to be <em>not rushed</em>, and be the curious sort, willing to leave the beaten track for a bit. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Scenic overlook, indeed. Those two words could serve as the very definition of <em>understatement</em>. Every time we left the highway and wound around each little side road to take a peek we were rendered speechless. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What we saw out there was <em>better</em> than the Grand Canyon, which I’ve seen twice. THIS American canvas <em>included</em> us. We were <em>part</em> of it. We were <em>in</em> it. We saw what the old-time Greek gods might have surveyed: giant red and cream and brown and black mountains, cream and white striped cliffs cascading down to deep valleys, monstrous earth-slants, their bright stripes pointing down, demonstrating Earth’s restless movements over the eons that happened a hundred miles beneath our feet, ----and the Colors!! Oh, the rich palate of earth-tones...And the v a s t ness of it all.... We stood there, in each little parking lot, and stared and stared. <br>Look at the cars far away. They’re dots. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The Grand Canyon happens in a different way. One drives along a dead flat land, which suddenly plunges down into the most incredible underworld, the mega-masterpiece carving of the busy Colorado River over eons of time. Everything is below the viewer, and lit from above by the capricious sun. Great shadows hide parts of it, and illuminate others. One looks down into those canyons. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was so different, here. I have never seen anything like it, ever. We were IN it! <br>Have a look. As usual, photos don’t do it justice. But try to imagine your tiny self among this gorgeous immensity... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We absolutely must travel that highway again, to turn into every one of those timid, unassuming turnoffs again. <br>Their offerings were/are- fit for the gods.</span><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/d4b8104510c6f6c388f2f8ddd9d76b760dee460e/original/e3f7110e-516b-41bf-bb48-1b2bb98e2ba4.jpg?1463887891" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/c5f7afcd94673d434aa30b994a1b89d47a78dd72/original/c276d1f5-bb23-4f9e-a3d0-9585deb44532.jpg?1463887661" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/bce2f92ef39f28f9e16b529be5619a0e9dbddf25/original/c4d50177-74ce-4000-a752-e4494ad69e0b.jpg?1463887649" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/747fe2c1b3957045131940d10ea9a665ed068efb/original/b78a7190-da09-4112-aa1d-b11c00a876ad.jpg?1463887645" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/386f21454fa0db87f9c1648565d8d09d5c0da20a/original/43e68ce3-8313-419d-a58b-1fcfa14d323b.jpg?1463887641" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/fb142c8472a9329440d3ae48cd4dd78aa73a6beb/original/7d8cdbca-4ea2-4276-ad71-689527a779b3.jpg?1463887637" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/bdb843d1aa1f1b82a00945c0b559896f58f0def8/original/6f832c94-1128-4f60-8ccf-575b3e752518.jpg?1463887632" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/f3df042b18022e635c2573079046f6710db5d477/original/217d0b5b-325d-4883-9814-277c6c5ee040.jpg?1463887734" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/587326a4d9e05b86babc33e5a8b460315f8ac70a/original/10f1e955-bf1b-48b8-8317-567971069f58.jpg?1463887635" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/41816922016-05-15T10:05:59-04:002017-01-11T09:52:04-05:005/15/16: Heading Home - Part 6<p><span class="font_large">During our epic auto journey from mid-Michigan to Pasadena, and finally right to the edge of the Pacific Ocean, we'd carried our classic ’71 blue Honda 175 CL Scrambler, weighing about 270 pounds, on the rear of our big ’95 GMC van. If we released the straps, rolled it down the little ramp that came with the hitch ramp, then pressed the electric starter button, we were off. Easy riders, I guess you could say. America is crammed with interesting side roads and little towns: motorcycles make it easier to explore them economically. (The van, with its 30-gallon tank, gulps fuel, but this little Honda micro-sips its 2.68 gallons. Each gallon = 75 + miles. Cool.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But, for me, there was another important reason to include it. What if a natural (tornado? Yellowstone boom?) or manmade (terrorism?) disaster befell our part of the country? Finding food or medicine- or trying to drive back to Michigan in our van- would likely be impossible. Imagine roads crammed with vehicles.(Remember the New Orleans residents trying to escape Hurricane Katrina? The freeway was a jam-packed mess: cars crawled along at a snail's pace for as far as the eye could see.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Cars don't handle anything but smooth roads very well. There'd be no way to gas up, either. Not if you can't move. But a motorcycle goes practically anywhere. It can weave around vast lines of gridlocked cars effortlessly, and travel an awfully long distance before needing a drink. One (two-person) motorcycle + two backpacks = freedom. Heck, I could carry Bryn in an improvised sling on my belly if necessary. These days I don't trust the world much. Our bike an emergency bailout. With it we could probably get home again- eventually. I needed that reassurance. Just sayin'... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now, on our way again from Zion National Park to Arches National Park, about six hours away, "You know, before we get too far, I think another oil change is reasonable." mused Joe. "Let's stop at the next exit- a place called New Harmony, Utah. I'll check other fluids, too." </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We pulled in; Jim, the slim, 50-something proprietor, greeted us and offered his services. (As they talked I looked up this town. New Harmony is a small resort community of about two hundred fifty souls whose vehicles had probably been serviced by Jim at some point over the twenty years he'd owned his well-run business. Folks who stopped to purchase little car bits always greeted him and exchanged local news. It was a small, but important sign that he was liked, trusted, and competent.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Jim moved underneath the chassis to carefully inspect everything. But when he looked closer at the shocks- egad! They were old! We should have replaced them in Saginaw, where we'd had it inspected. (To be fair, we'd neglected to mention our plan to drive to the Pacific Ocean. Had he known, our mechanic there would probably have looked at it differently.) So now, Jim jacked up the van a bit and popped one out. Yep. Those shocks were done. <br>No <em>wonder</em> we'd felt every bump, lately! <br>Four new shocks were installed. I worked one before he put it in- worlds better. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But then he noticed the defunct fan clutch. Ahhh.. we'd wondered about that fan, but had forgotten to investigate it further. Groaning, we approved its replacement, too. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, as he was finishing <em>that</em> task, he noticed the front left tire's inner wall. Pointed. I crawled under and saw for myself.There was lots of tread left, but also tire wall separation- just a little- but enough to serve as a warning. We'd face the Rockies soon. It would be stupid to skimp, or continue to trust these 8-years out of date, one-ply tires. So, with a sigh, we purchased four excellent two-ply ones, good for 60,000 miles. (And, as long as we had the back wheels off, he and I checked the brake shoes and linings. They were fine.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">During the repair work, the Jim kept admiring our hot little Honda bike. Joe noticed, grinned, and commented on his interest. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">"Oh, boy," that's sure a dandy bike. I'd love to add it to my collection." He straightened and took a deep breath. "Would you consider selling it?" Startled, Joe laughed, then looked thoughtful. "Well, I hadn't really thought about it, but---" He pointed out the cool features, especially the electric start. "Touch the button, and presto!" He started it up, it made the proper noises, and we all grinned. After some delicate negotiations the two men agreed on a price- a couple hundred bucks more than we'd paid for it. The delighted mechanic paid us cash, moved it into his big, clean garage, and scribbled out his particulars so I could mail him the title when we got home. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">"To be honest," Joe told me later, " I wasn't thrilled about hauling it over the Rockies. Vans aren't famous for their zip- never mind towing power- on prolonged, steep grades."(<em>On the way out west we'd chosen the less mountainous route, through New Mexico, so hauling it hadn't been a problem.</em>) <br>"By the way, I told Jim it tends to sputter and cough occasionally, but he didn't care. Bike-fixing is his passion, so he was even happier to have an excuse to play with it- to tune it to perfection. It's worked out well for all of us." <br>I agreed. <br>We own other motorcycles, much bigger and more powerful, and even one touring bike, so we were fine with this sale. (Joe had presented the little Honda to me: Bother! My boots didn't touch the ground when I straddled it.Oh, well...) Now it had another happy owner, and we had a fistful of cash. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And the van's ride? We floated over everything dippy, or hole-y, or rough. Yes, there was a shocking hole in our budget, but it would have been stupid to grit our teeth and hope for the best. What if the van failed in the middle of nowhere! America has hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of empty miles, far from help. To be stranded in that vast emptiness didn't bear thinking about. (Imagine the cost of towing it somewhere...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, four long hours later, we hopped back on I-15, then to I-70. Destination: Moab, a pleasant little town we'd stayed in for a week once, just outside of Arches National Park. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This drive blew us away. Totally. Tune in next Sunday to find out why.<br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/fc9a16608cc56866e3ca5f549a21f31057455a7e/original/fullsizerender-1.jpg?1463320993" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/967141c56e6b07cadf2da37f626abb54814d6972/original/1971-cb175.jpg?1463320986" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/41709552016-05-08T09:45:08-04:002017-01-11T09:52:04-05:005/08/16: On The Road Again - to Michigan (Part 5)<p><em><span class="font_large">Joe and I drove our ’95 van from Michigan to the Pacific Coast to visit our cherished extended family and see more of this great country. Here’s the next installment of our adventure... </span></em></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn-dog woke early in our (twentieth) hotel room in the little town of Lindsay, about 18 miles south of Sequoia National Park. Yawning and stretching she greeted us with a gentle nose-bump. We popped outside for her walk around the hotel property to do her duty and ‘read the news.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After checking out at 7 a.m. we dialed in Zion National Park on our GPS. We’d been there once before about five years ago, and wanted to relive that marvelous experience. <br>The weather was still wonderful- 50s in the morning, then warming to 60s. Bryn was always happy to gaze outside from the van’s high back seat, or snooze. (Sometimes she’d wander up to the front seats, bumping her nose delicately on our sleeves just once, to let us know she was visiting.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After about five hours, California lay behind us. We cut through Nevada’s lower corner, (whizzing past ‘been-there-done-that’ Las Vegas) and drove straight to the bottom of Utah. Three hours later, in early evening, we finally arrived in the little town of Springdale, Utah, just outside the park’s gates. The spacious, beautiful, (affordable in April!) La Quinta Inn, just a few steps off Main Street, had our room ready. Dogs weighing no more than 80 pounds are welcomed. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A small group of sixty-something guys wandered over to Joe’s vintage ’71 Honda motorcycle, which was secured to the van’s back end on a special carrier, and immediately exclaimed over the bike. (In the early ‘twenties a couple of farm boys, Harley and Davison, would race their home-built motorcycle, and they usually won. Triumphant, they’d scoop up their mascot, a burly hog from their farm, and roar around the track in a victory lap. Harley-Davisons are still referred to as hogs. (Their young motorcycle company tried to secure the word as their trademark (<strong>H</strong>arley <strong>O</strong>wners <strong>G</strong>roup) but their claim was rejected in court. “It’s unprotectable,” said an appellate judge, “because that word has come to mean <em>any</em> large motorcycle.” He was right.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One fellow, who had actually ridden Route 66 on his hog in ’88, told tales of his various experiences on that epic journey, amid lots of backslapping. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Our Honda certainly attracted lots of attention, even at gas stations. (More about that next week.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We’d booked The La Quinta Inn for two nights, but <em>this</em> hotel, and the mountains were special, so a third night was booked. We needed the rest, and wanted to explore tiny Springdale and the park a bit more this time around. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But what about Bryn? She couldn’t just sit alone in our room all day. Dogs aren’t allowed in the park, and we couldn’t figure out how to include her if we motorcycled around... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But of course (big grin) <em>I</em> Had a Plan. Researching this trip in Michigan I’d struck gold. Two miles south of Springdale was the highly rated -get ready for it- <strong>Doggie Dude Ranch</strong>, outside the little town of Rockville. Here she could safely run about all day with canine friends. Usually reservations are required, but in April, the perfect time to be at Zion in my opinion, tourists sprinkle, rather than flood, the area, and it’s <em>not</em> hot. Prices for everything are much lower, too. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Next morning we drove into the countryside to the ranch. Wow! The rolling hills with its background of impressive mountains, were so beautiful! <br>Woofs could be heard as we took Bryn and her inoculation papers to the door of the ranch house and rang the bell. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The owner was really friendly: Bryn took to her right away. After introductions she sat, at my hand-command, and stared down the long path that led to her heart’s desire. <em>Dogs, Boss!! Dogs!! Can I go there?</em> (Bryn had been unable to stretch her legs much, except in Pasadena, which had a fine dogpark very near our hotel.) “You must wait a bit longer,” I cautioned, filling in the application blanks as fast as I could. She settled next to me, trembling with anticipation. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Less than ten minutes later her veterinary history had been approved. A cheerful caregiver strode up the long path, put a little string around her neck and walked her, prancing with delight, down to doggie paradise. Bryn never once looked back. She knew the drill. This day would be great fun. AND-family always returns. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She could race around with compatible dogs on this lovely spring day in 30,000 square feet of supervised, fenced playground, and splash around in the beautiful Virgin River, and gape at chickens and goats and horses and a cow, and even a donkey- It was ‘sniff heaven.’ There was even a huge shade tree to rest under, and I’d left Bully Bits for treats--- Life just didn’t get better! <br>We drove off, content. We could explore, hike and dine because our dog was in great hands. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">That’s exactly how the day went. We parked again by our lovely room, then rode the free shuttlebus all the way to the far end of the park (about 45 minutes), and climbed down to the Virgin River to walk along its banks, scramble up boulders, and gape at the incredible natural architecture surrounding us. Zion is the oldest and most popular National Park in Utah (230 square miles/147,000 acres). It’s been carved out over 150 million years by this busy river. The landscape-- high plateaus, sheer canyons and monolithic cliffs-- is a climbers’ paradise. (Smudge-y bright dots half way up glass-smooth cliffs are actually people moving slowly skyward. <br>I shuddered. Not my thing. One misstep...) <br>Birders love coming here, too, to spot golden eagles and all manner of rare and special birds who make this glorious place their home. <br>Horses, saddled and ready, will take visitors far off the usual trails. Guides offer hikes and camping trips that might last up to three days. <br>Honestly, Zion is stunning. (<em>After</em> April, though, the park gets a lot hotter and <em>much</em> more crowded. <em>Before</em> April, snowstorms often block access. <br>For us, April is the ‘sweet’ month.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Red and white Navajo sandstone mountains, some rising over 8,000 feet, were achingly beautiful in morning and evening light. And at about 10 p.m. every night a huge moon rose over the mountains. We sat outside our room on a comfy bench in thick grass, exclaiming. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Horse Ranch Mountain marks Zion’s highest point: 8,726 feet. The park’s terrain was blanketed in lush, emerald green, and yes, even snow, high up. The spring scent of blooming flowers and trees was delectable. <br>We encountered squirrels, who acted as though we were invisible. I practically fell over one little guy busily scarfing down a nut. This ecosystem is a paradise for animals, too. They don’t fear the Ultimate Predator. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We’d wanted to hike The Narrows, a deep canyon that has gorgeous, gigantic, eerily polished sandstone walls, but alas, it was forbidden today. Heavy rain high in the mountains was expected to rush down through that very narrow canyon opening, to sweep away- and drown- every living thing in its path. <br>(In April of 1995 heavy mountain rain engorged the river; boulders and dislodged trees were carried along until they rounded a bend close to the main park road. Blocked by massive debris, water rose to very high levels: the ‘dam’ gave. Released, debris-filled water roared downstream, crumbling a good part of the only road out of the park. Guests and employees at the Zion Lodge, deep inside the park, were trapped for days, while crews worked 24/7 to clear away the mess, open the clogged stream and rebuild the road. It was a shocking demonstration of the power of water.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Oh, well... <br>We’d hike it next time. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We were served yummy dishes at restaurants a mere five-minute walk from our door. (Some establishments even allowed dogs, if their owners ate outside. We chose that option, as the evenings were pleasantly cool. Bryn tired, happy, and replete, sat quietly at our feet, watching people and their various pets wander by.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The next day, when we turned into the Doggie Dude Ranch’s driveway again, she was thrilled. <br>By the way, each doggie ‘camper’s’ fun-packed nine-hour day cost just $21.00! What a bargain! And that day we hiked to the Emerald Pool, a sometimes strenuous half-mile journey each way, but worth the effort. water cascaded down from the mountaintops, coming to mist as it finally arrived where we stood. Magnificent! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We reluctantly left the third morning, to revisit another marvel, Arches National Park, a five-hour drive north, from Zion. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But something about the way the van drove didn’t feel quite right. It tended to move stiffly, I thought, and wasn’t as enthusiastic about the ups and downs of mountain highway travel... <br>“After these challenging 3,000 miles the old girl might need another oil change, just to be sure,” mused Joe... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Ha! Tune in next Sunday to find out what happened next!<br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/2e2210cc86148b098fed987ac965a559948a7dff/original/img-2220.jpg?1462714078" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/406beb3cb6b80bea43c226e8784f14fe53f44239/original/img-2221.jpg?1462714020" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/16bfec980b1f022f48c5d8d3cccc69f4550b704f/original/img-2222.jpg?1462714022" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/9e9fce49cc19d0b0b9ab2a88f768176c5f8aefa7/original/img-2226.jpg?1462714028" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/8f69db3fe2696f0472122f37873b9a18e4b06698/original/img-2228.jpg?1462714223" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/a64ea26d61765ce063fffcc3ca5221d252e582a3/original/img-2231.jpg?1462714213" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/c7806aeac2f02879327e6b01ebee2f448e3255b1/original/img-2232.jpg?1462714143" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/fef630cf4bc2b1f2e5d7feaec019898e9a3349b5/original/img-2236.jpg?1462714036" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/1a1adde78d80c8c0dc5acb04fd1f0eb881db3350/original/img-2239.jpg?1462714203" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/8de8089e3526030ed32255ffe59fea00a331daf7/original/img-2245.jpg?1462714152" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/6ac58f26b071e51c97b647d1a547689d35147f78/original/img-2249.jpg?1462714081" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/089560f2b548cd942b9df70824a978bfc5e9c6fb/original/img-2250.jpg?1462714058" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/53c86790ba820d3dbcf62446e31ff80e538270e0/original/img-2251.jpg?1462714157" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/28ad7dcb74b4f9c02744fb7abd87f2fee4232a7b/original/img-2255.jpg?1462714069" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/a82ef1182e6ffd4059ea515ec46d39e8e917bfcf/original/img-2254.jpg?1462714153" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/41612572016-05-01T10:00:52-04:002017-01-11T09:52:04-05:00Michigan, Here We Come Again! (Part 4)<p><span class="font_large">5/01/16: Michigan, Here We Come Again! (Part 4) <br><em>We set aside three-plus weeks for a driving adventure that began in Michigan on April 6, and terminated in Pasadena, California on April 13. The main reasons: to explore more of giant America, and most especially to see our extended family and their very young children. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What fun! Skylar and Megan’s two-year-old daughter, Amelia, and four-month old Luke, were a joy to be with. The family’s snug home and huge, fenced inner driveway/patio is a perfect place for the children to run and play ,and to eat meals. Amelia is learning to ride a little bike there, and we brought her a ‘Snuffy Sniff’ dog, a replica of my first cherished doggy toy, to pull around. (Snuffy, a black-spotted wooden basset hound, croaks pleasingly as he’s pulled along. Amelia’s found his gruff, rhythmic snorts to be as satisfying as I did as a toddler.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Amelia is solicitous of her little brother. “It will be all right, Luke-y,” she’ll say gently, when he’s upset or irritated. She endearingly calls us ‘RaRaJoe’ and ‘RaRaDee.’ Luke’s wonderful, brand-new smile lights up his face. We couldn’t get enough of them. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Megan’s easy-going parents and two sisters, who live quite near, joined us for a casual Pad Thai dinner one evening outside on the patio. After Michigan’s seemingly endless winter (we left our state as it pelted down snow and sleet), dining outside each evening, especially with them, was a treat! <br>One evening Joe unloaded his motorcycle from the special carrier behind the van, and he and Sky roared off to explore the Pasadena area. They returned thirsty, and happy to have had the chance to fool around together on their machines. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">On our last full day, with lovely weather predicted, Sky buckled us into his big Lexus and drove us to Malibu Beach, about an hour away. There we would connect with his father, Robin, who was driving down from his Santa Barbara ranch to meet us at Duke’s, a popular restaurant built on- and slightly over- a smallish cliff above the beach. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A long line of cheery, casually dressed folks were standing outside in the early afternoon sun, and milling around in the lobby, waiting for seats to open up. We immediately resigned ourselves to at <em>least</em> an hour’s wait. I’d amuse myself watching goggle-eyed tourists snap pictures of movie stars’ beach homes, racked up tightly along this Malibu cliff on both sides of Duke’s. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, something amazing happened! Robin, (a handsome man a little younger than Joe and me, who resembles Robert Redford without the warts) hugged us all, then motioned us inside. What??? Baffled, confused, then incredulous, all of us followed a waiter past the long line of waiting people, and were <em>immediately</em> seated at the best big table in the house, without waiting a single minute! Robin’s eyes twinkled. He’d definitely made this happen. <br>The view was stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the complacent ocean lapping gently at the sunny beach below us. Blue sky and fluffy clouds capped a glorious scene. Wow! <br>It took Joe and me awhile to order, as we couldn’t tear our gazes from the view.... <br>The children were wonderful. Amelia gazed out the windows as she ate, or played peek-a-boo close to us when she’d finished. Little Luke, having eyes only for Mother Megan, was content to nurse, then doze. All of us enjoyed Duke’s delicious food. I felt like a pampered movie star as waiters hovered, ready to do whatever it took to make our experience a memorable one.... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The next morning it was time to head home to Michigan. Oh, it was hard to say goodbye! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A special site, highly rated on my bucket list, blunted the sadness. We’d visit California’s Sequoia National Park on the way back. I’d seen photos of those stunning, cinnamon-red-barked giants all my life. Here was our chance to experience them! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We left Pasadena at the crack of dawn on Sunday, when L.A traffic was very light. By 1:00 p.m. we’d hit the tiny town of Lindsay, about 18 miles south of the park. Just outside of town was a Super 8. Hooray! We quickly moved our stuff into it and then, to Bryn’s chagrin, piled back into the van again. She looked at us quizzically: <em>Are we really driving away again, Boss?</em> I scratched her ears and told her she could manage another 50 minutes or so... It was two o’clock p.m. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Off we went, through miles of flat land that hosted hundreds of thousands of beautiful emerald-green citrus trees. Their astringent, citrus-y scent was nearly overpowering when we rolled down the windows. Each carefully tended, perfect tree stood about six feet high, and bore so much fruit the branches bent; ripe oranges littered the ground. The lush orchards stretched on and on. <br>Then, I noticed something odd. One huge squared section looked to be enjoying excellent health. But every orange tree in the <em>next</em> huge section was pale-leafed; in fact, every one, to my practiced eye, looked ill. No fruit hung from branches. And, in <em>another</em> giant section a bit further along, every tree- every single one – was completely leafless. Raincloud-gray. <br>Stone dead. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A terrible Asian insect-borne virus has struck California’s heartland. The first diseased orange tree was found in a private garden in LA about five years ago. Investigators, who’d been testing citrus trees for years for signs of the dreaded killer they knew would come eventually, were horrified, but still clung to hope. In all the years they’d been scouring the southern California landscape, only this one tree in this one lady’s yard was infected and dying; perhaps they’d caught it in time. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But, no. Insects fly where food and optimal breeding grounds exist, and now, in 2016, thousands of the citrus industry’s plump orange, lemon and grapefruit trees (this bug’s dream come true) are beginning to die. It’s a budding, industrial strength calamity. (Read the Wall Street Journal’s article, written April 15, for more details.) Some experts predict that orchards growing happily in the vast, sun-drenched San Fernando Valley may already be harboring the disease; they will likely be struck down within two to five years. We drove past section after endless section of uprooted, leaf-naked, gray trees, a stark testament to the lethal power of an imported little brown insect. <br>Gigantic, super-thin nets were carefully spread over other neighboring orchard sections, reaching almost to the ground- a <u><em>Herculean</em></u> feat - to try to discourage the bug, but it can simply land on the ground near the trunks and then scurry up to the branches. These creatures adapt quickly. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">There is no cure. <br>Scientists are working frantically to find one. <br>The huge Sierra Nevada Mountains framed this life-and-death scene as we drove along the valley’s ruler-straight, paved, two-lane road. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Gradually, the terrain rose as we moved deeper into them. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One thousand feet. The road, named The General Highway (to honor The behemoth General Sherman Sequoia), began to curve just a little. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two thousand feet. It curved a lot more as we began to climb in earnest. The National Park’s entrance gate appeared. (Rangers waved us through; all National Park entrance fees had been waived this week.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Three thousand feet. More frequent, sharper curves began. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Four thousand feet. Turns morphed to the hairpin sort. Signs cautioned: SLOW! <br>The spectacular scenery- sheer cliffs, massive, snow-capped peaks and blazing sun, not to mention <em>another</em> disconcerting sign that read: <u>Snowchains may be necessary, as sudden, violent snowstorms are not unusual</u>- competed for our attention. <br>Constant turns, with no barriers, were beginning to give me the jitters. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Five thousand feet. Snow lay along the road’s verges and blanketed some parts of the steep mountainside nearby. Would this journey <em>ever</em> end? Now constant, slow-to-almost zero m.p.h. turns made us blanche. There was nowhere to pull over. There was only UP. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Put bluntly, we could make <em>no</em> mistakes. Not one. We had to trust that no soul coming <em>down</em> the mountain was even a <em>little</em> inebriated. This was a ‘no booze- not even a sniff-’ road. One fender bump, or one guy taking a truly tight curve too wide- or fast- and we could tip off the edge and plunge a mile straight down. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Six thousand feet. Still, no hint of about how much longer it would be. But Wait! There were two giant Sequoias- oh- and more over <em>there</em>, scattered among other huge evergreen trees that <em>weren’t</em> Sequoias. We dared to toss an occasional glance their way. <br>Surely this will end soon, we muttered, grateful our gas tank was full. <br>But no. <br>We kept moving, higher and higher. <br>Slow eons later- </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Seven thousand feet. Super-tight turns continued with monotonous regularity as we crawled ever higher. People coming down the mountain tended to cross over the solid yellow line. They were as nervous as we were about edges, and so claimed more space to maneuver than they should have. Unnerving. There wasn’t room for wandering even a little... <br>Now more massive Sequoias (that love living practically in the clouds) came into view, rising from the steeply canted forest floor: two immense trunks nearly made contact with our van’s side. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, AT LAST, a little sign: </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">General Sherman Parking Area –1/4 Mile. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Winding along that final stretch, up and up that half-dark, narrow road, seemed to take <em>years</em>, probably because we were looking so hard. Inside this forest in the late afternoon, desperate to reach our destination before dark, we noted hundreds of towering evergreen trees and Sequoia giants sporadically lit by fleeting sunbeams: their shadows were rapidly lengthening. <br>We couldn’t stay long. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then, at about 7400 feet, we came upon a nearly filled parking area tucked into a wide, forested area, well away from sheer drops. There were about two dozen people sitting under magnificent trees preparing to leave, or hike. <br>We’d finally arrived. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The top of the world was sunny, yet cold enough to shiver in light shade. My lungs knew we were high. I thought: these Sequoias are about as far away from civilization as it is possible to be. And <em>still</em>, most had been logged. <br>But now, thank heaven, the rest are forever safe. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Our climb had gobbled well over an hour, and there was still a decent hike ahead if we wanted to see the largest living thing on the planet. We walked Bryn around in the immediate parking area, settled her again in the van with a Bully stick chew treat, bundled up, and started off. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">4:30 sunbeams peeked between fluffy clouds, illuminating the forest’s cinnamon-red Sequoias. It made a fantastic, ethereal picture. The scent of pine and moist earth permeated the air. Patchy snow covered many areas. The path to General Sherman wound around and past other enormous cedar evergreens scattered around amid many huge Sequoias. <br>We continued deeper into the Primeval Forest. <br>After about 15 minutes, There It Was, another thirty yards down and to the right- the General Sherman Sequoia, standing with brethren nearly as massive. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We leaned against a redwood fence and tried to look up without falling backward. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">My God. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Sometimes, there is nothing more to be said. <br>We simply looked, and looked, and tried to comprehend. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A single bird sang, somewhere very high. Sunbeams playfully highlighted narrow bits of forest, accentuating the burnished red bark of these glorious natural structures. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Time is irrelevant here. There is titanic immensity- and profound peace; perfect quiet and incredible age. <br>Oblivious to the rise and fall of religions, civilizations, world wars, mediaeval plagues- and (until recently) axes, these magnificent trees, high, high above a mad, mad, mad, mad world full of sound and fury...have grown over countless centuries, in isolated majesty, deep inside this beautiful virgin forest. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Things to ponder: <br>Sequoias (proper name: Sequoiadendron Giganteum) just keep growing, undeterred by fire, climate changes, and fierce winters. They aren’t ever ‘old.’ Only ‘mature.’ Death comes to them <em>only through some rare external event. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two lines from one of Emily Dickinson’s poems come to mind: <br><em>The [Forest] held but just Ourselves- <br>And Immortality- </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">What <em>might</em> slow them down? <br>-Well, when one grows to above 275 feet, lightning usually can’t resist striking its top. And <em>even then</em>, in flames, it carries on, unworried. A fire-scorched Sequoia will completely restore its damaged area, given time. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-A mega-mountain wind, or its own massive weight, might finally topple it. (Imagine the sound of a Giant Sequoia falling.) <br>And even then, it carries on. Sprouts soon emerge and grow vigorously.... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> Facts: <br>-The General Sherman is the largest known living single stem tree on Planet Earth. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-Its bark is three feet thick. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-This tree contains 52,500 + cubic feet of wood, and that measurement expands every year. <br>(In just one year an average mature giant Sequoia adds enough wood to its trunk to make a sixty-foot tall, three-foot-diameter oak tree.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-It is 275 feet tall (and yes, fire-scorched, but mending well, thank you), possesses a girth of 102.6 feet at ground level, and weighs in at a staggering 2.7 million pounds. That’s roughly equivalent to 15 adult blue whales, or 10 diesel-electric train locomotives, or 25 military battle tanks. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-It may be close to 3,000 years old. No one can confirm this estimate unless it falls- and people still exist to count the rings. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-Sequoias are self-pollinating. Seeds form only after the trees are <em>hundreds</em> of years old. <br>They’ll also regrow- as I mentioned before- from sprouts. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-Sequoias have no taproot. Instead, shallow roots (only about four or five feet deep), spread out over perhaps five acres, in 90,000+ cubic feet of soil. This, notes the National Park Service, is an astonishingly delicate foundation for an above-ground structure that can rise twenty to twenty-five stories, and weigh as much as a small ocean freighter. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-These mature trees drink <em>thousands</em> of gallons of water daily, obtained from mist, fog, rain, and the melting Sierra Nevada snowpack. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">-Branches, and their lush greenery, grow well at about 150 feet up the trunk, where it’s sunnier. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We moved closer, and Joe took a few photos. Honestly, though, the General really needs to be <em>seen</em> personally, to fully appreciate it. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, as evening began to fall in earnest (which happens early in the mountains) we reluctantly hiked back to the van, moving briskly up, up the steep trail for a good while, breathing hard in the high, thin air. <br>A sense of profound awe, and deep peace, came with us. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn greeted us happily. We let her stretch her legs, then apprehensively began our long descent down to the valley floor. Hairpin turns began in intense sunlight that changed instantly to deep shadow as we crept around them. Visually, it was hard to adjust. We turned and turned, endlessly pirouetting down, down, steeply down. The scenery made us gasp in disbelief whenever we dared to snatch a look. But it wasn’t enjoyed for more than a millisecond, as Joe couldn’t tear his eyes away from the road. Neither could I. My body language vividly demonstrated how tense I was. <br>Please, I mumbled to our van’s brakes, don’t fail us, now... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">60+ minutes later we found ourselves on flat, straight road again: what a relief. <br>Joe wondered if the people still up there in the clouds realized how dark it would be when they finally left. I couldn’t imagine navigating that mountain in the pitch darkness, or in a rain or snowstorm, which could happen at any time, or- horrors- in an iffy clunker. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The sun set in a vast, magnificent sky streaked with purple, pink, pale blue and gold. It was now well past 8 o’clock. Heavens! We’d certainly underestimated the amount of time necessary to tackle that mountain. <br>Joe, especially, was tired. He’d done a great job. <br>In another thirty minutes we’d be hotel-home, and it couldn’t come soon enough. <br>We wouldn’t make that journey again. Once was enough. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But it had been <em>well</em> worth the effort. For an enchanted half hour, in contemplative silence, we’d stood close to The Supreme Monarch and the giants that surrounded it, and shared the same pure mountain air. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It was a humbling, transformative experience. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">To have witnessed such innocent, ageless Majesty still makes me tearful.<br><br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/c2637b61f29926b5cf2a0852eaa99c39c7fa2a9c/original/img-2198.jpg?1462108821" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/6a07f95d74f233e0bbaf9d5ffb154cc5f82380b0/original/img-2216.jpg?1462108833" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/c694ce5abc566988ef482e22585ebc203b8b5a83/original/img-2200.jpg?1462109316" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/eacd3adbdd4dcc15867702530cdd333e4ba27d8f/original/trees.jpg?1462109473" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/6fb7d857c9f85ae3700e9d4228b42003ea92821a/original/img-2202.jpg?1462108830" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/14f000db34c2c5cd340f89645191e563ea199a6f/original/sherman.jpg?1462109623" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/50f94ab78a88901bd420fa5067e5ada643fa60bf/original/sherman2.jpg?1462109708" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/41512812016-04-24T08:40:17-04:002017-01-11T09:52:04-05:004/24/16: California, Here We Are! (Part 3)<p><span class="font_large">After a 2,000-mile drive from Michigan in our ‘95 van, we finally entered California, eventually to wind up in Pasadena where our extended family lived. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But first- Joshua Tree National Park beckoned. Planning our route, this park’s name caught our attention. What sort of tree was that? The botanist in me was intrigued. <br>We arrived there in late afternoon and booked a room at Motel 6, (which accepts pets). This little town describes itself as ‘The gateway to the Joshua Tree National Park.’ <br>Perfect. <br>Our room was fine, and so was the weather. Oh, we’d been lucky in that regard! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">First thing the next morning, after bracing cups of coffee and two sides of bacon, we gathered Bryn and drove for about 5 miles down a paved two-lane road, then turned into the Visitors Center, just before the park’s entrance. Rangers were full of information about the park’s charms, but they also warned us: Don’t wander off trail or leave park roads; it’s very easy to get disoriented, and even easier to die of thirst. 500,000 acres of this 800,000-acre Mohave Desert park are wilderness. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Some sobering facts: There are a shocking number of people, including children, who have gone out there to explore, and have never been found. <br>One woman, finally located inside her car, was near death, but survived. Her child though, died in the summer’s 125 degree heat. Never mind that this is high desert. It Gets Hot. <br>She, like so many others, had depended on her GPS to guide her to interesting ruins. <br>**Fact: <u>GPS is quite unreliable in this remote spot.</u> It will cheerfully send a naïve visitor, who often carries an inadequate supply of water, off to oblivion. Her SUV had gotten stuck in the sand, well off the road, probably guided there by her addled GPS. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Two science graduate students out for a drive and a hike, vanished in 2012. Their bones were found by accident in the deep desert half a year later. They’d also trusted their car’s GPS. <br>We appreciated the advice, and were glad it was April: temperatures don’t usually exceed the low 80s in the afternoons. We’d park at designated laybys, and explore close to our vehicle. Bryn wasn’t allowed anywhere a car couldn’t drive. So that limited us, but we didn’t mind. The scenery was spectacular everywhere. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(Note: Bryn, Joe and I kept getting really fatigued much sooner than normal. I put it down to sitting in the van for days, as we traveled through this huge continent. But that wasn’t the whole story. All the parks are at high altitudes- often over 4,000 feet.. Those not acclimated to the much thinner air do tire quickly. (At least a week or two of ‘living the high life’ is necessary, to better acclimate.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joshua Trees- actually part of the yucca family- were everywhere! They’re happiest growing at altitudes between 1,500 and 6,000 feet in full desert sun. They have no growth rings, so it’s hard to tell their ages. They might live up to a thousand years. In the first few, though, growth is more rapid- about three inches a year. Then they settle down to rise about an inch a year. The tree’s shallow root system can extend nearly 40 feet from the trunk. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">These peculiar trees were named by passing Mormon settlers, who thought the spreading branches looked like Joshua’s as he raised them to heaven. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We visited Skull Rock, a giant, smooth boulder set among many more, that looked like a human skull, and saw the Cholla cactus forest. These attractive little plants are lovely when in bloom, and remind some people, especially children, of cuddly teddy bears. But to touch one means pain! Those long thorns need just a suggestion of a caress to imbed themselves deeply in human flesh. So, admire from a respectful distance, and move on... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We checked out the Hall of Horrors, a group of massive boulders that rise straight up in a pattern that is challenging to climb. Tumbles aren’t rare. Neither are broken bones. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">As with all desert parks, poisonous snakes are out, especially in the heat of the day. It’s always best to watch where one walks. <br>Bryn was fascinated by the desert and its scents, and took deep breaths to absorb them, which resulted in some impressive sneezes. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We hiked a bit up and down the sand-blown road, which was empty of cars this early in the season, and took lots of photos of the trees and topography. A few Joshuas were nearly 40 feet high, their odd, impressive branches capped with those peculiar yucca ‘leaves.’ The general effect is suggestive of a Dr. Seuss forest. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">This amazing place has a savior. Minerva Hamilton Hoyt, born in 1866 on a plantation in Mississippi to an upper class family, was a passionate Pasadena gardener who loved Joshua trees. Understanding their rarity and special needs, she worried that they would continue to be used for target practice by indifferent, bored hunters. She haunted the halls of Congress trying to get that unique area set aside as a park. Finally, in 1936, after decades of tireless work, she convinced Roosevelt to establish the Joshua Tree area as a National Monument. Then, on Halloween in 1994, its almost 800,000 acres were elevated to National Park status! <br>I so wish Mrs. Hoyt could have lived to see it happen. <br>Finally, it’s forever safe.<br><br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/402559cac3ac0b6b17c0cebe7d8b37e74a6171ec/original/img-2114.jpg?0" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/82e0f5367bb2e7b04fdd2c8786504a23b151dfc1/original/img-2122.jpg?0" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/3d6de873155b1524b0bce88ebea6fd23da270bd8/original/img-2119.jpg?0" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/82c6b30474dadac78b8f345d2248ab1e5947bdad/original/img-2118.jpg?0" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/3a95e524c54914864841657036998b92d2ce7321/original/img-2130.jpg?0" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/d073f2e5ef384c1a5dd4ac9875fa5a73319e9751/original/img-2131.jpg?0" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/fa1de5b259063d6cff9513ad363477d4bc5ab378/original/img-2132.jpg?0" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/80b57981a51a35884f9096e29936738aed69fc94/original/img-2133.jpg?0" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/41403142016-04-17T12:36:58-04:002017-01-11T09:52:03-05:004/17/2016: California, Here We Come! (Part 2)<p><span class="font_large"><em>Joe, Bryn-dog and I decided to drive to California from Michigan, beginning April 6 and lasting nearly 3 weeks, to see our extended family. We would also inspect anything fascinating along the way. <br>Here’s part 2 of our epic journey. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We spent two days exploring the arty sections of Santa Fe, moving into and out of countless small stucco homes that had been converted to galleries. Each featured some pretty spectacular paintings and sculptures, traditional and modern. One gallery displayed glorious New Mexican sunsets the artist saw every evening from his deck. Typical price: $15,000 for a small canvas. We admired, then left with brochures that sometimes showed the paintings we’d liked. Bryn stayed in our van, tucked under a huge tree. (Parking in this city is very tricky, indeed. Finding a space within walking distance is always challenging. One should be a fit walker.) <br>On the road again we pointed toward Joshua Tree National Park, just inside the California border, another decent day’s drive. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">New Mexico’s asphalt freeway (US Highway 66/ I-40) is smooth as velvet: this undulating black ribbon anchors the ever-changing painting that is the huge Mojave Desert. Over there the sky was cerulean blue with wispy mare’s tails clouds: then, just a bit further right, we watched gigantic circular rain-loaded black clouds blanket a mountaintop, and then splash God-sized buckets of water over its selection, while neighboring behemoths, (their eons-old pyramidal cone shapes betraying their volcanic origins) served as stunning black backdrops. One very tall mountain monster boasted a snow-white top, befitting its great height and age. We found ourselves driving under a raincloud’s outer edge: pelting water periodically scrubbed our desert-dusty van clean; the windscreen wipers were busy. These incredible weather contrasts were a visual miracle. <br>No <em>wonder</em> painters move here! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">An aside: New Mexico’s safety signs read: <u>Buckle Up: It’s Our Law</u>. The ‘our’ is friendlier, more- personal, and pleased me in some indefinable way. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The red-orange earth is home to stubbornly green desert creosote shrubs that pepper the undulating, parched ground for as far as the eye can see. We stopped once so I could walk to the edge of the road to confirm that the parched soil was barely a quarter inch thick. Underneath? Sandstone, forever deep. <br>How can anything survive, and even thrive, here? <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/649f9bcd794ae641632afa3644e58028ccbcc6ee/original/img-2116.jpg?0" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Once in a while a scoured shack’s skeletal remains would jut out, interrupting the desert’s smoother contours. The merciless Mojave is steadily stripping each one of color; wind is prying off and scattering the framework. Eventually everything will be reabsorbed completely. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Somewhere along the iconic Route 66 we stopped for lunch in a dusty, exhausted little town whose name escapes me. Its one ‘main’ street boasted ‘The Road Kill Café,’ announced by a sand and sun-scoured, tipped-to-the-side sign that was probably helping to hold up the ancient building. <br>Perfect! <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/a76cc164bd0a3a329d3bb497b2d6216179a70d6b/original/img-2113.jpg?0" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We entered, and found cheerful staff who delivered good food in a clean interior crammed with memorabilia. We bought a mug depicting a motorcycle roaring down Route 66. Cool! <br>Bewhiskered old motorcycle geezers patted our ’71 Honda motorcycle and told stories of their machines way back when. Maybe, they commented wistfully, our bike’s former owner rode it through here once upon a time, long, long ago... <br>It, and we, slid seamlessly into the atmosphere of this tiny tumbledown town which was trying to survive by stopping time.... </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">An hour later we hit the road again, rolling through more empty desert magnificence extending for hundreds more miles. Occasionally, distantly, two-mile-long, three-engine cargo trains, small as toys, moved silently through the huge canvas, reminding me of the live paintings at Harry Potter’s school, Hogwarts. Giant color-bleached steel boxes rode atop hundreds of flat cars. <br>Sometimes a train simply sat dead still, its containers glinting in the sun. I had the sense that one had been motionless for a good while. Maybe days. Our binoculars could find no human tending it. <br>A few semi-trucks passed us, pushing strong airwaves our way. Joe steadied our van until the wave sorted itself. Rain fell, paused, fell again, while the sun blazed just over there. <br>We stared and stared at the astounding, ever-changing panorama for hours and hours. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We entered Arizona quietly, its border barely announced. <br>After a long time I started to doze off, when suddenly a dusty highway sign caught my eye: <br><em>Meteor Crater 16 miles </em><br>Heavens! This marvel had to be the one I first saw in National Geographic 50 years ago. I was hugely impacted by the magazine’s fold-out pictures of the massive hole it left. <br>“Joe, the world’s biggest intact meteor crater is close; Lets turn!” We made a left and drove 6-7 miles down a dusty road to a smallish paved parking lot. Only the enormous rim was visible from where we’d stopped. As the crater is privately owned, a fee of $19.00/person was charged inside the large, attractive building, which included a very informative exhibit of the phenomenon, plus a movie. <br>“Never mind that stuff,” I said as we showed our tickets. “This place shuts down in 50 minutes, Joe, at 5 p.m.; Hurry! If we have time <em>after</em> we see the crater we can watch the film and inspect the gift shop then.” <br>We climbed three stories quickly, went outside, shivering in the cold wind, turned at a curve- and- <br>There. It. Was. <br>The sight stopped me cold. The sun was at four o’clock; the crater was immense. Gigantic. <br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/838b5a37d3e034bd3676e4d62d2c8f7d620c2e55/original/img-2105.jpg?0" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/d01f841bc2a3c414edc33ce66dcb8f5acadd270e/original/img-2102.jpg?0" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Some fascinating facts: <br>-It’s a mile and a half wide, 550 feet deep- <em>after</em> 50,000 years of erosion. <br>-Right now it could hold 22 giant football stadiums filled with 2 million people. <br>-A life-sized astronaut cutout in full white space suit has been placed at the bottom; a telescope invites a look. Even with magnification, the figure is super-teeny. (By the way, astronauts trained inside the crater in the ‘60s.) <br>-Two American Airline pilots rented a Cessna 150 (a small, two-seater plane exactly like the one I trained in) in Flagstaff, in the summer of 1964, to fly to Los Angeles. On the way they flew over the crater, but lost altitude in the hot, thin summer air. (The crater is over 5,000 feet above sea level.) The experienced jet pilot tried to circle inside it to build up air speed, but couldn’t attain the lift necessary to climb out. They crashed: both were seriously injured. The passenger pilot, his back broken, still managed to pull the ‘captain’ out of the ruined, vigorously burning plane, saving his life. Both survived. The pilot recovered to fly for the airlines again, and died in 2003. The passenger pilot is still alive. <br>One can still see the burnt-out fuselage with the binoculars provided. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">For archeologists and rock hounds like me, this place is not to be missed. We did tear ourselves away from the crater in time to see the excellent eight-minute movie showing the impact. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The fossils for sale in the gift shop were the best I’ve ever seen. Fish, perhaps 60,000,000 years old, were perfectly preserved in sandstone. Three or four curled shells that once housed sea creatures half as large as I, could be touched. They were incredibly heavy. Huge trilobites (creatures similar to our garden pillbugs, but massive) were likewise trapped forever in sandstone, so perfectly detailed that we gasped. One has to be wealthy to buy these stunning fossils: prices were in the many thousands. But Oh! They were so <em>beautiful</em>! We were gobsmacked. Blown away. Awed into quiet for a long time as we drove away toward the California border. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Bryn slept in the van’s back seat, oblivious to the alien fingerprint that a 150 foot long space rock left when it slammed into an immovable object at over 28,000 mph, creating massive destruction the equivalent of a ten-megaton bomb. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It’s the only intact crater left in the world. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"> </span></p>
<p> </p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/41290272016-04-09T23:09:31-04:002017-01-11T09:52:03-05:004/10/16: California, Here We Come! (Part 1)<p><span class="font_large">Uh-oh... Joe and I were finding ourselves too willing to meld into our comfy living room chairs, especially during this stodgy winter. In our ‘golden years’ we were exhibiting clear signs of rust. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Pulling up roots is tougher every year; they’d sunk deeper because we’re older, and always tempted to succumb to Inertia’s security blanket. The cure? Dramatically rumple our routine. Go somewhere different, (somewhere warm). Joe has arranged three weeks off work! Two dear people in our extended family live in Pasadena, California with their very young children, one recently born, who haven’t been hugged yet by us. The perfect lure! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We nixed flying commercially. It’s much less appealing of late, as weird things tend to happen to, and in, planes, with startling regularity. Such as? A stewardess lowering emergency chutes, just because; a pilot removed for drunkenness; passengers fighting in the aisles over nothing, a lovesick man hijacking a jet to fly him closer to his ex-girlfriend, not to mention folks on the ground getting their kicks shining lasers into cockpits to blind pilots, and flying drones a few feet from jet wings just prior to its landing- <br>No thanks. <br>The civil, mannered world I once knew has gone, perhaps forever. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So, that left driving. We’d avoid airport lines, massive, ineffective security checks, and a general loss of control. Mmm. Driving ourselves, and including Bryn, was much more appealing. (And, we could take along one of Joe’s motorcycles, too. It would be strapped down just off the back bumper, on a platform designed to accept them.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When our ‘93 Ford van finally sighed and died after 300,000 miles, two rebuilt engines and twenty-two years of faithful service we recently bought another pristine, much babied ‘95 GMC van registering just 50,000 miles, with lots of real wood and appealing grey plaid upholstery. (Usually the manufacturer-chosen decor for these vehicles makes me shudder.) The guy who owned <em>this</em> van had had the interior done at considerable expense. Result: it’s gorgeous. There are numerous hidden charms, too. Lots of under-seat storage, curtains, little cloth pockets for this and that...and when we removed the two middle seats, bingo! Lots of living/sleeping space! Perfect for KOA camping in the national parks we plan to visit as we steer through three time zones to aim straight for the Pacific Ocean. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We threw Bryn’s stuff in, packed quickly and lightly, added a cooler, and waved goodbye to family. An adventure would blow away the cobwebs, eh? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The route? <br>Saginaw to Fort Wayne, Indianapolis, Terre-Haute, St Louis, Tulsa, Oklahoma City, Santa Fe, Flagstaff, California’s Joshua Tree National Park, Pasadena, Sequoia National Park, Yosemite National Park, Capital Reef National Park, and then we’d meander back to Michigan on I-70. <br>Nothing, except Pasadena, is written in stone, though. A lot depends on the weather. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We left Saginaw during a snowstorm at 7 a.m. Wednesday, April 6. Then it changed to pelting rain that followed us right through Indiana and Missouri. And it was cold! All the way through Indiana on I-69 we shivered at rest stops that were half drowned. Snow, sleet and rain kept the windshield wipers busy. Bored truckers would block both lanes until cars piled up behind them in a long, frustrated line. Truck water-wakes left our windows constantly splattered with extra rain. Once it appeared a trucker was fighting sleep....We were, too. Two hours from Springfield, Missouri we faded, and holed up for the night at a Super 8 in the little town of Rolla. <br>. <br>Friday, as we traveled I-69 through Missouri on Friday there were NO rest stops. But there were lots of huge billboards advertising porn stores, placed at regular intervals along the freeway. They shouted their offerings in big capital letters: <br>ADULT STORES. A huge sultry-looking female face on a black background peered out at us. <br>I’ve never seen so many adverts for this sort of ‘attraction.’ </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The rot stopped as we crossed the Oklahoma border and drove through Tulsa, and then Oklahoma City. Navigating through the hearts of these huge cities was tricky, and choosing the right exits at 70 mph made us tense. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Next, the freeway (the iconic Route 66 of the old days, redone) led us into New Mexico. Our goal? Santa Fe. (I’ve wanted to visit this fascinating city for 40 years.) While driving along the beautiful NM highway, seeing few cars, lots of trucks and spectacular scenery we rang the Santa Fe Super 8 Motel and reserved a room for two nights, but warned them we’d arrive quite late. However, as we rumbled through the starkly beautiful semi-desert country, storm clouds opened up again. Oh, No! We hastily rechecked the aviation radar. Heavy rain and large storms were pelting Santa Fe, too! Rats! We’d been driving nearly 14 hours, and now it was getting dark fast. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Suddenly, we’d had enough. The thought of facing two more hours moving through a dark and stormy night over an impossibly vast landscape— Over twenty-six hours of driving had been accomplished. Now the need to stop again was overwhelming. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Just then, as I massaged a leg cramp, the little town of Santa Rosa appeared in the rain-fogged twilight. We’d book another room, and then advise the Santa Fe Super 8 not to expect us that night, but that we’d still pay for the room, so we could arrive there first thing in the morning and not have to wait until 3 p.m. to check in. <br>We drove up the main street, saw no Super 8, and so pulled up at a La Quinta Hotel (Which also accepts pets, but is more expensive). Might they have a room, or, if not, could they point us toward a Super 8? <br> “Oh yes,” the clerk answered, “there <em>is</em> one just down the road about two miles, but (a discreet cough) it’s not too clean. I have no rooms here to offer at the moment, so might I suggest Motel 6, just across the street? It’s been recently renovated, takes dogs, and is priced reasonably.” <br>“Yes, we’ll try it,” said I, gratefully, and crossed my fingers there would be space for three needy travelers. Right now traveling even <em>two</em> more miles was too much. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Oh, bliss: there was a room! We stumbled into it, I fed Bryn, who’d refused food and drink the whole day: now she scarfed it down. Joe and I walked her in the dark through a bleak, adjacent field peppered with tiny prickles. She wasn’t comfortable, but there was no choice. She did her duty, and we stumbled into our little haven and collapsed into bed. <br>It was midnight our time, ten o’clock New Mexico time. We slept like the dead. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Today, Saturday morning, dawned in a stunning manner. Sun emphasized a vividly blue sky that featured a few massive white clouds. Distant hills gleamed as it lit their high plateaus, and the red, iron-rich earth, still damp from all the rain, looked freshly painted. We ate a modest breakfast and drove the long, new-looking highway to Santa Fe, found our room, and moved in. A little aside: It was a tiresome trek to the hotel’s front door, through the dining area and then down the long hall to our digs, so Joe furtively removed our room’s window screen and I passed our stuff up through it from the van, which was parked right there. He replaced the screen quickly and we congratulated ourselves on making a boring, tiresome task easy. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Then it was Bryn time. She’d been so wonderful, never complaining, always happy just to be included. In Michigan we’d done some research on Santa Fe’s dog parks. One stood out. We plugged its address into our GPS, and followed its directions. This 14-acre fenced-in park is part of the Santa Fe Animal Shelter’s campus, and it’s open to the public. Bryn was desperate to see her own kind and to run flat out. The amazing park was greeted with incredulity and then great joy. She ran like a gazelle on this cool, crisp morning, with other eager dogs joining in. What a happy time! (See the photo below.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The hard part, that punishing drive, was history. Today our vacation has truly begun. We’ve dumped our watches, welcomed the sun and temperate weather and can now explore this aptly named Land of Enchantment. I’ve fallen in love with the architecture already. <br>We’ll be back, I betcha, probably next spring...<br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/0d89b9528cff6539eade0f50faf07afeb0156100/original/d6dcf68d-8cc8-47cc-bc43-4281a5b0d69d.jpg?0" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/41183342016-04-03T08:16:02-04:002016-04-03T08:16:02-04:004/3/16: Vegetable Brilliance<p><span class="font_large"><em>Dear readers: I moved to England in 2010 to restore my flooded out countryside home and to be near my mother’s beloved husband, David, who was in care at the local Ross hospital. <br>Encounters like this one would brighten an otherwise dismal, lonely day. </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">March 26, 2010 <br>Vegetable Brilliance <br><br>A small, elderly lady briskly made her way along Ross-on-Wye’s High Street one market day morning. She wore a long, pleated skirt, hat, raincoat and shiny black boots, as it had sprinkled earlier. Rimless glasses perched on the end of her nose. A black Heinz 57 dog, weighing perhaps 40 pounds, accompanied his mistress. Every inch of him was crammed with charm. Excess fur poked from between his toes, while sprouting black eyebrows accented bright brown eyes. His wavy coat shone. A longish docked tail was held high as he trotted confidently along on slim, fringed legs. He wore a sort of saddlebag arrangement kept in place by leather straps round his chest and belly. Between the two empty pouches rested a small umbrella, secured by a slim black strap. No leash connected these two, but clearly, there was no need. They were inseparable. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We were heading in the same direction— the 16th century Market House situated smack in the center of town, in continuous use for hundreds of years. I was a regular customer. Twice weekly farmers still offer honey, eggs, bread, veggies, clothes, books, and colorful plants. Today people milled around exchanging pleasantries with neighbors and venders, but this lady was all business. She went directly to the egg table. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Pointing at six-packs of free-range browns she asked, “Which box, Reggie?” The dog carefully sniffed the selections, then poked one and gave a discrete snuff. She nodded, paid, and popped it into his saddlebag. After checking her list they moved on to the carrots and new potatoes. Again, Reggie made his choices by simply nudging the fresher ones. Finally, she fondled two fat tomatoes. “This one feels a wee bit tired…what do you think?” Reggie’s wet nose nailed the one in her left hand, and he looked pointedly at her. “Right,” she said, and paid for her purchases, then loaded his saddlebags while he stood there, quietly pleased with himself. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She riffled through a rack of sweaters, and held up a purple one. Reggie squeezed his eyes shut, sneezed and looked away, disgusted. <br>“It smells of moth crystals, right enough…” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I sidled up to her. “I think your dog is marvelous. He seems to—well, know things.” She harrumphed, then nodded vigorously and bent to stroke her friend’s furry head. “My Reggie’s got talent. No over-the-top vegetables or eggs can escape his nose. He always picks the freshest ones. And he has good taste in clothes, too. He hates this sweater, and I agree with him. The color’s wrong, and it smells.” The vendor rolled his eyes, looking annoyed. <br>I pressed on. “Does he always come with you?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">She stood straighter. “Reggie and I are never parted. Five years ago I found his scrawny self wandering the streets and thought, now there’s a bonny dog; I wonder what his secret talent is? Everyone’s brilliant at something, you know. I found out what it was soon enough. I bought some eggs, and Reggie peed on the box at home. When I cracked one I could tell it was old. He spots bad avocados and tomatoes, too. I knew we’d get on! I named him ‘Eggie,’ but Cora—my friend—insisted it wasn’t a proper name, and neither was ‘Veggie,’ my second choice, so I settled for ‘Reggie.’ People think it’s short for Reginald. They’d be wrong.” <br>Reggie, hearing his name, peered up at her and wagged his fringed tail. <br>She eyed a booth a few feet away that displayed a huge selection of delicious olives. “I won’t need him there. Olives are dependable.” Nodding a polite goodbye, they padded off. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The sweater merchant muttered, “Blimey! There goes the original odd couple: she lets that mutt choose everything! And, I have to admit— he’s mostly right.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">We exchanged grins, and I left with a lighter heart.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/41075422016-03-27T09:23:46-04:002016-03-27T09:23:46-04:003/27/16: A Look Back In Time<p><span class="font_large"><em>Here’s a column I wrote almost exactly four years ago. Vive la difference.... </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Spring, 2012. <br>What’s happening outside is astounding. Capricious Mother Nature, weary of her black-and-white world, has reminded us that she can brighten the earth whenever she wants to. Fluffy pink apple blossoms, vivid blue hyacinths, yellow daffys, Stella Magnolia’s flowers and my roses’ countless pink, yellow and red buds prove it. Trees are fuzzy with the clean green that only baby leaves can boast. And it’s just March 15! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The overheated air is thick with promise – and work. Exhausted, I sigh, almost missing the snow, and the time I had to relax. Nature’s abandoned her usual slow, coy seasonal seduction and has plunked down an instant, truly hot spring. Hungry avians are hunting shocked, sleepy worms, who nervously dive deeper into my rich earth. Birdy cheeps begin at O-dark-hundred as feathered architects busily construct their homes, then pad them with fluffy miscanthus grass plumes and the half-inch bits of soft white hair I’ve put outside for them to use, after lopping off Joe’s mop. (I’ve been his barber for nearly 50 years...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Alley cats stretch and smooth their whiskers, pondering their meal selections. (Oh, dear...they do love succulent baby rabbits...) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When I left town two weeks ago for Saginaw, <em>sixteen inches</em> of heavy snow blanketed Traverse City’s iron-hard ground. Six days later I returned here to find bewildered mice sheltering in the garage’s crevices, because their intricate, carved out homes above my garden lawn had suddenly vanished and most of their under-lawn tunnels had caved in, due to my booted footsteps. Only dirty black snow mountains on the Central Grade School’s front lawn remain. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Today, while I was on my knees in the front garden removing layers of autumn’s snow-flattened leaves from the flowerbeds, a lady slowed her car, rolled down her window and yelled, “You really are optimistic, uncovering beds now! Is that wise so early?” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Grinning, I rose, dusted my knees and shrugged. “Actually, I don’t have a choice. With this unprecedented heat everything’s growing so rapidly – plants in the secret garden are nine inches high and rising more than an inch a day – that even working nine-hour days I may not finish in time. The secret garden is registering 94 degrees for the fourth straight day! Outrageous! If I don’t do May’s work <em>right now</em>, it won’t be possible. Growth will be too lush to allow me to work effectively in the flowerbeds.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I looked down. Near my booted foot a handsome male mallard was quacking endearments to his ladylove, who stood a few feet away, amused, coy, and clearly interested. He boldly waddled closer and they necked. Orange feet flapped through the newly cleaned beds as their courting behavior continued. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Jeez,” said I, chuckling, “even the ducks are hot and bothered! Animals know when it’s courting time... So- fingers crossed- my garden should be fine.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The lady laughed, waved and motored away, weaving carefully through a flat-footed flock of hopeful, iridescent male mallards cruising the street and neighboring lawns looking for love. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Another fat dandelion under my boots showed off its rich, saw-bladed greenery. I absently dug it out and filled in the hole while muttering invectives. The mouse-tunnel paths bisecting the secret garden would need filling in, too. I’d been putting that task off. But wait! What if all those displaced mice had been a single <em>mole</em>?I shuddered. Just one can destroy a lawn and garden. Catching it is incredibly difficult. I stifled my hole-y annoyance and felt lucky, after all. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">BAM! KA-WHAP! An outraged bird battled a mirror-rival, leaving his powdery profile on the glass. I rolled my eyes and tried to ignore the racket. My shovel chinked as it slid past pebbles and bit into the soft earth. Mallards made out; squirrels scrabbled up and down tree trunks chasing romantic rivals; Les fired up his chainsaw to amputate the garden’s nine huge, snow-flattened grasses; my pruners snapped at winter-blackened stems and vines. A freshly washed open-windowed car cruised by, releasing the deep bass thump-thump ‘muzak’ that, for me, announces the availability of these young, unattached human males on wheels. <br>This baking spring is awash in sounds, the smell of fresh paint and turned earth, and new life. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><em>(Wow! Not in 2016. Huddling by the kitchen fire, feeling the cold even inside, I smile. Michigan’s weather is never boring.)</em></span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/40965592016-03-19T22:02:18-04:002016-03-19T22:02:18-04:003/20/16: Some Garden Wisdom<p><span class="font_large">I’m under the weather, and haven’t had the energy to write in my usual fashion this week, but I can offer a few suggestions that will help as the gardening season, and the pests that come with this passion, approaches. <br>Things we probably have in the kitchen can be valuable in banishing things that go munch in the night. And they can inject new life into flagging houseplants, too. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I try not to use chemicals in my garden, which affect hummingbirds, ladybugs, worms and birds all summer. This isn’t an ironclad rule. Nothing in life is black-and-white, but I’ve learned to be flexible enough to resort to Bayer spray a few times to kill the plague of Japanese beetles that can multiply frantically and decimate an entire garden in a week or two. The treatment worked; I saved lots of otherwise doomed flowers and shrubs, not only at my home, but all over the neighborhood. <br>Here are some easy ideas to consider for environmentally friendly pest removal, and for general garden health. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ll begin with two simple recipes for insect control. <br>-Add two teaspoons of liquid soap (non-perfumed and not antibacterial), and a few drops of vegetable oil to a gallon of unfiltered water. Shake and spray over and under leaves of plants you are concerned about. Choose a cool morning to do this. <br>-In a blender mix a half-cup of hot chili peppers with 2 cups of water: toss in a few drops of vegetable oil. Blend, strain, and spray on plants prone to being eaten. Bugs will gag. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Weeds emerge from between cracks or your lovely brickwork, or settle into your garden beds. But, in my garden, they find themselves in hot water. Literally. My cheap, alternative way to banish them is to put the kettle on, then take thehot water straight out and tip a cup or two onto weeds. It’s directed, non-poisonous and always available. The shocked rogues will shrivel after one or two doses of boiling water, as their tenacious roots have no defense. Do this before they have a chance to spread, though. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Dandelions are notorious for this rampant behavior, so snap their heads off as you pass by, or do the water torture as soon as you see them. I used to push in little markers (golf tees are good) as I made my rounds, and after I was done with the usual morning chores- deadheading, pruning, etc., I would boil the water and treat each marked area. It worked just fine. Now, I have hardly any aliens. About the only thing that might suffer are the worms that chose that bit of ground to snuffle around in. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When you finish your coffee, take the (cooled) grounds outside to spread around the bases of your rose bushes, or perhaps your heuchera (coral bells) or hydrangea shrubs- anything that enjoys an acid jolt occasionally. Loose tea leaves are appreciated, too. Mix in well. I use my sensitive fingers, so as not to dislodge, or break, tender roots. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After breakfast, pop the eggshells from your omelet into a paper lunch bag, smack the bag a few times, then add the little pieces to the soil. Calcium-rich eggshells are appreciated by almost every plant out there. I find that brown shells stay where I put them longer; birds love eggshells, and will snatch the white ones away sooner, so I lean toward the brown shelled eggs, which are less discernible. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Take your saltshaker outside when hunting slugs. A quick shake and they’ll dissolve into the great scheme of things. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When you clean the fish tank, (freshwater aquariums only) don’t throw out the ammoniated water; the garden <em>loves</em> this treat. Dilute a bit with unfiltered tap water and add to the earth around hostas and roses and any flowering perennial; slugs caught in this acid rain will shrivel. (Never add to edible plants, like thyme or basil, though.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">When preparing vegetables, save the water, which is rich in nutrients. That green tint is a hint that there is goodness in there. Wait until cool, then water the garden. If you have indoor plants, don’t be afraid to offer this treat to them as they begin to notice spring. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Rather than throwing out banana peels, toss out the hard ends and then dice the skins and add to the soil under plants: they’re rich in potassium. When working with potting soil, toss a handful of chopped banana peels into your mix and you won’t need to feed your plants for a while. Or, chop them and pop them into the freezer in baggies. In spring, add this treat to any plant’s earth right out of the thawed bag. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Save empty toilet paper and paper towel cardboard cylinders; they can be cut smaller and pushed into the ground to help protect emerging plants from weather, or to keep them warm when light frosts surprise us in June. Just bend in the top to close it off. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">All those recycled house leavings makes for good digestion for our Mother, Earth.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/40856242016-03-13T01:53:00-05:002016-03-13T01:53:18-05:003/13/16: Vocal Heaven in Easter Week<p><span class="font_large"><em>Yesterday I was chopping veggies for an epic stew for our dinner party, and humming along with the radio. Suddenly I stopped in mid-chop, enchanted. A glorious countertenor had begun a solo by Bach. <br>Flashback! I remembered another time, in England in the freezing spring of 2010 (I’d been living alone there for a second consecutive winter, working to restore my flooded-out family home.) By sheer luck I experienced- </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Vocal Heaven in Easter Week </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">England was freezing. My family home, set on a hilltop overlooking the Welsh Black Mountains, was blanketed in white. Monday my brother and I had conducted a ceremonial scattering of my mother’s and her beloved husband’s ashes in the forest behind the cottage amid two inches of snow, where legions of daffodils had poked their green heads up through the whiteness just an inch or two, waiting hopefully for one decent spring day so they could spring up and unfold into gold. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">One afternoon just before Easter I decided to stay at the Dragon hotel in Hereford, needing warmth, cleanliness and tasty food. It was difficult to get about in high town, as the wind cut through my light jacket and easily penetrated my sweater. (March in the British Isles usually registers in the high 50s; this piercing cold was unusual, and had caught me unprepared.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">After obtaining a room I decided to re-explore one of my favorite places- Hereford’s magnificent eleventh century cathedral. I loved its architecture, and often browsed its charming gift shop, which is set among 16th century tombs lining the walls and stone floors. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I made my way through the cathedral’s enormous entry doors-- and was immediately stopped in my tracks by live music so lovely it brought tears to my eyes. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even breathe. Rooted to the spot I closed my eyes and let its beauty wash over me. Someone was singing, accompanied by a solo violinist and a small orchestra. But this sound was very different- certainly not a boy chorister rehearsing a solo for the coming Easter Sunday services. I was hearing an aria- ‘Erbarme dich, mein Gott, um meiner Zahren willen!’ (‘Have mercy, my Lord, behold my bitter tears!’)- from Bach’s St. Matthew Passion, sung with full, rich alto tones, and radiating an ineffable sadness. The glorious music echoed throughout the giant cathedral. I leaned against a massive pillar, lost in awe. <br>Just two minutes later the music ceased, and there came rustlings of musicians collecting their music and donning their coats. Oh, No! I’d happened upon the end of a rehearsal. <br>Who! had been singing? </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I peered around the pillar. Seventy feet away a tall, athletic-looking young man in his late twenties was standing just below the high altar, chatting with the conductor about some musical point. He was dressed in comfy brown corduroys and a warm sweater, and possessed thick, wavy dark hair worn just a bit long, which suited him perfectly. He was that rare and special thing- a countertenor. Wikipedia defines it this way: (It’s a)…’<em>type of classical male singing voice whose vocal range is equivalent to that of a contralto or mezzo-soprano voice type. A pre-pubescent male who has this ability is called a treble.’ </em></span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">It’s a notoriously difficult sound to master; there seems always to be a place or two that causes the voice to ‘break,’ or go out of falsetto. To position- and hold- the vocal cords <em>exactly</em> where they must be is an exasperating art. This man seemed undaunted by the usual countertenor haunts. He was, in two words- magnificently oblivious- to the vocal danger, or so it seemed to me. There was no hesitation, no delicately careful placement, just a rich, warm power, and seemingly effortless control. <br>He was a natural. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I’ve heard these unique singers a few times. (One countertenor sang a carefully delivered solo in Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana in the ‘80s to an appreciative audience.) <br>But <em>this</em> voice was so solid and strong. And oh, his range! <br>Every note had been perfectly placed; his breath control was astonishing. He sang with great feeling, and I sensed that mastery of this elusive art was a source of joy for him. <br>His name- discovered when I scoured the evening program notes- was William Towers. He’d read English at Cambridge University before entering the Royal College of Music. Wouldn’t it have been marvelous to be a mouse-in-pocket when the Admittance Committee heard him audition! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Now he spoke briefly with the orchestra, then donned a warm coat and scarf and walked briskly down the side aisle of the Cathedral, still quietly rehearsing phrases. I couldn’t help myself; I ran after him as fast as I dared, finally caught up, and touched his sleeve. He turned, surprised. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(Idiot! You’re bothering him! What will you say?) But there was no annoyance; he only looked startled, then curious. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I stared at up him, speechless with admiration. He had perfect English skin, was incredibly handsome, and his glorious hair, a dark halo of waves and curls, framed his face. <br>Finally, I managed to blurt, “I have <em>never</em> heard anything so beautiful.” (I wanted to say 'heard and seen,' but didn’t dare, though it would have been the simple truth.) <br>His sudden grin showed me he was pleased by the compliment. I relaxed slightly. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Well, thanks very much!” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I stammered on. “You’re a countertenor, aren’t you? The best I ever heard.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">He grinned again. “ Yes, I am. And thanks again! Do come to the concert. It’s tonight, you know.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I nodded, still word-poor, and groaned inwardly. But, taking pity on me, he offered another radiant smile; we cheerily wished each other a good day, and he left the building. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Tongue-tied, are we, you silly old twit? I muttered, at once amused and embarrassed by my codfish-like gaping. But good heavens, he was a stunner. And gracious to boot. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">I dashed into the Cathedral Gift Shop and bought a ticket. I wouldn’t miss this evening for anything. <br>“Get here at 6:15 for a decent seat; the cathedral will be packed,” commented the clerk. “The concert begins at 7.” </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Winter concerts here test one’s endurance; this stone and granite church is notoriously cold in weather like this. I’d attended many events here over the years, and had always left numb. Tonight I’d sneak a pillow out of my hotel room, as the benches were rock-hard. The concert would last over three hours, including a twenty-minute intermission to allow singers, orchestra and audience to huddle next to huge, jet-black heaters shaped like giant boilers. These thaw-machines, scattered around the cathedral, have long, vertical metal fins that radiate heat toward grateful patrons. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">And that’s exactly how things unfolded. I came promptly at 6:15, staked out my seat, and settled in. At intermission all of us were like penguins in the deep Arctic winter: an inner circle of frozen folks would snuggle up to one of the monster-sized heaters and toast blissfully for a minute or two. Then they’d rotate toward the back so the people behind <em>them</em> could move close and toast…and so on, for nearly twenty minutes, until the warning bell sounded for the second half. <br>During the concert the lady next to me shared her generous, thickly fleeced lap rug, which kept my legs and torso more comfortable. My feet, though clad in thick socks, still froze. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">But nobody complained. The evening was magical. Singers, instrumentalists and the cathedral’s choristers- thirteen boys ages 7 to 14- gave flawless performances. The soprano, tenor and bass soloists were outstanding. <br>For me, though, William Towers was the Zenith. Just hearing that one solo again was worth the trip to England. The same lovely, slim violinist stood up and moved with the melody as she played for him, backed by the little orchestra. The two of them were lost in Bach’s luminous music. What a supreme moment! </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The concert finished at 10:45 p.m. Fortunately, my 11th century hotel was just across the street from the cathedral grounds. Numb-toed I hobbled, exhausted and exhilarated, up to my room. It would be impossible to sleep until I thawed my feet. Shedding shoes and socks I sat on the edge of the enormous old bathtub and, still bundled up, turned the faucet to ‘hot’ to pummel those poor digits with warmth until they regained consciousness. It took ages, and hurt. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">The whole time, though, I was wreathed in smiles.</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/40752962016-03-06T07:23:10-05:002016-03-06T08:45:42-05:003/06/16: Cesar's Simple Gifts<p><span class="font_large"><em>Exercise, discipline, affection. In that order.</em> <br>Cesar Millan <br> <br>Last Saturday night Joe and I went to the Midland Center for the Arts to see and hear Cesar Millan talk about his life with dogs. Cesar, <em>the</em> world-famous Dog Whisperer, is incredibly wise about how to approach, understand and train them- and rehabilitate their owners. <br><em>“There is no such thing as a problem breed. However, there is no shortage of problem owners. With a dog, people are not disciplined. They think that by spoiling a dog it will love them more. But the dog misbehaves more because people [involved with them] give affection at the wrong time.” </em><br> <br><em>“Dogs in America get more affection than most women in third world countries.” </em><br>-But not exercise, or discipline, which should always happen <em>before</em> affection is offered. <br> <br>Here was the auditorium scene that greeted us: <br>On a large, deep stage with muted lighting sat a sofa, an end table and a small rug with a coffee table on it, all set well back from the stage’s edge. <br>It was a typical living room. <br>Oh- and there were three huge screens set in a high triangle, so that folks up in the highest balcony- like us- wouldn’t miss a thing. <br> <br>Cesar popped onto the stage, his famous grin lighting up the big (sold out) auditorium. He was dressed casually in jeans and long-sleeved gray tee shirt- simple attire designed to focus our attention on what he came to teach, rather than on him. <br> <br>Right off the bat he commented that humans are the hardest to rehabilitate. They can be stubborn, or blind to why their pet’s objectionable behavior occurs. It’s humbling- and embarrassing- for owners to realize- and accept- that <em>they</em> are the problem. <br>In his TV series (lasting nine years) desperate clients came to him highly motivated to understand and change their enabling behavior. Viewers watched the liberating changes with deep interest, and not a little chagrin. <br> <br>First, Cesar would listen to their complaint, and while they talked he’d size them up. And their dog, too. The challenge? To coax the folks to see themselves as their dog did. <br>As <em>submissive</em>. <br>A Bad Thing. <br> <br>Doesn’t matter if their beastie is gigantic or teeny. His message was/is always the same. <br><u>Dogs require a Pack Leader, to be balanced</u>. <br> <br>No pack leader around? Then the human will find him/herself with a willful, disobedient, confused, irritating, obnoxious, <em>dominant</em> dog. That final descriptive adjective is another Bad Thing. Dominant (read ‘alpha’) dogs have free rein to do whatever they please to their submissive humans- for up to fifteen years! Exasperated, frustrated, baffled owners frequently dump the dog, or have it euthanized, or give it away ruined. Then they’ll buy another, ‘better’ dog and repeat the same submissive behavior, expecting a different result. <br>Or, resigned to their situation, they’ll submit to their out-of-control dog until it finally dies. How awful for both parties. <br>I saw a lot of bobbing heads out there. <br> <br>Cesar asked us to move into our dog’s moment. <em>“Dogs learn mostly with their noses. ‘I’ll believe it if I see it’ for dogs translates to ‘I’ll believe it if I smell it.’ So don’t bother yelling at them: it’s the energy and scent of calm confidence they pay attention to, not your words.”</em> <br> <br>Know how dogs sort out the world. <br> <br>Now came part 2- demonstrations. <br>A local humane society handler brought out a big, handsome, shorthaired dog <em>obsessed</em> with balls. He’d been returned to the humane society over and over by frustrated families because of this infuriating obsession. The staff was despairing. Charley-dog had an impossible-to-cure problem. How could they ever get him successfully adopted? <br> <br>After Cesar pulled these few scraps of information from the handler he asked her to bring out the ball she’d been hiding behind her back. “Please set it down some distance away.” She did. <br>It was a lovely big red one. Charley came alive with a fearsome, laser intensity. <br><strong>Ball was All</strong><em>.</em> <br>Cesar picked it up, ‘owning’ it. Charley, released by the handler at his direction, rushed toward Cesar, ignoring everything else. <br><em>BallBallBall! </em><br> <br>Cesar slipped on his simple collar/leash (one looped line) and continued to hold the ball while the dog visually devoured it. <br>Then, he set it down in a spot <em>he</em> chose. <br>When the animal went for it he made a noise: “Sssst!!” <br>Startled, Charley’s focus broke. He looked up at Cesar for an instant before shifting his laser-gaze back to the ball again. At that exact instant the sound came again. “Ssst!” <br><br>Translation: That. Ball. Is. Mine. <br><br>This time the dog stared at him, uncertain. Cesar moved the slim collar/leash high up on his neck to (to achieve excellent control with minimal effort) and led him away about ten paces. Charley went willingly, but kept glancing back at his beloved ball. He asked the dog to sit while pulling the lead straight up as his left foot tapped Charley’s hind end. <br>Plop. He sat immediately and stared up at Cesar, totally attentive to this interesting human. <br> <br>Charley-dog instinctively <em>knew</em> he faced a Pack Leader. He happily absorbed Cesar’s calm, assertive energy and quiet confidence. He relinquished ball-thoughts without fuss. <br>Poof. Gone. <br><em>No problem, Boss. You own that ball.</em> <br> <br>Cesar walked him toward his property, and a millisecond after Charley glanced at the ball Cesar tapped his hindquarters gently with his left foot and made that noise. A <u>reminder</u>. <br>“Ssst!” <br>Charley snapped to attention and looked up at Cesar intently. <em>Ohh, right! That’s <u>your</u> ball, Boss. </em><br> <br>Redirection- and a new focus- Cesar- at precisely the right moment, was key. We watched the animal mentally switch to obedient, submissive respect. I could almost hear a Click. <br> <br>Again, Cesar led him toward the ball. They padded around it and past it. Charley, watching Cesar for cues while heeling, ignored it. Why? <br>It wasn’t his. <br> <br>Satisfied, Cesar freed him. He wandered around to sniff the furniture and explore the whole stage, nose working busily. But he completely, permanently ignored the big red ball that sat before us.<br> <br>The handler and audience were gob-smacked. <br> <br>Next: <br>Punkin, weighing about 35 pounds, had a food obsession. The owner, a pleasant older lady, was going nuts. All her dog thought about was FOOD. Countertop food. Table food. Her grandaughter’s food. She always found ways to snatch it. Her owner couldn’t shame/scold/scream her out of her bad behavior. She felt helpless. Arghhhh! <br> <br>Cesar attached his slim collar/lead high up behind her dog’s ears, and got her full attention by offering a delicious chicken morsel from one of three chicken-filled, cereal-sized bowls an attendant had quietly placed on the end table. <br>Punkin scarfed the gift down. (Cesar had demonstrated, by doing this, that he ‘owned’ the food.) <br>He asked the owner to keep her (leashed) dog from following him while he walked away to set <em>his</em> three meaty bowls of chicken bits on the stage floor close to us, leaving perhaps five feet between each. Then he led the eager, wide-eyed, straining Punkin toward them. <em>Ohboyohboyohboy.</em>...Her nose worked frantically. As she lurched toward the bowls he made ‘the sound’ and touched her flank with his sneaker, which came up behind his other leg. <br>“Ssst!” <br>Translation: ‘No. Mine.’ <br> <br>No exclamation point necessary. It was a simple fact. <br> <br>Startled, she looked up at Cesar. He re-adjusted the slim collar/leash to the top of her neck again and maneuvered her into the ‘heel’ position. (Remember, he’d never seen this dog before.) Each time she microscopically tilted her body or eyes toward the food he got her attention with ‘that sound’ while keeping the collar situated high and straight, but not taut. One minute later they began deliberately walking past the bowls. Around the bowls. Between the bowls. Back and forth. In and out. Round and round. <br>She never looked at them. <br> <br><em><strong>Your</strong> food. Understood, Boss. </em><br> <br>Cesar removed the lead right there by the bowls. Punkin wandered off to entertain herself while he chatted with us. She went deeper into the set to sniff the couch, end table and little rug. But when she sneaked a furtive glance toward the food bowls from that long distance away, testing, Cesar was instantly ready. ‘Ssst!’ <br>(He’d waited for that long-distance glance, and had seized the moment to reinforce the lesson.) Punkin was startled. <em>Oops. This Alpha sees all... </em><br> <br>Snapping to attention, she looked over at him. He held her gaze quietly. She dropped her eyes, a submissive gesture, and continued to explore the big stage. <em>Just checkin’, Boss. </em><br>The aromatic chicken was never acknowledged again. <br> <br>The dog’s owner stood there flatfooted, open-mouthed. The audience was too stunned to clap. It was pretty quiet in there for a good while. <br>It was <strong>Sensational. </strong><br> <br>Next- a male handler from a local rescue group brought in a super-timid cream and white labrador puppy about seven months old, who seemed glued to the fellow’s legs. The little guy wound apologetically around them, twisting the leash every which way as he hunched and fawned and crept about while being slooowly coaxed and tugged out onto the stage. The puppy looked truly intimidated by life. The sad journey took awhile. <br> <br>Cesar went to him, knelt and patted him calmly, then encouraged him sniff his hand. He quietly positioned the slim collar/lead correctly, got the pup’s attention with a tiny tug, and began to walk steadily forward across the stage, radiating <em>confidence</em>. <br>He <em>owned</em> that moment. He. Was. Alpha. Alpha was <em>Safety</em>. <em>Power</em>. <br>As they strode along the puppy’s confidence grew by the second. After a few seconds the little guy pranced and gamboled along by Cesar’s side. He’d tapped into Cesar’s energy and made it his own. Life was good! <br> <br>There were gasps, then huge applause. <br>What stellar demonstrations of ‘Own the ball,’ ‘Own the food,’ ‘Own the moment!’ <br>How could such effective training be. so. simple? <br> <br>He’d never laid a cross hand on the animals, never raised his voice. He <em>did</em> command their full attention by radiating calm, assertive energy, and by living in <em>their</em> moment. For Cesar, each dog before him was all there was. <br>That’s <em>focus</em>. <br> <br>There was no mystery or magic here. Only a man with a simple plan. By offering calm, assertive energy directed absolutely toward the dog he was working with, along with a deep understanding of how they worked, he gave them- and his audience- a new way of operating. <br> <br><em>Everyone there</em> had the power do this, too. They just didn’t ‘own it’- yet. <br> <br>He told us-“Never beg, never plead with your dog- “Sit! Sit! sitsitsit-sit! I said sit....” or... “Stay, oh, please staaaay? Staaaaaay? staaaaaaaaaaaay...?” Cesar, half-stooped, palms out, backed away from an invisible dog, pantomiming this all-too-familiar behavior to great laughter. (He’s a fine comedian.) We ruefully recognized ourselves, all right. No decent dog would be motivated to obey a pleading human <em>victim</em> who would shrug sadly and sigh-but never take command when his pet routinely ignored his timid requests. <br> <br>Cesar demonstrated, over and over, that being <strong>T</strong>he <strong>P</strong>ack <strong>L</strong>eader is essential for developing a balanced dog. And a balanced owner. <br> <br>It really is that simple. <br> <br>It was a pleasure to see this man in person- to witness his ability to change a dog’s life, just like that. His books, found in libraries and bookstores, are packed with insight and information. <br> <br>Joe and I understand how to be pack leaders. <br>We deeply love our Bryn. <br>She is our pet, not our child. <br>We’ve set clear boundaries and defined the behavior she needs to master to enjoy a happy, balanced life. <br> <br>A few examples: <br>Human furniture is for humans. Always. <br>Never jump on other humans, ever. <br>Chew what is permitted. <br>Pee and poo outside. <br>Never beg at our dinner table. <br>Be <em>gentle</em> to any smaller dog or child. <br>Obey our commands immediately. <br>And on and on. <br>Her life-lessons are taught with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of quiet confidence. <br>She is so pleased when she gets it right. <br>Bryn-dog is respectful, knows her place, and loves us right back, in full measure. <br> <br>I offer heartfelt kudos to the brilliant Cesar Millan, for sharing his simple, profound gift with us all. </span><br> </p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/40643362016-02-28T08:41:00-05:002016-02-28T08:41:00-05:002/29/26: Scrubbing Bryn<p><span class="font_large"><em>Calm, assertive energy is the energy you project to show your dog you are the pack leader. Assertive does not mean angry, or aggressive. Calm-assertive means always compassionate, but quietly in control.</em> <br>- Cesar Millan </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Joe and I will attend a lecture and demonstration tonight by Cesar Millan, the brilliant dog whisperer, who will be at the Midland Center for the Arts to talk to a packed house about how dogs think and behave in response to our (mis)cues. He’ll demonstrate what’s possible in terms of educating a dog- and its owner. I’ve always admired his command of all aspects of their lives, and I’ve applied his lessons with great results. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Here’s an example of his suble influence: Eight month ago I decided to shampoo, towel-dry, nail-clip, blow-dry and comb out Bryn, instead of employing a groomer. I had the time. I just needed the knowledge. Bryn’s breeders at Acme Creek Kennels had introduced her gradually to these procedures when she was a very young puppy. But still, when I decided to take on this time-consuming task myself, Bryn was understandably wary. <br>Nothing looked like what she’d been used to, the few times she’d been to PetSmart’s groomers. <br>Different = <em>not sure, Boss. </em><br>(<em>“Dogs will always be attracted to calm, assertive energy.” - </em>Cesar Millan) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">So. We’d learn calmly, together. When she passed her first birthday I decided to teach her new words-‘paws, ‘tail,’ ‘ears,’ ‘eyes’ and ‘nose’ when I handled them during her daily brush-outs. I always took my time, for example, when untangling a burr, and used the word ‘gentle’ as I patiently eased stubborn prickles out. <br>Running water and my use of big plastic pitchers had to be accepted, too, and she’d need to remain still, and <em>not</em> vigorously shake off water until given permission. So, ‘hold still’ would be useful. (For two summers I bathed her with sun-warmed hose water, and she was good at not bolting after the first time. She got lots of praise for standing her ground.) </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">A careful, repetitive, loving general education with this new goal in mind has certainly paid off. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Today I invited her into the bathroom, and pointed to the tub. “hop in, Bryn.” The warm water was running, but she’d grasped the benign nature of running water long ago, so obeying that was easy. She walked to the filling tub and hopped in. I then poured plastic pitchers of warm water all over her multiple times, until she was drenched. She stood quietly. I squeezed a generous rope of doggy shampoo up and down her spine and massaged it in, using my hands and a handled scrub brush. Soon her coat was white again. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">“Bryn, lift your paw.” She thought. (It takes a few seconds for her to process requests. I can actually watch her work it out.) <em>Paw... o.k., Boss</em>. She lifted it and I held it and scrubbed that furry leg up and down. I repeated the request three more times. <br>I scrubbed her belly, bottom, tail, chest and finally her face. I filled the pitcher over and over and poured, beginning with her muzzle (keeping her earflaps down), and continuing along her entire body while chatting softly. Then, dirty water went down the drain. Fresh water was introduced. I saw her hunch, ready to shake, and reminded her- “ No shake. You must wait.” (<em>“Dogs do know how comfortable you are with yourself, how happy you are, how fearful you are, and what is missing inside you</em>.” CM) <br>I’m the boss. I knew it. She knew it. She waited. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Next, I squeezed a long rope of conditioner along her spine and worked it all around her girth while the tub filled. When it was deep enough I pitcher-rinsed her all over until I was satisfied. The second tub of water drained while I dried her face <em>gently</em> (choosing that word to describe my actions), then spread the towel along her back and neck to blot up more water. Her tail and legs, now standing in an empty tub, were last. I asked for a paw, dried it, and asked for another. Two sopping face towels later I asked her to hop out of the tub. “<em>No</em> shake, Bryn. You must <em>wait</em>.” She hopped out and waited, back hunched with need as I hurriedly towel-dried her once again, kneeling on the bathroom floor. (Goodwill has lots of serviceable elderly towels that are perfect for this job.) Then I opened the bathroom door into the carpeted music room. She went into it and I followed right behind. <br>“OK! Shakey-shake!” (I shook myself to demonstrate.) She vigorously shook, over and over, and rubbed her muzzle along the carpet, groaning with pleasure. Five shakes later I asked her to lie down. <br>Hairdryer time. <br>Some months ago she’d inspected this machine thoroughly, and had watched me dry my own hair lots of times- and then pat it affectionately when I was done. <br>(I patted the vacuum, too. Bryn would watch, note, and think. <br>Vacuums, though obnoxiously noisy, have since been deemed harmless.) <br>She lay down on the carpet where I indicated, and, with eyes closed, enjoyed feeling my fingers rake and fluff while the dryer did its job. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large"><u>*Iron-Clad Rule: I <em>always</em> put my hand exactly where the dryer is pointing. This safety measure insures she’s never burned.</u> Those things can get really hot if one lingers just an instant too long. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Thirty minutes later Bryn was completely dry- and half-asleep, I noted, when I’d rolled her over to dry her other side. (I always say, “Ooooverrr we go” every morning, so rolling her over now was a familiar thing. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, I began the comb-out. (She’s brushed every morning: it’s another feel-good way to bond, and I reinforce words she knows – ‘paw,’ ‘ear,’ ‘nose,’ ‘tail’- before I approach that part of her.) Today she sleepily lifted each named one, or didn’t resist when <em>I</em> lifted. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Lastly, her toenails were clipped. She dozed. (I always cut a bit long, to be <em>certain</em> I don’t draw blood. One mistake and the jig is up.) <br>(By the way, this five-part shampoo process takes about 1.5 to 2 hours every few weeks, when doggy odor causes my nose to wrinkle.) <br>A few more minutes and I was done. She strutted about, pleased with herself. Bryn knows when she looks great. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Finally, it was time to offer a doggy cookie. I call any bully stick (Cesar’s highly recommended treat) or little square treat ‘a cookie.’ Today she scarfed down one small, grain-free peanut butter/honey one before retreating to her sheepskin cave to snooze. <br>I enjoyed a little chunk of a Toblerone dark chocolate bar, washed down with a bracing cup of tea. <br>Well done, old girl. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">Educating Bryn does take a <em>ton</em> of time, and careful, uncluttered word selections. <br>Teaching each other, and learning the best ways to communicate is a fascinating experience. We both employ patience, persistence, demonstrations, more patience, repetition, repetition, sprinkled with respect and deep affection. <br>Each link in the chain of understanding enrichens both of us. </span></p>
<p><span class="font_large">(I do have to admit another secret of my success: <br>She is a very mellow dog.)</span></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/40524982016-02-21T08:43:23-05:002016-02-21T08:43:48-05:002/21/16: An Addict who Got Clean<p>Michigan winters keep me less active, more housebound, and less focused on fun projects outside. I get bored. This can be dangerous. <br>Just a few years ago I found myself reading/viewing polluted ‘information’ during my waking hours. The habit quickly grew to become a major problem. <br> <br>I wallowed in news about surface-to-air missiles in the hands of unstable governments, genocide, dirty bomb threats, and the rants of a mad dictator ignoring his starving nation... I absorbed stories about awful human beings doing terrible things to other human beings. I anguished about countries that were falling apart, worried about terrifying diseases in Africa with no cures...I was pummeled by inane politics. <br>Moving around in this sordid world became a habit. <br> <br>I became an avid ‘information’ junkie. <br> <br>Each day I drank in the latest natural disasters with my coffee, until my very fabric was drenched in despair. There was <em>so much</em> Bad News filling the TV and my computer (a marvelous tool I was using unwisely) that I grew seriously depressed. <br> <br>One day, numb with it all, I opened the computer and searched through Drudge, Fox, CNN and the other alphabet news agencies for substantive news. I purged information that was stupid, horrible, sad, ridiculous or prurient- or that was <strong>n</strong>one <strong>o</strong>f <strong>m</strong>y <strong>b</strong>usiness: (i.e.-hearing what Patrick Swayze’s dying words were, or watching an athlete beat his wife unconscious). <br>(Good God! I’d become a voyeur- a peeping Tom.) <br> <br>I wrote down the factual information that remained. This took no time at all. <br>It was incredibly meager. <br>95% was mental heroin, or back alley rubbish- Or <em>NOMB</em>. <br>Just 5% was factually based hard news. <br> <br>Years ago, the powers-that-be decided to go with 24/7 news. BUT. There were not nearly enough substantive articles for 24 hours of every day. So news-hungry journalists began to introduce ‘filler’ stories - Sensational things- about who had eaten someone, or been eaten (by crocs, for example,) or who had stored their dead mother in the broom closet for ten years. Fascinated viewers like me flocked to these sites to absorb prurient or embarrassing photos- such as singer/dancers with ‘wardrobe malfunctions.’ Anything sensational, outrageous, stupid or pathetic that could be shown or written about was on offer. <br>Good taste’s ‘red line’ had been obliterated. <br> <br>Take TV ads, for instance. People moan about their hemorrhoids, men fret over drooping fifth appendages, women are victims of toenail fungus or vaginitis. Shingles and cold sore sufferers groan, overactive bladders pull their owners around in crowded bowling alleys, six different catheters are demonstrated, and even loaded pink lower bowels tiptoe daintily through fine restaurants. These ads are repeated, over and over and over. I never bothered to press ‘mute,’ so they saturated my brain. <br> <br>(Remember the <em>appealing</em> ad for a breakfast cereal- with a delightful child-actor called Mikey, way back when? Those were the good old days.) <br> <br>Today, <em>absolutely nothing</em> is off-limits, or private. <br> <br><em>Positive</em> news sells. It does. But it always has an awful beginning- a puppy severely burned in a fire, who’d been adopted, for example. <br>I’d hold the story to my heart with relief. <br> <br>Pathetic. <br> <br>I had become inured to bad taste, violence and awful, useless information. More and more and more of it registered less and less and less, until its daily ingestion had dialed down this human being’s sensitivity/revulsion meter to 0. <br>I knew this because I would watch cartoon bowels moving, or read of atrocities- and the meter didn’t twitch. <br> <br>Desperate, I wrote down two facts: <br>1. Terrible things were happening every minute of every day everywhere, that <u>I couldn’t fix</u>. <br>But- I. Was. Absorbing. Them. <br> <br>2. This soul-killing avalanche of life’s bad events was obliterating the mountain of good that existed. I was numb to it. <br> <br>I had to <em>reset</em> my sensitivity meter! <br> <br>Was this even possible? <br> <br>I scribbled the names of the culprits (Dee Blair topped the list). The computer and the TV followed in close succession. <br>Ha! <br>I quit those, Cold Turkey. <br>Television and computer ‘newspapers’- including Drudge, Fox, CNN and all the other ‘information’ networks (and even the much more factual Wall Street Journal) were eliminated for one year. <br>Then I’d see. <br> <br>I spent the first unplugged week deeply anxious, desperate for input and occasionally tearful. I needed my fix! I feared that I was missing something- <br> <br>And then, I realized that I was!! <br>I felt lighter for its absence. <br><em>I felt cleaner. </em><br> <br>My husband kept me informed about world events in a general way. (Sometimes we’d watch ‘clean’ TV documentaries, like Nova, or travel adventures, but nothing else.) <br>After few weeks my anxiety lessened and my deep depression began to lift. But- there were times I was tempted to go back... <br>That fact really upset me. <br> <br>Getting clean was going to be <em>hard</em>. <br> <br>The deeper change took much longer. <br> Unplugged, I slowly relearned the mostly <em>unsullied</em> world’s realities and little kindnesses, and better appreciated children, who see the world with fresh, optimistic eyes. I adopted Bryn-dog’s philosophy of living for the moment. I went outside even in really snowy weather, to play. My anguish and helplessness about the state of the world greatly lessened. I had more time to do things, and began to notice a bounce in my step. <br> <br>Exactly one year later I switched on the TV. <br>And was shocked. SHOCKED. I turned it off right quick. <br>And smiled. <br>It <em>was</em> possible! <br> <br>I had Reset!! <br> **** <br><em>An afterthought: There are no more random turn-ons. I’ve chosen just one hour to catch up on substantive news. Bret Baier hosts ‘Special Report’ on Fox, at 6:00 p.m. Monday through Friday. This award-winning program strives to report the day’s news without bias. The last twenty minutes features a panel of three educated, highly respected journalists from both political parties who comment on the day’s events, often with humor, and usually with great insight. <br>It is exactly enough.</em></p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/40409072016-02-14T07:05:33-05:002016-02-14T07:05:33-05:002/14/16: A Million Things to Love<p>Valentine’s Day – with 1890s Victorian cards sporting chubby cherubs awash in hearts, clutching bows n’ arrows, sporting disconcertingly toothy grins — is an ancient holiday. <br> <br>I looked up the guy. Turns out the Roman Emperor, Claudius II, arrested Mr. Valentine for professing Christianity, but while personally interrogating him the Supreme Ruler was struck by his prisoner’s intelligence and wit. Here was a really interesting fellow, willing to argue with his Royal Self without being obsequious. This was huge. Claudius must have been starved for someone to just chew the fat with. (Folks close to the emperor would always agree with whatever Claudius thought or decided- about anything. Fear of his unlimited power made for boringly agreeable colleagues.) <br> <br>Valentine refused to renounce his faith, but tried instead to convert Claudius to Christianity. The nerve! His chutzpah fascinated the emperor. After a vigorous discussion and debate lasting some hours neither man would be moved, so, annoyed and frustrated, and mainly for political reasons, Claudius reluctantly had him ‘arrowed.’ Before he was executed, though, Valentine fell in love with the jailer’s daughter, whom he’d supposedly healed from some ailment during his imprisonment. He wrote her a love note, signing it ‘your Valentine.’ Therein were sewn the seeds of a massive hearts n’ flowers industry that took root eighteen centuries later in Victorian England. Perennially popular, it’s blooming still, everywhere. <br> <br>Mulling all this over, I thought I’d review what I love to love. <br> <br>Just over a decade ago I was nearly killed by a three-quarter ton pickup truck. I’d been flattened in a blink, and then, incredibly, I was back. Many months later, when I’d mostly reassembled myself, I fell in love all over again with life and all its delights, and yes, even its disasters. <br> <br>Each day is Valentine’s Day for me. I love big trees, small gardens, silky, dangle-y fringe, and Pittsburgh-style steaks. Weeds delight me, and chipmunks, and hot water bottles, and bag balm and bees, and Joe and Bryn-dog and my children, and my home, and my sister and brother, and Mom’s nicely seasoned black iron skillet, and fresh, aromatic coffee strong enough to trot a mouse on, and spider webs’ intricate designs. I love books, doors, a pillar’s curves, a rich turn of musical phrase, griffin toenails, the soft riffle of fabric, and oh, so much more. Truth to tell, I loved it all before, but my own personal Big Bang has certainly rebooted my appreciation for embracing now. This minute. <br>It’s all we have, really. <br> <br>Life is good. When bad times intrude they have the peculiar knack of making good times even more appreciated. <br> <br>Oh- and I love the letters I get from you, readers. I love that you enjoyed my first book and laughed lots, reading it. (Book two is in the wings.) <br>I love to add pony poop to my flowerbeds, and then see plants take heart from its peculiar power to elevate them. (I know; my truck-adjusted brain frequently bounces around like this. Resistance is futile...) <br> <br>I guess I’ll offer this valentine column to life, with all its valuable, awful, lovely, eerie, nonsensical, titillating, interesting, naughty, exciting turns. <br> <br>Indulge in a chocolate-covered cherry and join me in a lusty cheer –because we’re here! </p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/40292072016-02-07T05:26:00-05:002018-01-27T22:45:14-05:002/07/16: Skye Memories<p>Ah, the wind in Traverse City was cutting; small branches, having succumbed to its gusts, littered the back garden. And just outside the garage door in the alley two huge crows were dining on a dead squirrel lying in the snow, who might have come down with one shattered branch lying on the pavement. <br> <br>Crows and gusty winds always bring back memories of my visits to my mother and her husband David, who lived on the Isle of Skye for five years in the late seventies. They owned an ancient little croft house, with two-foot thick stone walls that had withstood the intense battering of vicious North Atlantic winds for centuries. Just a mile to the northwest of our snug cottage was a sheer cliff that dropped 600-700 feet straight down to the restless ocean. I’d lie flat on the ground and nervously inch to the edge to stare down at the icy water and awesomely monstrous, bashing waves that made the earth vibrate over a considerable area. <br>Mom told me she once saw the periscope of a submarine out there... <br> <br>Hooded crows, a constant plague on rural Skye, would wait patiently until ewes gave birth in March, Then swoop down to pluck out the eyes of newborn lambs. Our only neighbor Willy, a shepherd, got little or no sleep for weeks as he tried to protect his flock of about 200 sheep from these predators, and from the often fearsome weather. <br> <br>Shepherds on Skye would set baited traps during lambing season and place them on the barbed wire fences and ancient stone walls that surrounded their flocks. Hooded crows would land to eat the bait- and bang! Their bodies were displayed on the barbed wire as a warning to other crows. Willy swore they were an effective deterrent. <br> <br>The March weather could be horrid at lambing time. Snowstorms, gale-force winds, and icy daggers of rain were common. My mother and David would assist Willy during this impossibly busy time by popping fragile new lambs, especially a weak twin, into our warm oven. Or, they would revive them with a vigorous towel-rub by the peat fire. The kitchen’s warm flagstone floor would be awash in fresh, bleating babies. <br> <br>Cut-up rubber glove-fingers, stretched over various bottles, served as nipples when formula bottles were in short supply. The infants would usually need to be coaxed to suckle, but they’d soon get the idea, and gain strength quickly. Within an hour, they’d suckle with zest, their tails wagging enthusiastically. <br> <br>In an hour or two Willy would unite delighted mothers with their babies. All he had to do was let the infants out our cottage door. The correct ewe would bah-h excitedly and dash up to her baby, who always knew where to find her milk. United again they’d wander off, content, into the most appalling weather. <br> <br>Sometimes a lamb would die at birth. The ewe, inconsolable, would bleat forlornly for her dead baby. Having nothing to live for, a mother might die. Willy’s solution was ingenious. He’d quickly skin the dead lamb a little way off, then, using rough twine, strap the hide onto an orphaned newborn lamb whose mother had died giving birth. The mourning mother would sniff the baby carefully, then delightedly accept it as her own. In a few weeks the twine would rot and the old lambskin would fall off, but by then the mother had memorized the other sniff. Everyone was happy! <br> <br>Sheep were Willy’s only source of income, and he worked incredibly hard to keep them safe. He was an old man then- perhaps 75- thin, wiry, and with no teeth, but tough as nails, capable of dashing around in a blizzard wearing only a shockingly thin, tattered overcoat over elderly jeans, flannel shirt and an ancient woolen sweater, to attend dozens and dozens of births. I always felt awe that Willy could survive out there with only itinerant help, and that infants, snug inside their mothers, could be born into a raging blizzard and still manage to stay alive. But they did. With a few exceptions, his lambs survived and thrived. <br> <br>Sometimes, when the snow was intense, David would bundle up in five layers of clothing and go out to make sure Willy was OK. He’d come back looking like a snowman. I had to broom him clean. <br> <br>One day nearly twenty years later, farmer friends passing by on the dusty road heard too many bleating sheep, wondered about it, and went into Willy’s croft house- to find him peacefully dead in bed. He was 94. <br> <br>Veterinarians on wild Skye have a very hard life, too. We’d hear their many adventures recounted in the village pub in the tiny town of Portree after things died down a bit, toward April, when we’d travel to town for a pint. <br> <br>Jinji-cat and the family dogs, Charlie and Fred, loved the outdoors. On Skye they could run miles through hilly, heathered terrain, under a huge sky, and play near the crumbling Duntulm Castle, built nine centuries ago near the edge of the cliff. Willy raised goats and chickens, too, and of course, a sheep dog and semi-feral cats, highly valued as mousers. <br> <br>Our little home, called Windsong Cottage, was situated in the extreme north of the island, in North Duntulm, and far from Portree. Our elderly car had to bump along a one-lane road to get there, through scenery that was simply spectacular. <br> <br>Though isolated, we were rarely lonely. There was always something to do. Mother and David tended their veggie garden and created lovely cottage clocks that sold very well to hiking tourists representing every country on the planet. When I wasn’t there these hikers would often stay the night in my room and wake to a hearty breakfast. Cost: 35 pounds (about 50 dollars.) <br> <br>I slept soundly every night under a sky that blazed with zillions of stars. Needs were simpler there, tales were tall, and people tended to keep themselves to themselves. Living on Skye was fascinating challenge, even to the natives. <br> <br>Eventually, my mother and David were unable to cope with the almost constant, piercing wind, and so moved to the west of England to live in its lovely countryside for another twenty happy years. <br> <br>I still think about Skye’s impressive, fog-swathed mountains, its stark, treeless, hilly meadows scented with heather, and our peat-fueled kitchen and lounge fires, so useful for resurrecting half-dead lambs. They are memories to savor...</p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/40171192016-01-31T04:29:31-05:002016-01-31T04:29:31-05:001/31/16: Indulging the Imp of Impetuosity<p>My ‘gotta try it’ imp has been dormant of late, as winter puts a brake on some of my odder habits. For example: I like to climb trees to see the world in a fresh way. Snow and ice discourage that. Yet, as Bryn and I walked around the block at 5 a.m. for her constitutional, we stopped to gape at the enormous pile of snow in front of Central Grade School, towering as high as the second story of that sturdy, beautiful building. I itched to climb to its top. It wasn’t a tree, but it was an adventure for this impetuous soul. <br> <br>Bryn and I traded glances. Yeah, I was alone, wearing a white winter coat, and Bryn is mostly snow-white, so we blended too well with the terrain -and it was dark and really early- but hey! That Big Bump begged to be bested. Besides, sensible folk were asleep, so I could be reckless in peace. <br> <br>Rats! I had no gloves, but never mind. <br> <br>I chose a place to start. Bryn led the way. Fine, I thought. She can help to pull me higher in those places that are overly steep and icy. <br> <br>She was delighted, an immediately sank her claws into the slick, snowy surface. I followed close behind, feeling for toe depressions. Up I went, a bit at a time, the taut leash on one wrist, my bare hands helping with balance. Bryn looked back and slowed her ascent as I muttered, “Wait- not too fast...” <br>And within a minute we were on top of the world. <br>Very cool! I surveyed the area from up there, feeling a bit smug. “Well, I haven’t blended into my easy chair, yet...” <br>We carefully made our way along the monster’s slippery spine as it wound itself around the grounds, and eventually found a spot where we could sit, gaze, and then carefully climb down again. A solicitous Bryn took the lead again, adjusting her rate of descent to mine. <br>She really is an intuitive doggie. <br> <br>The experience was challenging enough to raise my pulse a bit. <br>Was it unwise to climb in the pitch dark? <br>Didn’t care. <br>Would do it again. <br>I get pretty tired of staying within what’s considered proper behavior, just because I’m elderly. I’d rather feel free to indulge my 11-year old self with minimal repercussions. I’m still fit, and reasonably athletic. I like a bit of adventure. And, if I’m still sentient down the road, I’ll remember these little conquests as I fade to gone, and grin. <br> ** <br>Two-year old Bryn is just as prone to impulsive decisions. <br> <br>Recently, in December’s above-freezing, snowless winter weather, she walked with Joe and me on a sidewalk right next to the Saginaw River at one of the Bay City parks that line this vigorous, wide, north-flowing maritime route. (A few North American rivers do flow north.) <br> <br>The large expanse of grass growing inside the sidewalk’s perimeter was truly disgusting. Huge, gelatinous grey goose poop lay everywhere, leaving few places for ‘higher’ animals with better bathroom habits to trod. Even navigating the sidewalk was tricky. Ugh. The geese hadn’t bothered to fly to warmer climes yet, as it was still not terribly cold here. Why waste the energy? So they’d hung around to nibble the still-viable foliage, poop, honk and paddle about in the calmer eddies, just out of curious Bryn’s reach. <br> <br>A three-barred steel railing erected next to the park walk kept inattentive passersby from inadvertently falling five feet down into the river. <br>Just as the pavement curved, a fat, sassy goose way down below honked a challenge. In a blink Bryn had slipped under the lowest bar and jumped down onto a tiny bit of gravelly shoreline to answer it. Big bird flew off in a huff. Now, though, my dog was stranded. <br> <br>Rats! How could we get her back up to the path again? That five-foot high cement wall was sheer! Then, before I could prevent it, she tried to hop back up to us, but banged her head on that same bar before falling backward to land on her back. I saw a flicker of alarm as she righted herself and realized the situation. Worried now, she moved up and down the miniature shore, seeking another escape route. We could see none. <br> <br>Bother! I’d have to drop down too, by slithering under the same bar. I’d boost 51-pound Bryn high enough so that Joe could grab her harness and pull her back to safety. He’d have to haul me up as well. The task would be awkward, and tough on his fresh knee replacement. <br>As I made ready to descend Joe walked about 50 feet further on, then leaned way over the bars to peer down and under. “Hey, Dee; water’s there, but just a few inches deep. These huge boulders disappear under the walkway. But she might be able to scramble up them.” To Bryn it looked like an uneven, massive wall. But maybe she might find enough toeholds... We’d ask her to try. <br> <br>I moved past Joe to catch Bryn’s eye. “Bryn, come!” She howled once in despair and moved toward the boulder mountain, but then lost heart and retreated to her tiny patch of flat, gravelly ground. The stones did look formidable. So I trotted down the park path a little distance, then stopped at an invisible beeline she could aim for, and, keeping my voice calm and confident, shouted, “It’s OK. The water’s shallow there. Come.” <br>Calmer now, she studied the situation. Oh. I must climb those big stones to come to you... “Bryn, you can do this. Come!” The poor dog ran back and forth a few more times, but could find no other reasonable options. <br> <br>So she went for it. <br>I called encouragement as she chose a crack here, a depression there, moving sideways, then up, up and sideways, scrabbling for purchase on the next boulder... There was only one gasper, when she misjudged a foothold and lost ground half way up, but then, with a mighty effort, she managed to recover and heave herself up and over the last huge stone! We cheered as Bryn shook herself, licked one paw briefly and came to me, relieved and happy. <br> <br>What can one say about impulsive acts like these? Nothing too bad, I hope... They do add a certain rich unpredictability to life. <br>If one isn’t impulsive at times, one doesn’t have a pulse. </p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/40040792016-01-23T17:08:48-05:002017-01-11T09:52:03-05:002/24/16: Charleston: Lovely and Unnerving Part 3<p>We left Knoxville, Tennessee early the next morning, after watching Bryn romp outside our hotel room chasing a knotted rope and prancing through the winter-long lawn grass while we drank hot black coffee and gobbled a couple of hardboiled eggs. It was freezing! <br> <br>Seven hours later, in mid-afternoon, we arrived in Charleston. Our GPS lady directed us to historic King Street, and the 1853 Kings Courtyard Inn, with its centuries-old interior, cobblestone courtyards and large fountain. <br>The FIDO booking lady I mentioned in last week’s column recommended this charming place, as it welcomed pets of any size, and was located in the middle of historic downtown Charleston and its elegant shops, and fun, inexpensive places to dine outside- with Bryn! <br>We drove past the inn’s front entrance twice, as it was quite understated. Just two potted plants marked the nearly hidden arched entranceway. I hopped out, went in and found the concierge, who directed us to the inn’s parking area around back. <br> <br>Bryn watched us unpack our few things-and her food- in the attractive room, which contained two comfortable double beds, a couple of chairs and a small table, a generous, mirrored armoire with small TV- and a nice bath. Best of all, it was quiet. <br> <br>The concierge gave us list of ten dog parks in and around Charleston and pointed out the nearest one, just a few blocks away, (The Hazel Parker Dog Run Downtown) a block from the ocean and part of a green, treed park with a baseball field at one end. <br>We bundled up- brrrr! -and walked Bryn to this park. It was huge, treed, and the grass was a vivid green. She jubilantly played with seven dogs of various sizes and shapes until after dusk, when we led her tired self down East Bay Street to a nice bar that served delicious food- outside. Staff even brought out a little bowl of water for thirsty Bryn, who then settled at our feet to watch the world go by. We ordered a delicious fish soup, and answered questions about our dog from admiring passersby. <br>A quick walk back home and she downed some kibbles, drank deeply again and went to her nest between our beds. <br>“OK, Bryn, we’re going out again for a bit; you stay- and be a good girl.” Her eyes drooped from a healthy tiredness as she settled. All our stuff was there. She knew we’d be back. <br> <br>Charleston at night is lovely. Tiny white holiday lights decorated the inn’s courtyard, and winked up and down the street. Some hardier flowers mixed with vinca and ivy bloomed in big pots that were scattered about. But by now we were very tired, and opted for the toasty fire in the lounge. Free tawny and ruby port and wine and cheese were offered (evenings from 5-7), and we enjoyed this treat every evening, read our novels and relaxed. <br> <br>Now for some verbal ‘snapshots:’ <br>-Everyone was friendly! Restaurants and little pubs were stuffed with smiling folks and wait staff who seemed happy just to be there, a part of things. And the food is outstanding. The word ‘frozen’ is anathema here. Everything is absolutely fresh, and Charleston chefs use only locally grown spices and herbs as they prepare delicious fare-especiallyfish- in creative ways. <br> <br>-Charleston temps were in the low teens at times. Wind chill made it even worse. One morning it was -5, briefly. Therefore, the bikes we’d dragged all that way would never be used. Our faces would freeze if we tried to ride. Luckily I’d brought along my Eskimo coat, a thick scarf and fur-lined boots. <br> <br>-It soon became clear we’d have to change how we spent our time here. The first night it was just warm enough (39 degrees) to sit outside a pub with Bryn, order a delicious fish soup, and plan. We decided to walk every day, until Joe’s recovering knee objected, drive to interesting dog parks (as they gave our Bryn much joy), try fascinating dishes, and sip good wine. We’d learn the historic area’s topography. <br> <br>-In the morning we gathered Bryn and strolled down East Bay Street, which borders Charleston Harbor. The grass was a rich green, the huge fountain gushed water and Southern charm, the view of the bay was stunning--but it was windy, overcast and very cold. <br>We’d hoped to visit the USS Yorktown, a WWII battleship, but the wind and freezing air made that an unpleasant thought. (I’ve rarely been colder than when we toured the very cool destroyer moored in Bay City, Michigan: it took hours to warm up. So, next time, we promised ourselves. <br> <br>-We simply walked the streets, checked out shops, fascinating alleyways, parks and monuments, and gazed at antebellum mansions. On the forth and last full day we signed up for a 2.5 hour culinary walking tour at 2 p.m. It cost $60 each. We’d starved ourselves, anticipating petite examples of some of Charleston’s finest fare- something more than one bite of some handmade candies, a tablespoon of pulled pork, collards and grits and a free bottle of spring water. At its beginning, when so-so coffee was served in Styrofoam cups, I realized that hope would be dashed. The elderly lady in charge of the six people that comprised our group was a native who knew all Charleston’s history. She was lively, and the information was really interesting. At its end, though, we were pretty hungry, and somewhat dispirited. Never mind: we made lemonade out of lemons and took ourselves to Ruth’s Chris Steak House, a place we’d passed on the tour that we had always wanted to try. Their steak wasn’t priced sky-high, and tasted delicious! <br> <br>The funnest part: <br>We visited half the dog parks, marking them off, one at a time, from our list. All are beautiful, one was thimble-small, and one, especially, just across the bridge, in the James Island County Park, was so vast we could see no fence. We had to pay a couple of bucks to drive into the Park itself. The ranger then directed us to the dog park. <br> <br>WOW! Double WOW! The setting was idyllic. A thick carpet of hilly grass that could feed a big herd of horses for a long time led down to a beautiful, small lagoon, bordered by a wonderful sandy beach and lovely trees. The sun actually came out to create the perfect afternoon. But when we arrived at the outer gate a large sign- with a vivid orange background and bright red and black letters- read: <br> <br><br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/37b6e1a573a1660c91e423241bb1184a89a0fa33/large/img-2016.jpg?1453586303" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><br> I stood frozen, imagining my beloved dog chasing a ball, throwing herself into that beautiful, glass-calm little lake, and then- There Be Monsters. And a horrible death- with Bryn a mere snack. As I would charge in to rescue her, and damn the consequences, I’d be dinner. <br> <br>I noticed that there WERE dogs doing what I’ve just described. Swimming far out, snatching up the ball, and swimming back again, over and over. <br>It was too much. I ran down to the shore and yelled at Bryn: she was not to jump in! No!!!! (I know; it’s probably too cold for these reptiles right now, but the water felt warm-------and would you risk it?) <br> <br>Bryn was baffled. What? It’s lovely out there, Boss; I want to swim, too...She’d heard my tone, though, and knew this body of water was well and truly forbidden. So she waited until the shepherd swam back and then snatched the ball away and ran over the hills, with the other dog in hot, friendly pursuit. <br>I kept herding her away from the thickly treed lagoon’s edges, knowing alligator habits from our visits to Florida. One guy said, “Yes mam, gators like ta swim through that area over there”- (he pointed to a thickly treed area where the wide, natural canal opened into this lagoon)- “and they swim around out there... No dawgs bin snatched lately, though...” <br> <br>Gulp.<br> <br>Bryn loved that hilly, green, lush park. She ran the perimeter, and couldn’t believe the vast space. <br>Here was a green Paradise- with the inevitable serpent...but for me? Forget the dog days of summer in this park. No way. <br> <br>We left lovely Charleston very early on the fourth morning, as weather sweeping in from the Pacific made us nervous. Rain and snow was predicted in a couple of days, and the Smoky Mountains could be daunting. <br> <br>We’d not ridden in a carriage, or toured a plantation, or seen the USS Yorktown, but we’d had a wonderful time anyway, and would be back. There was still so much to enjoy!</p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/39928652016-01-17T07:20:20-05:002016-01-17T07:20:20-05:001/17/16: Movin' On Down- Part two: Knoxville Delights<p>1/17/16: Movin’ On Down: Part 2: Knoxville Delights <br> <br>New Year’s morning in Kentucky was a visual stunner. Joe and I emerged at ten thirty a.m. into tepid sunshine and freezing weather from the impressive Frozen Niagara tour of Mammoth Cave. This beautiful, eerie cave graphically demonstrates the persistent power of water to shape and carve out limestone over eons, creating giant rooms with massive, fancifully decorated pillars set off by the smoothest of walls and floors. Sharp edges are rare. <br>The discretely placed lighting highlights nature’s work as she perpetually, patiently continues to form and polish her hidden masterpiece, one drip-drop at a time. <br> <br>Mammoth Cave, discovered thousands of years ago, has been mined for saltpeter to make gunpowder in the War of 1812, and used as a hideout and for religious rituals- and even tried out as a possible cure for TB. A doctor, desperate to help his consumptive patients, built several roofless rooms deep in the caverns and encouraged his dwindling souls to live in them ‘to take in the pure water and air.’ Unfortunately, they died a bit faster down there, as it was worse to live where the sun didn’t shine or where adequate lighting and hot food was hard to provide. (High altitude, and low oxygen adversely affects the TB bacillus, so this opposite approach was woefully ineffective.) <br>Those little rooms are still there, mute monuments to medical ignorance. But they’re also reminders of one physician’s deep dedication to his patients’ welfare. A decent life before antibiotics was mostly about being lucky. All it took was one sneeze near a concerned family member or passerby, who would probably breathe in the microscopic droplets that hosted the horrific bacterium, which would slowly, inexorably consume its new victim. <br>Another century would pass before doctors finally had an effective weapon against such a murderous scourge. <br> <br>Bryn greeted us sleepily from the car’s back seat, had a quick walk on park grounds, and then we were off again- to Knoxville. Tennessee was largely a blank in my knowledge bank: I’d always driven straight through it on the expressway, heading for somewhere else. Now we’d see the Smokies up close and personal, and explore, very briefly, this southern city. <br> <br>Even in the late morning the lovely sun-lit mountains ‘smoked;’ deep valleys were robed in thick fog that blanketed parts of the highway. Drivers slowed down to avoid the precipitous drops. We were glad to descend 5,000 feet to flatter ground two hours later. <br> <br>At about 3:30 we arrived at our hotel in West Knoxville, about six miles out of town, right off the expressway. The Hampton Inn, remodeled and refurbished by the Hilton chain, suited us perfectly. (Back in Cave City I’d rung a toll-free number that kept popping up on my computer screen as I searched for dog-friendly hotels- BRING FIDO- at 1-(877)-411-FIDO. The lady at the other end of that line had been incredibly helpful. She told us the Knoxville hotel she had in mind was lovely, just re-opened. It would charge a nominal fee for Bryn’s inclusion.) The second floor, where we were placed, opened right onto the parking lot, as the building was set on a steep hill. <br> <br>Knoxville’s the most pet-friendly city in the US. PetSafe, a national business that creates invisible fences, training collars, drinking fountains, pet doors, special harnesses- anything that makes it easier and more fun to care for a pet, is based here. The company has set up at least five really nice dog parks in and around this city for everyone to enjoy. After settling into our room we programed the GPS to guide our car to one such park along the river- a long, narrow, fenced strip of land set on a hill almost in the middle of downtown, that the FIDO lady had recommended. “You can run Bryn, then park a couple of blocks closer to the city center and walk down the middle of Gay Street to Market Square to enjoy a great lunch in one of its many casual restaurants. Don’t miss the other little shops there: they’re such fun!” <br> <br>Perfect. <br> <br>When Bryn saw the dog park she gave an incredulous groan. Stuffed into the back seat for hours with barely room to turn, this sight was heaven. We parked, let her in and chatted with other dog owners while enjoying her pleasure. <br> <br>One small, elderly lady in particular, Maude, had twinkling eyes. Her terrier-beagle mutt and Bryn were having a fine time together, so we struck up a conversation. <br> <br>“I nursed my dear husband for seven years, until he died three years ago. So I sold up and moved here to be near my daughter, and have never looked back. It’s a wonderful town, easy to walk around in with Buster, and the food is great. Buster was a flea-bitten, worm-infested street pup abandoned in an alley when I found him, and we’ve been inseparable from that first day. He and I know every dog park. I do have just one warning for you about this one, though.” She smiled. “If you sit on one of these park benches, always look up.” I did. And saw nothing but sky, treetops and a forest of criss-crossing power lines. Seeing my puzzlement she elaborated. “ If birds are sitting on those wires, you, my dear, provide an irresistible target. Beware the poop bombs! Trust me-I speak from experience!” <br>We had a good laugh, but I nervously edged away... <br> <br>Bryn was a blur! She ran up and down the hill, feinted, bounced, wrestled and played tug-of-war using our thick, knotted rope. Her joy was infectious. So we stood outside in the freezing cold on the green grass, shivering in the snowless weather, but happy to be part of such exuberance. Finally, when enough time had passed and our fingers and toes were numb, we collected the rope and loaded our panting Bryn back into the car. Exhausted, she could barely hop in, but that dog was grinning. <br> <br>Five minutes later we found another, closer parking spot just off Gay Street and began to walk up and down the large, thriving pedestrian shopping area, called Market Square, while Bryn snoozed in the car. <br> <br>What a cool street! (It reminded me of Hereford’s huge pedestrian Market Square in England, so near our old home!) The Blue Coast Bar and Grill, a hip, casual restaurant, serves delicious lunches: we loved our fresh crab cakes and salad. And the price was right! <br> <br>We enjoyed the rest of that cold afternoon, delighting in all the little stores, the people wandering about, the laughter, and conviviality. Knoxville clearly requires much more than just one day. <br>We’d be back! <br>Last word: If you have a pet you hate to leave behind, include him/her and visit this vibrant city. You won’t regret it. <br> <br>Our hotel room was warm, with a very comfortable bed. Bryn settled into her snug nest on the spotless carpet and we all slept hard. Early the next morning we scarfed down two McDonald’s Egg McMuffins with sausage (but tossed the buns, being low-carb people) plus two black coffees, and pointed the car’s nose toward Charleston, about seven hours south-east. We had a room waiting (very reassuring) and four full days to enjoy its Southern charms... <br> <br> <br>(Continued next week...)</p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/39825022016-01-10T07:29:49-05:002016-01-10T07:29:49-05:001/10/16: Movin' On Down... part 1<p>Joe, Bryn and I have been up to good this past ten days. Because he was on vacation from his practice we threw a few changes of clothing and a roll of paper towels (for drink-spilling emergencies) into a small carry-on bag, hooked our bikes on the back rack, tossed in Bryn’s leash, bed, dishes, kibbles and two toys, hopped into the car and pointed it south. Enough of the bleak mid-winter, thought we; let’s explore much warmer Charleston, in South Carolina. Why? Because it’s there, and we’d never been. <br>(Spontaneity is the soul of Fun.) </p>
<p>So, on New Year’s Eve, at 5 a.m. (early starts are best) we cruised along on I-75, an intrigued Bryn perched in back in her bed-nest looking out the window, Joe driving with a story in his ear buds--and I? Well, I wanted only to look at the ever-changing topography. </p>
<p>We’d always wanted to visit Mammoth Cave National Park in south central Kentucky, and now it was mostly on our way to Charleston, so we switched to I-69 at Flint. The north-south freeway was almost empty of vehicles this early, but later in the morning it buzzed with trucks and cars. The landscape- farmland, and winter-bleak forests set off by a light smattering of snow- lined much of either side of it. </p>
<p>We entered Indiana, pausing frequently at rest areas to stretch our legs. Bryn busily sniffed every inch of the dog sections, 95% clean of poop: just the odd ‘oops’ made walking Bryn easy. Poop bags were usually provided. </p>
<p>But in Kentucky, while the rest areas’ buildings were clean and amenity-full, doggy areas were sometimes peppered with doo-doo. Navigating through the piles was a challenge. No poop bags were offered (never mind, we’d brought our own) so owners were simply letting their pets relieve themselves before they shot off again. I had to tiptoe most carefully over the large expanse of fouled, frosted grass. </p>
<p>A little research on the web helped us decide to stop in Cave City, Kentucky, for one night. Hmmm. Either there’d be no room at any inn for us- (most places refuse to accommodate dogs)- or people would be elsewhere celebrating the holiday. So inns, longing for customers, wouldn’t mind including our quiet, non-shedding, car-kinked Bryn. Would they? </p>
<p>A more careful exploration of the internet yielded valuable info: Super 8 motels took dogs! But there was one caveat: pets could weigh no more than 35 pounds. </p>
<p>Uh-oh. </p>
<p>At the next rest stop I dug out 50-pound Bryn’s brush and groomed her coat to a soft puff. If the clerk asked to view her we’d say she was mostly fluff and air- and hope for the best. </p>
<p>Bleary-eyed at dusk from eleven hours on the road we found a Super 8, mostly empty, just outside Cave City. Happily, the sleepy clerk didn’t care if we had a walrus in our car. We paid, took the key, and drove to our ground floor room, toward the back of the motel. It boasted clean double beds, a TV and small toilet with shower. But the tired gray striped carpet, though vacuumed, wanted a thorough shampoo. Ah, well...Bryn was ‘in,’ so we became ceiling gazers. </p>
<p>New Year’s morning we fed Bryn, checked out, repacked our stuff, visited Bob Evans for a side order of bacon and two mugs of coffee and drove to the park (open all year, except Christmas Day) for the 9 a.m. ‘Frozen Niagara’ tour, lasting just over an hour. It is designed for the older set, or people with younger children. This suited us fine, as Joe had recently had a partial knee replacement and wasn’t up to longer tours or rough, very long ascents and descents- yet. He’s tall and slim, and healing fast, so we could always return for the more adventurous tours another time. </p>
<p>Here’s the thing: I’d never seen a cave, never mind a shockingly awesome one, ever. So this would be a fine way to ring in 2016. <br>Happily, there were only about fifteen other people on our tour. (Oh- one thing. You can’t sign up the same day of the tour you want. It must be the day before. We signed up in Indianapolis, at a rest stop, on New Year’s Eve.) </p>
<p>We parked in the almost empty parking lot, settled Bryn in her bed-nest on the car’s back seat, shivered outside while waiting for the Mammoth Cave bus, settled into its warm interior and were delivered, after a ten-minute drive, to an unassuming, almost hidden entrance in the forest. Our ranger unlocked a small, thick, padlocked steel door, installed in the 1920s to protect the interior from vandals- and people who might wander in to explore and never wander out. </p>
<p>We filed in. </p>
<p>The first humans entered this place 4,000 years ago, and have been gasping ever since. The interior is- I grope for the right descriptive adjectives- massive, intricate, and wildly beautiful. Carefully placed lights highlight its muted creamy buff-gold color. Sweeping cavern ‘rooms’ and giant columns- a marriage of stalactites and stalagmites- boast fanciful, fantastic twists and turns. Stalactites, long weirdly formed slim or fat needles, take eons to develop. (Water from rainfall drips down through Kentucky’s permeable limestone, stabilized by sandstone, to gradually form, one grain at a time, the incredible spears. Stalagmites’ much wider bases ‘grow’ up from the floors. When they finally meet the descending, needle-y ‘tites, marvelous columns result.) <br>Misty streams of water, from recent heavy rains, showered down mere feet from us, from enormous heights. <br>In one area it looked as though a giant Salvador Dali-like Niagara Falls had been frozen in mid-tumble. Its countless slim, very tall ‘braided’ columns were beautifully illuminated, and, to me, reminiscent of a gigantic sixteenth century pipe organ. <br>The sight was- Magnificent. <br>I understate. </p>
<p>I have never seen anything remotely like Mammoth Cave. </p>
<p>Some of the passages we traversed were quite narrow, some expansive. Often the walls were damp or wet. We were asked not to touch them, as body oils are alien. At certain higher places the ranger pointed out clumps of green algae, carefully removed by trained volunteers every year. These develop from visitors bringing in microscopic bits of the outdoors, and from our exhalations. <br>It’s such a delicate environment! </p>
<p>There are transparent, eyeless shrimp and fish here that live in and around pristine pools. And there are bats. Lots of bats. (We saw none, however.) </p>
<p>An incredible fact: Over 400 miles of caves have been mapped, to date. Every year experienced cavers squeeze through newly discovered, dangerous cracks and holes, to explore and map what has never been seen before. It is the most complicated cave on the planet, and there seems to be no end to it. </p>
<p>Kentucky sits atop this astounding, unique underworld. Rivers and streams on many levels are slowly, steadily creating more fantastic formations that descend to very great depths, and rival the wonders of the Grand Canyon. Numerous huge sinkholes formed by eroding limestone can be seen from the air that aren’t obvious from the ground- Nature’s hint to the trained eye that something fantastic exists underneath. </p>
<p>Mammoth Cave is a World Heritage site not to be missed. </p>
<p>I don’t think my mouth closed once. </p>
<p>(More next week...)</p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/39694382016-01-03T07:33:37-05:002016-01-03T07:33:37-05:001/03/16: I Had A Dream...<p>My brain’s been saturated by exposure to endless TV and radio politics, hundreds of unwelcome campaign phone calls and lots of candidates who ring my doorbell, which encouraged a weird political dream. <br>It went like this: <br> <br>I (a little old lady who likes dirt and the stuff that grows in it) possess a smattering of hard-earned common sense. So, in the way of dreams, I’ve been randomly pressed into public service by VIPs- (these are desperate times, requiring desperate measures)- mainly because I’ve also mysteriously acquired Extraordinary Power. I can effect huge political changes immediately. With my scrawled signature, all Dee-crees become reality for the United States of America. <br>(Note: I’m allowed just ONE world-sized decree, though. See #8.) <br> <br>Here are a few selections from my list of changes. </p>
<p>Presidential campaigns shall last precisely six months. </p>
<p>Candidates representing a maximum of four parties, who are chosen in state and local elections, will be granted a budget of one hundred million public dollars each- and not one penny more- to map out and present their platforms. All major television news stations, as a public service, will feature the chosen candidates on the first Sunday of every month, for three hours. Voters will dine on the ‘meat’ of their arguments and <br>proposals, presented concisely. (A disinterested third party will pay each candidate’s submitted ‘vote-for-me’ ads, with the money drawn from their fund. (No one has to be wealthy to win.) <br>The American public shall mine for talent and innovative ideas, and listen to- and debate- every debate. <br> <br>2. Those candidates caught in a lie shall be promptly eliminated from the competition. A committee of nine respected people of any profession dedicated to Truth, Honor and the Reasoned Way, will thoroughly check a statement’s veracity, then decide, based on collected verifiable evidence, if lie(s) exist. (Prompt access to solid, reliable data is much easier these days.) The Nine shall be paid well for this service, which lasts the entire six months. Their decisions are final. <br>The threat of elimination will keep political ads honest. <br> <br>3. Elections shall be by popular individual ballots only. No ‘delegates,’ no ‘representatives’ -which have been rendered antique in this technological society, anyway. If a single rotten ballot is discovered (ballots will be randomly reviewed to weed out dead voters and non-citizens from anywhere) then ALL of that particular county’s ballots shall be rendered void. (Losing so many votes because someone tries to sneak in a ringer, will stop the dishonesty. If an idea cannot survive without cheating to promote it, that idea should be chucked out.) <br> <br>4. The President and Congress shall serve six years, with no second term. His/her entire time in office is spent actually running the country, undistracted by fundraising or pandering to his or her base, some of whom funded his/her rise. <br>All presidential decisions and Congressional bills and votes shall be posted weekly for the country to read. <br> <br>5. A Congressional bill shall be simply stated so that every citizen may understand it, then published so that everyone may read what is proposed. <br>No riders- no ‘remora eel’ attachments- are permitted, ever. <br> <br>6. Oh- The very first word learned in school shall be ignorance-a big word (not nearly as big, though, as supercalifragilisticexpialidocious) but one of the most dangerous to ignore. Ignorant people, stuffed with ideology, religious precepts, or just plain pigheadedness, say and do awful, unthinkable things to other living things. Children will learn, for example, that not one single human being has ever been able to choose his or her skin color. So hating people for something they have no control over is the very essence of ignorance. <br>(Bonus: If one learns to reason, and becomes adept at playing ‘devil’s advocate,’ one also cuts down the number of times he/she makes an idiot of him/herself. Thus, the concept of tolerance is born.) <br> <br>Information, gleaned from verifiable facts, shall be carefully taught. Questions are encouraged. When updated data appears, it shall be welcomed. After basic reasoning skills are mastered, there’ll be more time to luxuriate in love, compassion, generosity, fellowship, fun, and the gentle art of accommodation and compromise. <br> <br>7. There will be time for all these things because Wars anywhere will become extremely unlikely. The reason? The sitting president, with his/her staff and Congress right behind him, shall physically lead any war they declare or provoke. <br> <br>*This same Dee-cree shall apply to every world leader- prime ministers, ayatollahs, mullahs, dictators, kings, queens, emperors, etc., including his/her staff and their congress, politbody, rubber stampers or whatever these groups might be called. <br>Leaders. Fight. First. <br> <br>8. The first book read to toddlers will be The Sneetches and Other Stories, by Dr. Seuss. Children will ponder Sylvester McMonkey McBean’s Star-On and Star-Off Machines, and who was what, and why…. <br>The other three stories, Too Many Daves, the Zax, and What Was I Scared Of? are- well, just perfect for helping to sort out life’s vagaries early. <br> <br>9. Everyone shall pay for doctor visits. Cash, checks and credit cards accepted. This is done in hardware stores, clothing shops, food stores, airports, dry cleaners, etc. Just pull out the wallet, and pay for the service. Second, third and forth party government bureaucrats are not allowed to interfere. The price of health care will plummet to sub-basement levels. Comparison-shopping shall blossom. Word will quickly spread as to which physicians, clinics and hospitals excel, and which are dogs. The price of every test, and all medicines, shall be posted. <br> <br>10. Congress shall NOT have a separate, Special Health plan. They shall receive precisely what they mandated for the rest of us. <br> <br>11. Mandatory Catastrophic Health Insurance shall cover any medical disaster. All Americans, except the documented indigent- must purchase this policy. <br>Anyone genuinely needful- people who just can’t pay- will be assisted using a generous federal, state or local government fund set aside to fully cover their medical expenses. <br> <br>12. Lawsuits shall be filed with great care. Frivolous filers will incur a mega-fat fine. If a civil lawsuit goes to trial, the losing side shall pay both bills. Nonsense will stop as wallets become emaciated. <br> <br>13. Elementary schools shall teach reading, mathematics, history, geography, English, logic (critical thinking) and a foreign language. Homework will be rare, because home time shall be reserved for family interactions, for jobs, for play. <br>Parents may drop in anytime to quietly observe their child’s class. Teachers, on the merit system, shall be tested periodically to insure professional competence. Large bonuses will be awarded for teaching excellence, as determined by the learning that is demonstrated. Older children’s’ reasoned, written evaluations of their teachers’ performances at years’ end shall be encouraged. <br> <br>Everything not academic is not required, and shall be offered in afternoons. Schools will have sign-up sheets for sports, music, art, driver training, shop, etc. <br> <br>All I do is sign a special paper...and the above deeclarations become the new reality. <br> <br>As the infant 2016 pops into view, as optimistic and hopeful as ever, I drift off again, perchance to dream of even more improbable profundities- <br> <br>Dreams are still free, eh?</p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/39678832015-12-27T05:02:33-05:002015-12-27T05:02:33-05:0012/27/15: The Loving Season<p>Dear readers: <br><br>Wonderful meals prepared and enjoyed by<br> <br>extended family who are together again,<br> <br>trading lots of laughter during<br> <br>long walks in this exceptionally warm weather:<br> <br>Thoughtful gifts exchanged amid<br> <br>holiday music flavored with happy talk: <br><br>The latest Star Wars movie enjoyed by the whole family, instead of coffee and dessert<br> <br>have left a tired, time-starved, food-stuffed me with just enough energy to offer my heartfelt hope that all of you are enjoying a wonderful celebration, too! <br><br>Season’s Blessings, <br>Dee</p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/39665512015-12-20T04:53:42-05:002015-12-20T04:53:42-05:0012/20/15: Simple Ecstasies<p>The world is chock full of small visual and auditory ecstasies; in my younger days I’d spare them barely a glance. Oh, I missed a lot! <br>These days I’m learning to more fully notice and appreciate life’s ‘candy.’ <br> <br>Animals, too, show wonder and appreciation when exposed to little novelties. <br> <br>Cases in point: <br> <br>My younger daughter Lisa loves her five-ounce, bright yellow budgie, BB Birdie, who loves her right back. <br>This tiny creature is full of curiosity and enjoys novel sounds, games and tastes. <br> <br>One day recently Lisa invited BB onto her forefinger, then walked over to her new upright piano and began to play some middle-register notes. BB flew to her shoulder and watched with intense concentration as Lisa’s hands moved around the keyboard, picking out melodies. When Lisa played the upper register notes, which have pleasant tinkle-y sounds, BB swayed back and forth, chirping with pleasure. She stopped singing when Lisa stopped playing, and, after a polite waiting period, looked at her hard, head cocked. There was a distinct question there. Well?? Why stop? Play, please! Lisa obliged. Once again BB happily sang along with the piano. High notes always got a positive response. Low notes made her squawk and squirm. <br> <br>After a bit Lisa stopped playing to put BB on her finger again and draw her close. Eye-to-eye with the little bird she began to sing a gentle folk song. BB was riveted! She closed her eyes and let the melody pour over her. She was the very picture of bliss! When the song finished she stayed on Lisa’s finger, thinking hard. <br> <br>After a little silence she opened her eyes and cheeped for Lisa to bring her closer. Placing her closed beak gently between Lisa’s lips she opened it wide, making Lisa’s mouth open, too. BB wanted more music to come out of it! Feeling a frisson of awe, Lisa sang another folk melody. BB, still perched on her finger, watched Lisa’s mouth move as she listened. Eventually, birdie and human sang together. (Recent research, by the way, has suggested that humans and birds do share an appreciation of music...) <br> <br>This special time lasted five or six minutes- a long time for a tiny bird to focus so intensely. Exhausted and happy, BB flew to her cage to grab a quick bite to eat before settling down for a nap. <br> <br>Lisa likes to offer BB new tastes (all carefully researched in advance, of course: budgies can eat only certain foods. The wrong veggie- say, an avocado- might make them very ill, or even kill them). BB has learned to relish fresh spinach leaves, a special treat. She’ll eat one delicately, while making smacking, yum-yum sounds, just as we do when we taste something we especially love. (She doesn’t make pleasure-noises when eating her regular diet, but consumes it without comment.) <br> <br>This little scrap of life also loves to play tug-of-war with Lisa, who provides a shiny scrap of candy wrapper featuring a bit of tin foil or glitter. Glitter delights BB. She pulls and tugs, and waits for Lisa to relax her guard just slightly: then, in a blink, the glittery scrap is snatched away. She is so incredibly quick! <br> <br>She’ll dangle it in front of Lisa again and again, loving the game she always wins. <br> <br>A friend’s stallion loves to play in its large pasture with a huge rubber ball. The toy has a special protruding handle the animal can easily grasp. When tossed, the handle’s presence causes the ball to thrump and bingle-bounce oddly when it lands, which adds visual ‘spice.’ Some balls even have a jingle-y bell inside for added intrigue. The tough toy has survived being vigorously kicked and thoroughly stomped. The horse loves to pounce on it as it bumbles to a stop, and then swing it round and round. <br>What fun! Who knew that horses might enjoy doing more than chomping grass in their free time! <br> <br>Fascinating thought: What might a herd of cows do with this ball? <br> <br>I try to create interesting experiences for Bryn. She gets a kick out of ‘find-the-treat-in-the paper towel-roll.’ Once the wedged-in treat is extracted and scarfed down there’s the fun of delicately pealing the long roll apart before finally chewing it to shreds. I got the idea when I noticed that Bryn loves to strip big fallen branches of every scrap of bark. <br> <br>Another game: In the park I’ll wait until she’s distracted by delectable sniffs elsewhere, then dash behind a broad tree trunk to hide. After a bit Bryn will look up to find me gone, and I swear she’ll grin. Nose to the ground she’ll roar around at top speed, to find me at last. She’ll bounce in place, gleeful and triumphant. <br> <br>Joe and I have another park game: I’ll cover Bryn’s eyes with my hands and count slowly to ten in a loud voice- (she’ll stand there, rock-still, but ready to burst-) while Joe hides somewhere. I’ll remove my hands: trembling, she’ll wait until I give the command: “Find Joe!” Off she’ll go, delighted. (At first she’d run higgley-piggley, forgetting to use her nose, but lately she’s remembered to sniff the air to pinpoint his position more quickly.) It’s wonderful to watch her ‘go for the gold.’ <br> <br>She looks up high to watch geese noisily honk their way across the icy winter sky: a sense of puzzlement fills her face. <br>And today, when she walked outside into snow, Bryn had an ecstasy fit! She stood in the middle of snowy Hannah Park, rapt, then ran as fast as she could through it, round and round in huge ovals before finally skidding to a stop next to me, tongue hanging out, eyes sparkling. Then she indulged in multiple luxuriant rolls, working the powdery stuff into every pore. <br>My dog loves snow! <br> <br>I love watching her experience the world’s little delights. </p>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/39623932015-12-13T07:20:12-05:002015-12-13T07:20:12-05:0012/13/15: How to 'Unfriend' Bambi- Maybe<em>I’ve had phone calls recently from readers who’ve asked me how they might prevent deer damage to their properties. Here are some suggestions.</em><br> <br>Deer — a ‘red flag’ word for homeowners. They’ll plant up lovely gardens, only to find that the flowers, or veggies- have vanished down the throats of this four-letter ‘greens’ gourmet.<br>Anguished people wring their hands, grind their teeth, or grope for guns while cussing the midnight marauders’ audacity.<br> <br>They’ve tried dangling bags of soap, spraying obnoxious, expensive potions, spreading hair from the barbershop around the perimeter of their property, buying a pooch, renting a lion, even hiding battery-powered radios (whose blather deer learn to ignore). They’ve experimented with motion-triggered, raucously chuckling gnomes, or setting up motion-triggered sprinklers, which, of course, must be shut down in winter when these sizable animals do the most damage…<br> <br>One desperate fellow even tried peeing his boundaries, which worked fine for a while. But then, fascinated deer decided that urine garnished their salad-y feasts; it’d become part of the a-pee-l. (Only wolves consistently honor this sort of boundary, anyway, which must be constantly refreshed. The task is not fun in a snowstorm, or in sub-zero weather.)<br> <br>Finally, most gardeners give up.<br> <br>Don’t hold your breath here; if I had the perfect solution, I’d be rich. But I can offer some suggestions that beleaguered folks might consider.<br> <br>-Deer need fleet feet to flee: if you roll out cheap chicken wire and lay it flat around the garden area (securely anchored with garden ‘pins’ so you can mow and walk over it- it’s practically invisible-) deer step onto it, then stop in nervous shock. It ‘gives’ slightly, which sends out self-preservation alarms. What if their feet got tangled? They couldn’t run.<br>Loosening it enough to make it ‘billow’ during the winter season is really effective, too. Begin the line about ten feet from the plants you wish to protect. Unnerved by that ‘sinking feeling,’ most deer nervously move on.<br> <br>-Contrary to wailing gardeners’ opinions, fences work. But, you have to do them exactly right. <u>Electric</u> fences deliver, but if they’re unmarked, or scantily wired- one thin line set too low, or too high- deer simply step/jump over it and munch away, unshocked. Research the ways NOT to make an installation mistake.<br> <br>You must <em>flag</em> the electrified line with orange or yellow caution tape that flaps in light breezes; if deer don’t <em>see</em> the boundary they’ll pass though it- before they grasp they’ve been shocked. Then, of course, it’s too late. They’re in.<br>Many people, though, can’t reasonably encircle large areas: besides being impractical, it’s expensive.<br> <br>-Consider staking out and surrounding a flower or veggie garden with a tall, solid wooden fence. Deer need to <em>see</em> over barriers; they hate feeling trapped. Jumping blindly might find them next to a predator.<br>“The expense!” you cry, but just about anyone can dig postholes, and install a ready-made 8-foot high wooden fence. (Watch for bargains: it’s a great time for sales right now.) Cheat a little and raise the fence a foot off the ground for added height — deer won’t kneel to peek in — and add long poles with waving, lightweight ‘flags’ atop them, spaced at intervals. Wind will make the flags move: high winds create ‘snap.’ With all that motion and no way to see inside, deer will likely move on to other, more accessible salad bars.<br> <br>By the way, that open space below the fence, overlaid with partially buried chicken wire, keeps rabbits out, too. Remember: a solid-fence area means your flower or vegetable garden investment- which represents considerable physical work, not to mention decent money spent, will remain safe.<br> <br>-I encouraged one man to buy up and install a used chain-length fence around his garden, and, after removing the pole caps, poke 6-foot vinyl pole ‘extenders’ into each of the hollow, galvanized steel fence poles. (By the way, local fence companies often remove and discard perfectly good chain-link fences when installing wooden ones; let them know you’re interested.)<br>He then attached chicken wire to the extended poles using those plastic tie wraps, to add height, then planted fast growing Boston ivy vines, which took over the fence in summer and turned flaming orange and red in autumn. Tendrils weave in and out of the linkage, and through the added wire. In winter, the vines’ dark-stemmed tracery, which collect snow, actually look quite attractive. Best of all, he’s had no further problems. This vine requires practically no maintenance, by the way. (Well, maybe spraying for Japanese beetles might be necessary in early summer...)<br>It took a week to build, by the way, after his working day was done.<br> <br>-Deer noses keep them alive, so they’ll usually avoid plants that interfere with their ability to sniff out approaching predators. One homeowner, though, reported a deer that didn’t seem to mind his wall of lavender. The beast bounced over the lot to devour the fellow’s shrubs and daylilies. (There are always exceptions…)<br>Others sniffed the lavender and turned away.<br> <br>-Go to <a href="http://www.google.com/">Google</a>, type in ‘deer spray’ and read about ‘Deer Out.’ This product has a pleasant, but powerful mint-y scent, as opposed to ‘Deer Off’ (which smells vile: you won’t visit your own garden). Apparently the first product lasts through rains, but still, you must refresh it regularly. It might work very well for the bushes and evergreens that decorate your home. Do read the many customer comments, though, before you open your wallet.<br>Keeping the area freshened can be time-consuming and costly in the long term.<br> <br>-One solution, having a dog of reasonable size, does offer dramatic results, <em>if</em> you have a fenced in yard. If your pet is allowed to run through it at odd times, including at night, the deer problem vanishes. I found two families in the Upper Peninsula who installed doghouses that stayed warm on freezing nights, as they had a thick straw layer laid atop the wooden floor, and a thick fleece bed on top of that, along with a heavy rubber flap door to keep out wind and snow. When Fido- in this case, a husky- caught the scent of invading deer he gleefully roared out of his doghouse to confront them. There was general panic as every deer fled. Word quickly got around.<br>The homeowners have no more stealthy visitors these days.<br> <br>-You’d be surprised how much helpful information is out there. I found a paperback book, for example, called ‘Deer Proofing Your Yard and Garden,’ by Rhonda Massingham Hart, which offers clear, easy-to-read suggestions, and wonderful drawings, for management of this perennial problem. Check the local bookstores, or order it from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/">Amazon</a>.<br> <br>Don’t give up!<br> Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/39521332015-12-06T07:24:12-05:002015-12-06T07:24:12-05:0012/06/15: Pack Etiquette = A+I got really busy with early morning tasks Friday morning and just plain forgot the time. Bryn should have been dropped off at Happy Tails Doggie Day Care Center some time ago (drop off times there are from 7:30 to 8:45). Now it was almost nine o’clock a.m.<br>RATS!<br>I rang to ask if it was too late to bring her, and Carrie, the dogs’ capable minder, who knew Bryn, told me it was <em>not</em>- if I came right away.<br> <br>I could be there in less than twenty minutes.<br> <br>It’s not a good idea to drop off one’s dog at a day care center late. Every canine will have settled in, having quickly learned who’s game for what game, vetted each other’s strengths and weaknesses thoroughly, and exchanged the morning <em>‘hi, how are ya’</em> stuff as each animal is delivered to the Center and welcomed into the group. Now, straggler Bryn would have to endure an unnerving inspection by sixteen largish, excited dogs <em>all at once</em>, an important ritual that would test her wisdom and nerve.<br>Ashamed of my tardiness, I drove there anyway. She really needed the exercise, and everyone would sort things out quickly, wouldn’t they?<br> <br>Hmmm. I decided to stay for a bit to observe how it went by peering through the hidden window. Dogs do have a complicated language: I love the fascinating challenge of trying to advance enough to understand it.<br> <br>She rejoiced when she saw the building, but upon entering, was suddenly not so gleeful. They’d picked up her scent and were letting her know, from a distance, that they were stronger, bigger, smarter and faster. Happy Tails was top-heavy with hot air and bravado.<br> <br>She went through the first office gate and allowed Carrie to escort her to the play area gate, but then, at the last second, gave a nervous whine and tried to turn back. I hardened my face and pointed. “Go play, Bryn.”<br>Knowing I wouldn’t change my mind, she braced herself and carried on.<br> <br>The pack, made up of sixteen largish dogs that day, met her at the play gate in complete silence, standing very close together, fur to fur. Carrie, human pack leader for the day, gave quiet, firm verbal commands that echoed her body English. <em>Fall back</em>. The big group grudgingly yielded a few tight inches so the gate could be opened. My overwhelmed dog was inserted and surrounded. Carrie entered too; the gate closed.<br> <br>Eighteen months of daily visits to dog parks have taught Bryn the finer points of effectively dealing with situations like this.<br> <br>Here’s what works:<br>-Stand near a wall/fence, so as not to be surrounded.<br>-<em>Stay absolutely still</em>. No tail wagging. Instead,<br>-Hold one’s tail mid-high to exhibit patient acceptance, not timidity or fear.<br>-Allow the pack to thoroughly inspect one’s bottom.<br>-Gaze straight ahead- never into another dog’s eyes- and look mildly bored.<br>-<em>Wait.</em><br> <br>I held my breath. For long, uncomfortable seconds nobody moved. Five dogs’ noses hovered over Bryn’s back. Then, the ritual sniffing began. Crowded in tightly by the pack, relying on her acquired wisdom, she waited it out, statue-still. Sixteen dogs checked every part of her, even nosing inside one floppy ear. There were some low growls as two 100-pounders whispered some empty boasts into that same ear: she didn’t react in any way.<br>Bristling fur gradually flattened to normalcy as the pack’s other biggies lost interest in trying to get a rise out of her and began to look around the room for what new stuff might be fun to check out.<br>Still she waited, motionless.<br> <br>More dogs moved off. When only two stragglers were left, Bryn yawned and took a few lazy steps, pretending to sniff the floor. Not once did she meet a canine’s eye.<br>Close by, Carrie began the ritual of mopping the floor. She’d been monitoring them very closely.<br> <br>Just like that, pack normalcy returned. Bryn moved around the perimeter at a slow, confident trot before finally pooping on the far side. Two big dogs moved straight to her in a casually intimidating manner, sniffed her droppings, and moved on, somewhat deflated, as she ignored them.<br>(Her deposit vanished as Carrie pounced with poobag and mop.)<br> <br>I left, smiling, but not before noticing a nine-month old golden lick Bryn’s nose, inviting her to play. The two began to romp.<br> <br>My dog had behaved splendidly during that intense vetting, lasting nearly 4 minutes. I was proud of her- yet chastened, knowing I’d ‘read her’ right, but done her wrong.<br> <br>I’ll work hard to avoid making the ‘late mistake’ again.<br> Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/39397432015-11-29T05:47:46-05:002015-11-29T05:47:46-05:0011/29/15: Thankful Thoughts11/29/15: Thankful Thoughts<br> <br>What a fine November it’s been! We’ve a lot to be thankful for this year. For example:<br>Joe and I bought our 1870s Saginaw farmhouse in 1978, and raised our children here. The property extends to nearly three acres, and there are tall trees scattered about that add interest and shade. But, for all that time, there’s been no garage. Every awful winter we’ve chipped and chopped and hacked away ice and snow from our cars, and practically frozen to death every time. The money we saved by not indulging went to worthy projects, but still...<br> <br>From now on, Michigan winters will be much easier to bear. We have a brand-new, beautifully constructed wood-frame two-car garage capable of hosting our GMC van and Joe’s car, and it was built in just two weeks for $13,500. The design is dead simple. There are no windows, no insulation- just simple lighting inside, plus one large garage door that can be opened remotely. Construction finished yesterday, in time for the season’s first serious snowfall. Now we can open the big garage door from the living room with our remote control, and then start Joe’s car from inside our home. By the time he leaves for the office it’s warm and toasty. What Luxury!<br> <br>Speaking of comfortable, this bright, freezing Thanksgiving Saturday afternoon I took Bryn for a long after-dinner walk in residential Saginaw, not far from a family member’s home, where we’d gathered to polish off Thanksgiving leftovers and watch the Michigan State-Ohio State football game.<br> <br>She moved erratically along, reading the news at various lampposts, when suddenly we both stopped to gape. Across the street a huge Newfoundland dog moved slowly along the sidewalk, connected to his owner by a stout leash. But he had a peculiar profile that baffled Bryn. <em>That dog looks bumpy, Boss...</em><br>Indeed! Because there, nestled comfortably atop his huge head, sat a tiny marmalade cat. It looked around curiously: then, perhaps noticing our astonishment, sat up and began to clean itself. Each feline leg, stretched way out, was thoroughly licked.<br>Whisker cleaning followed. The huge Newfoundland, unconcerned about the cat’s busy toilet atop his big, furry noggin, continued to amble along. <br>P<em>urrrrr...Time for a more extensive stretch</em>, thought the kitty. She walked down the Newfoundland’s neck to the middle of his broad doggie back and stopped to extend each dainty leg and yawn, while never once losing her balance.<br> <br>We kept up with them from the other side of the street, fascinated by the spectacle. Their owner chuckled. “Little Candy’s always ready for second-hand exercise. She lets Bruno do the work while she enjoys the sights. Who’d object to free tours, anyway?”<br> <br>Finished with its ablutions the little creature wound into a ball again atop Bruno’s fluffy head and settled down to take in the world.<br>Popeyed Bryn had never seen a kitten up close: I was thankful we hadn’t missed this comical delight.<br> <br>Speaking of young, my niece and her husband are expecting their son, who will make his grand entrance in April. The 3-D ultrasound pictures, science’s latest demonstration of how far technology has advanced, are astounding! The little guy, snug in his watery home, is sound asleep. The portraits of him are so vividly clear it seems the child might open his eyes, smile and reach out to us.<br>What a bloomin’ miracle!<br> <br>And now- after twenty-four hours of gloom, rain, wind and cold, the sun is out and blue sky is brightening everything, reminding me that life is more about wonder than woe.<br> Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/39295342015-11-22T07:00:27-05:002015-11-22T07:00:27-05:0011/22/15: Murphy's Law at Work<em>Anything that can go wrong, will.</em><br>Murphy’s Law<br> <br>Bryn and I decided to explore the edge of Saginaw Valley State University’s northern border, where neatly mowed lawn abruptly changed to a forest full of brambles and thick, messy, burr-infested undergrowth. That afternoon a largish pond on the manicured side hosted conversational ducks. Its opaque water reflected ever-changing clouds, dark with snowy promise, moving silently over the leafless landscape. It was lovely. (Unfortunately, though, the wind was gusting to 20-30 knots.)<br>Bryn was not leashed, as she always sticks close to me.<br> <br>Dummy! <em>There <u>is</u> no ‘always</em>.’<br> <br>Joe’s and I had had a close encounter of the third kind with three deer while driving in this very area only one week ago. (Read last week’s column.) Deer were <em>everywhere</em> around here. But did I think through the consequences of leaving Bryn’s leash off? <br>No.<br> <br>Delighted with all the new scents she dashed 40 feet away just once to snatch up a good-sized stick to drop at my feet. <em>Toss it, Boss! </em>As I reached for it she became as stiff as the stick, staring at the tree line about 200 feet away. So I looked there, too.<br> <br>Then, before I could process why she’d alerted, she bolted toward a huge buck who’d noticed her from a distance while grazing and decided to retreat while he could.<br> <br>Too late. Big bounds toward the forest had betrayed his large presence. Bryn flew after him on winged paws: in a blink she and the buck had vanished into the woody undergrowth.<br>Oh, NO! Calling over and over I ripped into the woods, leaping over fallen branches and flapping through brambles, trying to determine which way they’d gone. There were no visual clues; just acres of trees and vegetation dressed in tattered brown.<br> <br>After a bit I stopped crashing through the forest to listen.<br> <br>Silence.<br> <br>Then, a long minute later, a singe white, fleecy Bryn-bounce caught my eye for an instant, about half a mile away.<br>I ran toward the spot, furious with myself for letting this happen.<br> <br>Another unwelcome thought: Some over-eager bow hunter might shoot one- or both- of us... Even as that image flitted past my brain I dismissed it. No way would I back off. <br> <br>Suddenly, faaaar away, a dot of white bounced skyward again, for just an instant. Boing! She was trying to locate the buck over tall, dry weeds and past multiple trees. As I pursued her I discerned a pattern. She’d bounce about 30 yards due east, after which she’d reverse to ‘boing’ directly west for the about the same distance. Each long, roughly rectangular sweep took her further away.<br> <br>This situation couldn’t continue. A rough road lay a mile further north: roads attracted cars.<br>Murphy’s Law was front and center.<br>Idiot!<br> <br>I called repeatedly, but my powerful shouts were enfeebled by the capricious wind. Bryn, no doubt panting as she raced through meadows and woods, would hear nothing.<br>God, she was such a bright target!<br> <br>Finally, my legs like lead, I couldn’t run and leap-hop any more. I stopped, panting, to shout her name over and over.<br> <br>Surely Bryn had to be tiring, too. The buck had effectively hidden, so she’d stop to listen intently and sniff the air. In fact, this might be happening now, because there were no further flash-bounces or weed-bending disturbances out there that I could discern.<br> <br>I called again and again, despairing, and finally a snow-flake-sized white dot bounced <u>in place</u>, waaay off in the distance! Was she trying to pinpoint my voice? Thank heaven for that distinctive coat! Brown fur would have blended in perfectly with the windy, dull brown, tumble-leafed landscape.<br> <br>I waved and yelled... But she’d disappeared again. Oh, Lord! If the buck had taken fright again to seek sanctuary in even more distant wilderness Bryn would certainly follow.<br>And that would be that. She’d be lost.<br> <br>I had to turn back to get the car - if I could remember where 'back' was...<br>Idiot! For want of a leash....<br> <br>Yet, I remained rooted for a long time, calling, calling, hoping, hoping, and finally- I heard- ?Bryn? rustling my way- or was it the buck? I’d settle for either at this point. <br> <br>It was Bryn! Materializing about 100 feet away she paused in a brambly clearing. Her coat was a thick tangle of burrs and a million little sticks. Entwined dried leaves hung from her muzzle to her fringed legs and tail, swaying drunkenly in the wind. Her long, pink tongue hung to one side as she panted, head cocked, trying to assess my mood.<br>Was I angry?<br> <br>I dropped to my knees, called- and she came in a rush, hearing ‘glad.’ Ah, God, she felt <em>so</em> good to hug, even with half the forest wound into her fleece. Worn out, we slowly picked through the rough terrain, reached mowed ground, then the more distant parking lot. Bryn had to stop frequently to snap at her hind legs and rump and probe for burrs embedded in her paws.<br> <br>This misadventure had actually ended well<u>. </u>But I’d had to be thoroughly frightened into resolving to do the reasonable, deer-seasonable thing during future jaunts.<br> <br>A final note: for 37 years we’d debated whether to spend money on a 150-foot length of chain length fence to finish securing our three-acre farm’s treed yard, already 95% encircled.<br>Now that Bryn is part of our family, the fence-sitting ends.<br> <br>Our priority- safety through security- is perfectly clear. <br> Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/39249812015-11-15T07:07:55-05:002015-11-15T07:07:55-05:0011/15/15: Almost...Sometimes a millisecond can make a huge difference in whether lives proceed unscathed, or are wreaked.<br> <br>Joe and I were returning to our old farm home in the rural outskirts of Saginaw from Bay City’s Bark Park. Bryn had happily bounced about for an hour in that popular park, mixing it up with all manner of other leash-less dogs full of energy and mischief. Now we three ambled the twelve miles back, driving well below the 55 mph speed limit along the empty, two-lane Davis Road so we could enjoy the persistent late afternoon colors and fall sun as it peeked between dramatic white and black clouds, which couldn’t decide whether to dump rain or move on.<br> <br>The bumpily paved two-lane throughway loosely defines Saginaw Valley State University’s eastern border. To our left, a few small homes lined the road: behind them vast, crew-cut corn fields sprawled messily over flat ground, their rows of stubble occasionally interrupted by a few lonely-looking maple and pine trees. On the road’s right side another tangle of trees framed a large pond set amid rolling lawns that marked the northern edge of SVSU’s campus.<br> <br>Suddenly, out of nowhere, a very large, fully-grown doe bounded past the car’s bonnet and rocketed toward the campus’s wilder area. Stunned, I didn’t think to telegraph ‘stop’ to my foot, so the car carried on at a steady 35 mph. Then, right behind her, <em>another</em> large deer leaped past, so close I was sure we were done. Our bodies instinctively jerked back in our seats as a <em>third</em> doe followed the first two, shooting us a terrified glance as she chased after the others. We actually <em>felt</em> her brush the car’s bonnet. Had I driven one millisecond faster and all of us would have ended up in a tangle of bodies and smashed glass.<br>Unsecured in the back seat, wide-eyed Bryn would probably have sailed through the shattered windscreen.<br>“Almost...” my husband breathed, shakily.<br> <br>(Our epitaphs might have been: <em>Died From Deer While Watching For Potholes</em>)<br> <br>A day later, back in Traverse City, I had to run to the pharmacy just after 8 pm. A cold, persistent rain and wind were working hard to sever lingering leaves from tree branches. I braked at the barely visible stop sign, looked both ways and moved ahead slowly, noting that the dark, wet pavement and streetlight had all but absorbed the car’s headlights. There was no moon.<br> <br>Suddenly two small boys, maybe 8 years old, darted between two parked cars to run straight across the leaf-heaped street, directly in front of my approaching car. They had no idea I was there! Horrified, I braked: the car’s leaf-coated wheels skidded slightly as they skated over more layers of leaves before fully stopping. Rolling down the window I tried to spot the children, but they’d vanished. After collecting my wits I got out to inspect the brick street in the cold, wet drizzle, just to be absolutely sure...<br> <br>WHY would such young children, who wore no raingear, be out so late in this abominable weather? Mere inches had stood between my two-ton black car and them. If I’d been moving just a little faster...<br> <br>“ ‘Occurrences like these<br>Tend to happen in threes’ ” my Uncle Milton used to intone, thoughtfully. It was a favorite quote of his.<br> <br>Maybe.<br> <br>I didn’t drive the next day, a little superstitious, I suppose.<br> <br>‘Almost’ seems such a fragile word...<br> <br> Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/39190922015-11-08T07:17:02-05:002015-11-08T07:17:02-05:0011/08/15: Different MonstersDogs express their feelings and opinions in unmistakable ways. Bryn startles us often when she ‘talks.’ If she needs something she’ll gently bump my arm with her nose. I mentally go down the list of five possiblilities:<br>Water? No.<br>Food? No.<br>A cuddle? Nope.<br>Bedtime? No.<br>Time for the park? Yes!<br>Bryn has developed an impressive internal clock. She knows when things should happen.<br> <br>Yesterday we visited the Bay City dog park on a blustery, cloudy late afternoon and found nobody there. She drooped slightly, but was philosophical. We’d wait a decent length of time; a dog or three would usually appear. But 20 minutes later, as we shivered from the sudden drop in temperature, there were still no comers. So, after burning off frustration and disappointment with a rocket-fast run around the generous park she trotted to my feet, touched my arm with her nose, gave a doggy sigh and glanced over her shoulder to the gate and then to the car. <em>Let’s go, Boss. No balls. No dogs. No fun. </em><br>I agreed, and said so. Then, as we began to walk out, she stiffened. Her nose grew 10 inches as it caught a mega-whiff of something- alien.<br>There, on the other side of the fence, about a hundred feet away, two monster-sized ‘dogs’ appeared: they were so enormous that people were sitting on top of them! Bryn was shocked down to her paws. Never in her life had she beheld horses. She spronged gazelle-like to the fence, barking and tossing me shocked glances. Switching to a howl-bay she bounced backward, then spronged forward, her body stiff as a stick, radiating ALARM!<em> Big dogs!!!! There!!!</em><br> <br>I realized that horses were boarded in the big fairgrounds barn way back there. Their owners had saddled up for a fall ride through the extended park area. Now their mounts moved at a walk through the lovely treed neighborhood.<br>Chuckling, I told her that everything was fine. Incredulous, she carried on barking: I hadn’t understood! I stopped her racket with a firm command: “Quiet!” and we carried on through the dog park gates to the car. She moved slowly, trying to keep the monsters in sight, baffled by my passivity.<br> <br>She hopped into the back seat with a sigh. I put the car in gear and began to back out- when a big truck pulled into the parking space next to ours. She peered into its cab- and saw a decent-sized dog! Oh, Boy!<br>But then, remembering, she threw up her head and let out a long wail in a<br>disbelieving tone that moved from high to low- very different from a howl. That lament eloquently expressed her dismay that we were leaving as they were arriving!<br> <br>I sighed, thought about it, and drove back to re-park. Thrilled, she licked my neck. <em>Thanks, Boss!</em> She roared through the gate again, monsters forgotten: here was a dog to play with!<br>But twenty minutes later two more horses strolled by. Shocked again, she sounded the alarm! The husky took absolutely no notice. Baffled, she stood stiffly at the fence to <em>study</em> the beasts. Bryn is an interesting dog; she thinks hard about novel situations with every fibre of her being. These creatures were BIG. Yet, <em>two</em> humans seemed unconcerned. How impossibly <em>odd.</em><br>She yipped and twitched all night, reliving the sight of them.<br> <br>Sometimes monster memories are awful. A short-haired, bony mutt with an appealing face, weighing perhaps 40 pounds, was slowly led, half crouching, into the park by her owner in midsummer. Released from her lead she tucked in her bent tail and went straight to the chained length fence corner to stand. It offered protection on two sides from possible attack. When approached by curious canines she put her head down between her front paws to appear as unthreatening as possible- and waited. They sniffed and snuffled around her, baffled by her extreme withdrawal, before finally wandering off to play. She reacted the same way to two more canine visits- resigned.<br> <br>Her owner, Melanie, explained that her dog had been thoroughly traumatized by a previous owner, and was scheduled for the termination needle when she was rescued because she wouldn’t respond to anyone. “I call her Sandy. She took forever to dare to explore the house, and I’ve learned that she hates the sight of golf clubs and vacuums. But now she’ll take her meals from my hand, and allow me to lead her outside, without crying, to do her business. Every night she relives her past. I’ve set her bed where the walls meet, to offer more security. <br>Ah, would you mind patting her for a while? She needs to trust humans...”<br> <br>The news spread. Other owners approached her gently too, and some even slipped her a treat, which she accepted nervously, after much coaxing, without meeting their eyes.<br> <br>Two months passed. Bryn and I came to the park one September day to see Sandy following behind her mistress. Her tail rose slightly when she saw Bryn; she didn’t bolt to the fence corner. “Sandy is definitely more confident,” Melanie said, proudly. “She tolerates loud noises, eats from her bowl instead of my hand, and greets neighbors- from a safe distance- with one wag. Definitely progress!”<br> <br>Bryn nosed her flank, and Sandy broke away to nose Bryn. (Yay!) She looked up at Melanie, who said, “Good girl! Go play, Sandy...” Bryn galloped off, and Sandy followed for at least 20 feet before sitting in the grass to watch Bryn dash around. “Wow,” Mel exclaimed. “Sandy’s rarely that far away from me!”<br>We continued to chat, and about three minutes later Sandy loped off to poo without asking permission. “This is a first, too,” she grinned. “I bet she’ll progress much faster from now on.”<br> <br>And she did. We saw her again a week later, running around the park’s perimeter with a hank of rope in her mouth. Bryn took off after her and the two ran flat out.<br> <br>Sandy had certainly filled out nicely. “Yeah, she’s gained ten pounds. I can move her bed anywhere in the house now. She cleans her bowl twice a day. Sometimes she’ll remove the first kibble to drop at my feet: it’s a gift. Then she’ll eat the rest with gusto. And I bought her a cloth monkey that she takes to bed every night. Having her monkey close has caused the nightmares to taper off. Now she usually chases squirrels in her sleep. The sound of excited yipping is sure different from the whimpers and cries I used to hear.”<br> <br>We watched that sleek, healthy, crooked-tailed mutt, tongue lolling, eyes bright and full of mischief, paws barely touching the ground as she shot past us with Bryn close behind, and grinned. No doubt about it- this Sandy was dandy!<br> Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/39065252015-11-01T07:34:33-05:002015-11-01T07:34:33-05:0011/01/15: Notes of a Bryn WatcherMaybe I should have named Bryn ‘Ghost,’ because she moves from here to there in the house in total silence. I’ll frequently call for her, only to find her sitting inches from my leg. It’s startling!<br> <br>She never ‘speaks’ inside, and rarely outside. Her tail might wag once or twice when she and I communicate. But, watching me carefully, her head cocks sharply as she plucks out a familiar word from the river of sound that is my conversation with her. I tell her, “Bryn, you’ll be at Happy Tails today to play, as this rain means no dog park visit,” then wait about three seconds to watch her process the information. When she gets to the ‘Happy Tails’ part her head cocks and her eyes widen in a subtle expression of delight.<br>(Bryn loves Sam and Joan Jones’s Happy Tails Doggie Day Care in Traverse City. She visits it every two weeks or so, for a day. I use that time to clean the house, scrub her eating area, iron and grocery shop.)<br> <br>She is a quiet, thoughtful dog, fond of studying her environment before moving along. The most striking demonstration of this behavior happens when we go outside every morning between 5 and 6 a.m. for her constitutional. Once outside she’ll move to the top of the steps to stand dead still. Moving only her eyes she’ll peer into the deep dark, working a pattern I’ve learned to predict very well as I sit on the top step to wait.<br>At first, she’ll gaze straight ahead for a general look-around: Three minutes might pass.<br>Then her head will rotate very slowly left... then right...in a meticulous scan that might take 4-5 minutes.<br>She’ll search the sky.<br>15 seconds will pass.<br>Finally, still standing, she’ll slowly stretch her neck to peer below the top step to the ground. Another minute or so will drift by.<br> <br>Still as stone in the deep dark, leash-connected, I’ll watch her busy eyes and nose and note her minute body signals. When an anomaly –say, a rabbit’s movement across the street- is detected, her tail will rise <em>ever</em> so slightly as ears slide forward, and haunches and claws tighten. She might sl-ow-ly raise a paw up to full point.<br>During her scan-time I’ll look <em>only</em> at her. It took me days to discern and appreciate these microscopic postural changes.<br> <br>Finally, long minutes later, she’ll glance up at me, signaling ‘done.’ Only then do we move at a reasonable speed down the five big steps to begin our rambling, interesting walk.<br> <br>This behavior is an integral part of who Bryn is. When we first brought her home she stared at the intimidating back stairs- her first encounter with steps. With our encouragement she awkwardly hopped/climbed them, then looked back to savor her accomplishment.<br> <br>She entered the house, only to stop and sit just inside the door (in that awkward puppy way, back legs splayed out) to simply <em>look</em>. Her busy nose, ears and eyes absorbed the myriad of alien scents, sounds and sights. She looked <em>everywhere.</em> Even up. The ceiling fan turned slowly. She peered up at it, fascinated. She studied the wooden floor. She’d experienced only tile and cement at her birthplace at Acme Creek Kennels. (Carol Finch, the personable owner who has bred labradoodles there for many years, commented that Bryn- or Spot, as they’d dubbed this curious pup, was very bright- and rather thoughtful. Oh, was she right!)<br>Joe and I had the good sense to chat quietly while watching our puppy sort out her new world.<br>It took nearly 30 minutes!<br>She was just 14 weeks old. We thought it astonishing that such a young dog could sit there for so long, just looking.<br> <br>Bryn watches us carefully so as not to miss a possible invitation, order, request or comment directed at her. She loves being scratched and smoothed, and never resists being bathed, towel-dried, blown dry and then brushed out by yours truly. I love doing it. She walks into the shower to stand quietly while I scrub her clean. I always tell her where I’m going next- “Now your <em>tail</em>, Brynny- What a fine tail...” so now she knows the word ‘tail’- and ‘chin.’ She’ll raise her chin when I ask, so I can shampoo that grubby place. She’d been taught almost from birth to accept this sort of handling by the Acme Creek staff, and to consider baths a pleasant experience. She won’t shake herself until released to do so, once I’ve towel-dried her as best I can.<br> <br>Bryn has shocked me, too.<br>The first time she showed alarm and fright/rage was at the Garfield Township dog park. She was happily being pursued or pursuing her friends round and about- when she abruptly left the group to turn slowly toward the fence. She stopped. Her 50-pound body stiffened and hunched. Legs spread and anchored, she lowered her head. Her fangs gleamed. Then, she <em>roared</em> at the man leaning against it from the outside- roared at him over and over. He remained unnaturally still, ignoring her fury and fright, and continued to stare at the people inside without blinking (there were kids playing catch, and dog minders chatting and laughing-) for a <em>very</em> long time. Long enough to catch the attention of all of us.<br>Everyone was baffled by my dog’s focused rage.<br> <br>A lady beside me commented: “Bryn’s gone nuts! But there <em>is</em> something –‘off’ -about that guy...What’s he staring at so intensely? Why doesn’t he move, even a little?” I muttered about his total lack of reaction to the alarm Bryn was raising: she kept charging toward him over and over, only to stop dead ten feet away from the fence and spring<em> backwards</em> with a huge bounce- as though threatened by a snake.<br>Finally I called her to me. It took a while, as she didn’t want to turn her back to him. When she finally sat at my feet, she whined.<br> <br>A few minutes later the man finally walked slowly away toward the distant road without once looking back. Bryn drooped then and wanted to go home, so we did. During the drive she couldn’t settle.<br>I thought the whole episode was exceptionally peculiar.<br>None of the other dogs showed any alarm, by the way. In fact, they ignored that man and my beast.<br> <br>She continues to intrigue and delight us. I found her following a big moth’s flight path as it fluttered erratically just outside the big kitchen window. The insect’s quirky loops caused some hilarious head motions as she tracked its movements.<br> <br>She found a very large, dead crow lying on its back in the neighbor’s lawn early one morning, wings folded neatly on each side of its sleek body as though it were sleeping. Such an oddly formal presentation! She sniffed the beautiful bird, sat, pondered, and would have stayed there if I’d allowed it.<br> <br>Bryn helps my husband and me to see our smaller world more clearly. She appreciates bugs and flies, and tracked-in autumn leaves on carpet, which are carefully inspected, and then thoughtfully mouthed. She likes their dry crunch. With a mischievous look she’ll delicately strip one fat maple leaf down to its long stem.<br> <br>Leashing her has become less necessary these days. Bryn, Joe and I are linked by respect, love and trust.<br>It’s a powerful bond.<br> Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/39044452015-10-25T03:54:06-04:002015-10-25T03:54:06-04:0010/25/15: Winterish ThoughtsO.K. Winter’s in the wings, so my helper, Christopher, and I completed final garden tasks.<br> <br>My many massive hostas looked tattered; I cut them right down to the dirt. My big serrated kitchen bread knife made the job <em>so</em> fast and easy.<br>Every year I marvel at how much territory these splendid plants occupied. Now the large, empty spaces are shocking.<br> <br>We moved quickly on to the 100 or so huge ostrich ferns and their tattered green fronds. A sharp tug separated broken stems from thick rhizome crowns, which protruded baldly above the soil, like lumpy brown molehills. (Their tall, dark chocolate-colored fertile fronds will remain upright all winter and then release their spores in spring.)<br> <br>Roses along the front fence are still blooming! I’ll cut them back, but not until a hard frost. Dormant then, they won’t notice a thing. (If I did it now they’d wake from their drowsiness and spend their waning energy to grow more buds, weakening themselves, instead of settling down to sleep.)<br> <br>I miss the gaily-colored front walk marigolds: nothing daunts them. With sun, food and occasional drinks these beauties bloom vigorously, pest and disease-free, for months.<br>Ditto for the still lovely annual geraniums. Those huge, glowing blooms just keep coming, but they were tossed, protesting, into the wheelbarrow anyway, for the same reason.<br>(I can’t bring myself to tear out the annual geraniums and petunias in the big stone planter on the front lawn yet. They’re so beautiful! Let them have another week...)<br> <br>I stifled the urge to strangle the irritating spiderwort and instead dug most of it gone. During every growing season it rapidly makes more ‘worts,’ crowding out helpless neighbors – but darn it, those ball-sy blue flowers are so attractive!<br>(Patrol it to control it, girl!)<br> <br>The spent sweet autumn clematis’s 40-foot long, stray tendrils drape disconsolately over the alley fence, and twine around the chocolate eupatorium, which is in full bloom now. Snow enhances clematis’s complicated skeletal vines in deep winter. In early spring I’ll chop each one almost to the ground. Two weeks later their annual massive growth toward perfumed glory will happen...<br> <br>Siberian and variegated iris and the last remaining daylily leaves were trimmed very short. Withered lily stalks were cut to within two inches of the earth; their remaining ‘handles’ mark their location. The last Shasta daisy has faded to black; stems were cut to basal leaves.<br> <br>But right this minute my favorite flower, the ubiquitous feverfew daisy, is blooming everywhere, as fresh now as it was in spring. <u>Nothing</u> bothers it! This single tough-as-nails plant wins my personal gold medal for beauty and persistence. It scatters itself here and there, and looks perfect practically forever.<br>“Why grow that weed?” people ask as they look down on its hundreds of beautiful flowers. My answer: “Because I simply love it.” I occasionally trim away old blooms and tired, too-long stem-stalks, leaving a low, compact bundle of green. In a few days fresh, tiny new daisies appear. These keep going ‘til snow does a good dump, which prompts it to pause, and settle down to wait... And wait...<br>Over seven months later, in spring, it blooms again.<br>Feverfew chooses where it wants to be, and I almost always agree. (It’s dead simple to remove if it grows somewhere that offends. Simply grab it and pull.)<br> <br>The winter garden, with its clean, spare look, emerges. Giant, red/gold plumed miscanthus grasses and the huge yellow pyramidal chamaecyparis shrub now co-anchor the main secret garden. Boston ivy’s leaves, which smother the North Gate roof and walls, are showing off gorgeous red, orange, gold and brown colors as the vines move toward winter nakedness. Bright red berries shine on the holly bushes and crabapple tree; the fothergilla’s colorful orange foliage gleams at twilight. I feel like applauding this color show as I sit in the gazebo sipping hot apple cider.<br> <br>Finally, after a hard frost, each tree trunk is wrapped to guard against starving rodents’ sharp incisors. In other cruel winters they’d gnawed the bark of some lovely young tree and shrub trunks, killing them because I’d forgotten to do this last task.<br> <br>The drained, main garden fountain has been covered in a huge green Christmas tree-shaped tarp. We’ve hung tiny colorful lights all over the structure. Even snow-glazed, they’ll twinkle all winter.<br> <br>The trees are gradually going bare as autumn noisily passes wind. Raking away the mountain of tulip tree leaves will be a miserable task, as it drops them very late.<br> <br>A few days ago the sky turned black: sleet fell in the dog park, making every human shiver and slink away. But I’m not depressed. Bryn-dog will make the new season much more fun! Until the first snow we’ll bike the lovely paved TART trail that winds along the Boardman Lake, then enjoy walking through our winter world. Finally, we’ll flop in front of the fire to gnaw bones, read books and listen to good music. And just maybe we’ll camp out overnight in the gazebo! (Its screened windows will be lined with Plexiglas, so we can do this.)<br> <br>Winter has another, less obvious benefit: even with my new, easier-to-manage abbreviated garden, I welcome the rest. <br> Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/39023162015-10-18T06:44:03-04:002015-10-18T06:44:03-04:0010/18/15: A Different Kind of FarmOne of Joe’s big motorcycles needed a part to prevent the slow drip-drip of fuel, so he maneuvered it into our slim motorcycle trailer at the Saginaw farmhouse where we’d raised our children. He wanted me to come with him to a home just outside Decker, a little town in Michigan’s thumb area.<br>“Up for a possible adventure?” he asked, with a grin. “Besides being a nice drive, Bryn will enjoy ‘reading the news’ in interesting little parks and laybys. And after we pick up the bike, Shawn, my fix-it guy, wants to show us a really different farm not far away from his place. He says we shouldn’t miss it.”<br> <br>So, on a lovely, cool Sunday we drove for an hour into mid-Michigan’s agricultural area. This dead flat, fertile farmland seems to extend forever in every direction. Big trees still dressed in green offer shade to little towns as September dwindled down to a few precious days. After two Bryn ‘stop-n-sniffs’ at rest areas- and two homemade ice cream cones from one little village shop we finally arrived at Shawn’s tree-lined home, deep in the countryside.<br> <br>Motorcycle guys come in all shapes and sizes. Shawn was around 40, wiry and bearded, slim and strong. He kept his work area and the lawn around his garage tidy. (I’ve seen motorcycle shops crammed with clutter: it’d difficult to navigate around heaps of empty, rusting oil cans, old pop bottles and oil stains greasily blanketing ancient garage floors that support exhausted, half-ruined bikes and their dead mufflers. These messy mazes are often patrolled by secretive cats who expertly wind their way through the tangled metal jungle, hunting rodents.<br> <br>Not so here. Shawn’s tidy, treed lot held repaired motorcycles neatly parked on his lawn, waiting for their owners. The garage was orderly. Empty soda cans nestled in bins. His attractive little home, tucked into a nearby stand of trees, had colorful toy wagons and trikes scattered around the front door. “The wife and kids are off visiting family for the day,” he volunteered. Shawn was friendly and clearly took pride in his work. “I want to show you my friend’s motorcycle museum; it’s not far from here,” he said. “You up for it?”<br>Oh, yeah!<br> <br>The two men loaded Joe’s big motorcycle into the trailer; then Shawn flowed effortlessly onto his big black Harley and pulled out of the driveway. We followed in our car. About six miles later he led us up a very attractive farm’s long driveway. A big, white, well-kept clapboard two-story home sat atop a small hill to our left. There were a couple of large barns further away on our right, that looked to be in good shape.<br>Shawn introduced us to Sam, a tall, contented guy, long retired, who was delighted by our interest in his hobby.<br> <br>Suddenly, after exiting our car we beheld a rare jewel! There, on the driveway’s verge, sat a beautiful little Honda motorcycle and sidecar, both painted a luscious royal blue with just a touch of red trim, meticulously brought back to life by Sam. He’d rescued their pathetic skeletons from a junkyard years ago. Now both glowed with life. We started it; the engine purred. What a <em>beauty!</em><br>“Would you sell it?” we asked, for form’s sake: I knew he’d never let it go.<br> <br>“No way: this bike is practically family. I’ve spent five years rebuilding it, and want to savor the accomplishment for a while. Glad you appreciate it, though.<br> <br>“There are a dozen more vintage Honda motorcycles in that building; it’s a sort of museum, which also holds my office.” He gestured to a structure behind him.<br> <br>Turns out Sam had been a Honda dealer for nearly a quarter century, and when that franchise filed for bankruptcy he bought it, and all the bikes, too. That decision launched the rest of his life.<br>We walked into the middle of a long, narrow room lined with twelve vintage motorcycles, six on a side, extending the length of the room. These were well-kept vintage machines, mostly Hondas, with an occasional unrestored, rustier specimen tossed in for contrast. Most were at least 60 years old, and possessed their original paint. They were compact, basic machines, and all of them ran. There was even one pink one, meant for some lucky woman.<br> <br>He’d saved Honda signs, wonderful old posters of movie stars riding these bikes, and even stoplights from that era, too. It was like time traveling, for me. Then, in an adjoining barn we were shocked to see 150 more motorcycles from previous decades that awaited his expert hand. Most needed normal parts, like brakes, or new leather seats. They weren’t desperate bikes. Not like the almost-vanished one outside with the sidecar, which was so extremely beautiful now.<br> <br>Seeing our enthusiasm Sam grinned and said, shyly- “You two may want to see something else.” He led us outside to a<em>nother</em> huge barn and opened its big doors. We gasped! There had to be over three hundred vintage Honda motorcycles, not working, representing every decade, neatly lined up- including on the entire second floor. It was an astounding sight! We wandered through the huge structure in disbelief.<br>He knew every one, and was slowly working through the massive collection, restoring, polishing, making each whole again. Occasionally he’d sell one at his exasperated wife’s urging. (“If something happened to you, what would we do with all this?”) But he found it hard to part with even one.<br> <br>Finally, we were led outside to a big golf cart.<br>“Lets take a ride,” suggested Sam. “There’s one other area I’d like to show you.” We left Bryn in our car and hopped on. The cart made almost no sound as it moved.<br> <br>The huge farm was very beautiful in the late afternoon light. We passed two strapping young men forking great masses of hay into a wagon hitched to two large chestnut horses. Sam and they exchanged cheerful greetings as they worked, two sons of a large Amish family who’d been renting much of his rich, fertile land for many years to raise their crops.<br> <br>We carried on, riding through a very wide, mowed grass path, accompanied by his ancient Labrador retriever, who barked and spun around in dizzying circles right in front of the cart, while constantly attacking the wheels. Sam just laughed as we kept going at a decent clip. “I don’t why the old boy gets such a kick out of doing that..,” <br>It was frankly nerve-racking. One slip and the dog could be toast...<br> <br>Suddenly, we came upon <em>hundreds</em> of ravaged, skeletal motorcycles lined up in neat corridors in the middle of that huge field. “I use these bikes for parts,” he said. “One guy bought thirty ‘skellies’ from this graveyard to use for the same thing- parts. My wife was so happy! Even after that sale, though, there are still about 300 resting out here. This is the first year I haven’t cut the grass like I should, so that’s why the area looks a little rough right now. But I know what’s here. They’re absolutely essential to my restoration work.”<br> <br>Unlike the ones in the barn, these were missing frames, handlebars, seats, shocks, special nuts and bolts, cylinders, fenders- you name it. This was a <em>useful</em> graveyard.<br> <br>Sam owns well over 600 motorcycles. He wakes up every morning a truly happy man who loves his machines, loves to resurrect them, race them, show them, be around them. Though in his seventies, he looked years younger. His nearly unlined face lit up as he surveyed his life’s work. “I’m vintage; these motorcycles are, too. You might call them orphans who’ve found a home here. Every single one has a story.”<br> <br>Finally, when we hopped out of the golf cart, he offered me a perfect Honey Crisp apple, part of a basket full that he’d picked just before we arrived. (Believe it or not, this horticulturist hadn’t even noticed noticed the well-tended apple orchard next to his office, whose sturdy branches groaned with sun-ripe apples that had never known spray. I’d been that overwhelmed by the beautiful sidecar bike.)<br> <br>It was absolutely delicious, the perfect finale to an astonishing afternoon exploring one man’s enduring passion, played out on a very different sort of farm.<br> Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/38921722015-10-10T22:51:22-04:002017-01-11T09:52:03-05:0010/11/15: A Successful Long Term Investment<span class="font_large">From time to time I’ve come across stunning, unusual biennial flowers that are not difficult to cultivate. One beauty, Lunaria, deserves special notice. A bird deposited the first seed years ago; I was still building the garden and didn’t notice the little plant establishing itself until a visitor exclaimed, “Oh! You have baby silver dollars growing here!”<br> <br>Lunaria, perhaps better known by its common names- 'silver dollar’ or ‘honesty’ plant, blooms every two years. What a delight to watch the flowers mature into moonlight-pale coins of delicate fragility and web-thin beauty!<br> <br>Growing ‘money’ is easy. Buy the seeds and scatter them atop the soil. They will happily dig in. A nondescript stem produces broad, toothed green leaves easily mistaken for weeds by an inattentive gardener. The three-foot tall plant’s rich purple flowers earn the most interest from visitors. In alternate springs that vivid color adds a zing to the garden when it’s most needed. Curiously, no bugs or disease seem to bother it. A little sun and a lick of rain will nudge the seedpods into developing into the signature moonlight-white discs, protected on both sides by wafer-thin, dirty gray protective covers. Everything is supported by slim, delicate branches. Finally, when the discs have mostly evolved to white, one should very gently massage each one, using thumb and forefinger, until the semi-transparent gray covers on either side fall away. Freeing each one takes time, but the reward is worth it. (Florists prize this hard-to-get beauty, but it’s tricky to include in arrangements due to its extreme fragility.<br> <br>It’s easy to lose the plant to excessive wind and rain, or to a neighboring plant that grows too large and crowds it, thus snagging the fragile branches, which often snap. It seems happiest when offered a bit of space, some sun, water and decent soil, and then left untouched for months. Most visitors to my garden have been very respectful.<br> <br>And yet…some years ago in late September, I stood by the kitchen window watching in amazement as a dark-haired, thirty-something woman standing near the alley gate next to them glanced around to make sure she was the only visitor before bending down to expertly pull out Lunaria and cut its branches into fat bouquets. (Had I not paused to glance outside I’d never have known when or how this treasure had vanished.) She checked the area again, and jumped when saw me glaring at her. Caught! Dropping the gathered flowers she moved quickly toward the alley gate and, in a blink, was gone. I ran out and gently gathered up the tossed beauties. Some drooped, disconsolate: their delicate supporting branches had snapped. But the rest were salvageable.<br> <br>It was nearly time to harvest them anyway, though some darker discs had needed perhaps another week to develop.<br> <br>Why would she do such a thing? Maybe all that beautiful money lying around had triggered her worst instincts.<br> <br>I placed the lot in an old silver-plate urn I’d polished earlier just to hold this harvest. The rough bouquet brightened the dining room table.<br> <br>By the way, ‘arranging’ is impossible. It’s too easy to snag and sever the dry, slim branches that carry the discs. One’s touch must be light-as-air. Accept that the bunch you have casually, carefully collected is the bunch you get. No fussing allowed.<br> <br>Now, twelve years later, my lovely Lunaria still shines in that urn in its place of honor. Only one piece of silver has ever dropped off.<br> <br>May this investment grace our table for many more years!</span>
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</div></div>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/38818452015-10-04T07:03:06-04:002015-10-04T07:03:06-04:0010/04/15: Madly EfficientUnexpected adventures can surprise and dismay me at times: an unpleasant one happened Thursday. There I was, on a lovely autumn morning, sipping the last of my coffee and looking up zonal geraniums’ various colors so I could place a spring order with the Friendly Garden Club- when my Apple Mac computer went nuts! A sea of orange squares smothered the geranium info. The screen blinked nervously as vivid orange boxes stacked up, each one shouting out this and that order.<br>Good Lord! I was being hacked!<br>It print-shrieked that I must ring the number in that orange box over there, right now, so white-hatted invisible elves could put things right. <br>Yeah, right.<br> <br>Here’s the thing:<br>I was definitely born yesterday, but with a decent brain. I would <em>not</em> revert to being a shocked old lady who just wanted this plague to go away, please... No way would I ring that number.<br>It would inject poison into my Apple.<br>Hackers would cheerfully take all my information, and <em>then</em>....<br>Be afraid of ‘then.’ (Imagine a spider that bites its victim, injects venom to liquefy everything, and then drains its prey until it’s a dry husk...)<br> <br>Fine, I thought. I’ll simply log off the net, wait a bit, log back on and continue with my geranium research...<br>Uh-huh.<br>I was clueless about these invaders’ persistence. <br> <br><em>I</em> wasn’t in charge. I couldn’t erase, move around, log off or even <em>switch </em>off the computer in the usual way.<br>I also couldn’t think straight, because commands to do this and that RIGHT NOW were flashing at me from those shifting Halloween-orange boxes.<br> <br>There was only one certain way: a forced shutdown. The malware hung on grimly as I held down the power button. Finally, though, a calming blackness enveloped the screen.<br>The monster was contained.<br> <br>(This sort of invasion is happening to businesses, too. The news is full of stories like this one. Our story.<br>About two years ago my husband’s medical office began its day. The receptionist/nurse opened the office’s IBM computer, only to find that every single medical file- all the info about Joe’s patients- had been encrypted. It’s called ‘ransomware,’ because if he wanted the files back he had to pay a substantial ransom. If he didn’t pay immediately they would remain permanently encrypted. <br> <br>Every medical test, including visuals, performed in the office, every pertinent observation, everything he’d entered into the computer- would be forever lost to him.<br>The first reaction: Quick!! Find someone to fix it!!<br> <br>The horrible reality: There is no fix.<br>The only way to get them back was to pay the ransom- and hope.<br> <br>(How’d they worm their way in? Well, beginning in about 2011, the federal government forced all physicians to change forever how they keep medical records. On pain of being paid substantially less from Medicare, and then heavily fined, all doctors had to install an operating system directly connected to the federal government.<br>Every patient’s private information in this country is now an open book to the Feds. And to hackers.<br> <br>Joe wouldn’t give up his practice. He couldn’t afford to pay substantial health care fines every year. So, he <em>had</em> to comply. It was a painful, frustrating, exasperating, often unpalatable switch that took over a year. But he wasn’t entirely subservient or helpless. Despite advice from the computer gurus (‘the whole point, you see, is to eliminate paper files’) he elected to maintain his detailed paper files. Staff also backs up the office computer every evening.<br> <br>Joe refused to pay the ransom. The hackers shrugged, left his medical records permanently encrypted (forever inaccessible) and moved on to other victims.<br> <br>Joe dumped the compromised IBM computers, bought Apples, installed our backed up files, and carried on. Only two days of information were lost. He set that right, too, by retracing, then re-entering important data taken from his detailed paper files.<br> <br>Thinking well ahead had saved the situation. Still, the inconvenience, lost time and considerable extra costs were upsetting...)<br> <br>Now <em>mine</em> was compromised. I was really angry.<br>But there <em>might </em>be a way to get my computer back in a timely manner. I remembered Mad Mike’s funny, cross-eyed TV ad:<br> <br>“Are you tired of paying major bucks to have your sick/hacked computer fixed? Do you have to wait weeks?? <em>Dude! Come! On!</em> I’ll fix it quicker and if I can’t- I’ll buy it.”<br> <br>I immediately rang Mad Mike. He answered, told me he had 150 other computers being scrubbed of their viruses in the back room, but that I should bring in mine. He’d look at it.<br> <br>Ten minutes later, just after 9 a.m., I was inside his store. This guy is a man of very few words. He mumbled a price to bump it to the head of the line, if I wished. I quickly agreed. “Just fix it, and install whatever you think will help me avoid another hack.” He grunted, took the computer and my phone number and – well, I was dismissed. “We’ll call; maybe today...”<br>His brain was deep in computer mode, I thought, slightly confused by his brusque manner- but never mind. There <em>was</em> something special about him...I sensed the mess inside my machine wouldn’t be a challenge.<br>Mad Mike would make it right, right soon.<br> <br>About 4:30 he rang. “It’s clean. You can pick it up.”<br>I cheered, drove there immediately and happily prepared to pay. But wait a minute: he’d charged too <em>little</em>. There <em>should</em> have been that $100 bump-up fee. Had he forgotten?<br>The fresh-faced malware sniffer waiting on me realized I was right. He took the bill over to Mike, who waved it away without even looking up from his work.<br>“Pay what’s there; it’s fine.”<br> <br>Wow.<br> <br>The young man asked me to log on to make sure all was well. But first, I stared at it. <em>This</em> laptop was shining clean. No fingerprints or jam smears on the cover. I knew it <em>was</em> mine only because the cheap sticker on the outside, picturing a goldfinch and my name and address, was there, but faded almost to gone from the cleaning. (The sticker, meant for an envelope’s return address, prevents Joe and me from mixing up our twin computers.)<br> <br>I opened it. The once-grubby screen gleamed; the keys were as pristine as the day I’d purchased it.<br>Impressive. I’d forgotten how nice it could look.<br>Its polished state told me that Mike and his staff take care of the machines - in every way.<br>I liked his store even more.<br> <br>Everything checked out. Two rabid apps had been removed. There was a virus guard in there- Kaspersky Internet Security- a type of program essential for PCs, but not considered particularly necessary for Apple Mac computers until just recently, when pasty-faced hackers began to invade and plunder Apple’s fresh electronic fruit.<br> <br>In 29 days, after the free trial month, the young man explained, a bill would drop down on the screen; I could pay the modest purchase price (about $29) for the Kapersky guard then, or decline.<br>(I would buy it, of course!)<br> <br>On the way out I went over to Mike and thanked him again: he was working on another client’s bill and just grunted without looking up. I grinned and left, happy as can be. I’d be back, if necessary. And I’d certainly take his advice.<br>“Back it up. No ‘fix’ is infallible.”<br> <br>The guy is succinct. And dead right.<br> Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/38707482015-09-27T06:58:59-04:002015-09-27T06:58:59-04:009/27/15: Sights and Sounds of Summer's EndThe garden is closed now, and I have begun the time-consuming job of preparing it for winter. But for now I’m just relaxing out here, taking in the plays of light and shadow. Bryn-dog is with me, sleeping on the grass. The big swan fountain has been left on: it’s falling water blocks out city noise and allows for contemplation, especially at certain hours, when, for example, sunbeams in late afternoon penetrate deep shadows that have gradually crept over the lawn and flowerbeds.<br> <br>The emerald green and blue hummingbirds, who sip nectar from the mandevilla vine’s trumpet-shaped red flowers, appear unaware that I’m right there, stunned by their grace, lulled by the low whirr of their invisible wings. They live in a separate universe: mine must seem glacially slow.<br> <br>A male cardinal bathes in the Ram’s Head Fountain, that perfect body flashing autumn fire as wet feathers catch the last rays of afternoon sun.<br> <br>A robin spreads her damp wings, closes her eyes and appears to sleep as she perches on the main fountain’s edge, completely vulnerable to hawks, but so contented she has temporarily misplaced her vigilance. I find myself tearful, watching her indulge in those few moments of pure pleasure.<br> <br>I’m intoxicated by the feel of the warm earth, crumbling and worm-full under my probing hands. A chipmunk dashes by, cheeks bulging, on important business. Bryn, sound asleep, doesn’t notice. Her paws twitch.<br> <br>Light breezes play with the reddish gold, arching blades of the giant Miscanthus flame grasses, whose elegant, waving cream plumes wave in the gentle breeze. Nearby, the much smaller Imperata grass’s bright red color compliments its six-foot high relative.<br> <br>I love fountain music. Each of the four has a distinctive sound. One, shaped like a medieval window, is nestled deep in the Brick Walled Garden. Its stream of water tumbles from three notches in a high, small bowl down to the floor of its larger bowl: falling water faintly echoes in this smaller space.<br> <br>I lie on the grass near the huge, artfully lined chartreuse leaves of my giant ‘Sum and Substance’ hosta, and listen to conversational chipmunks, the distant laughter of children, a screen door slamming- sounds that transport me back to childhood.<br> <br>I tread barefoot on the thick, cool grass under the maple tree. It’s still slightly damp from the morning watering. When I was a child this pleasure was a daily ritual on our small front lawn.<br> <br>I place the palms of my hands on the textured, delicate surface of springy Irish moss growing under the bench; it’s lush enough to billow.<br> <br>A large, oval mirror nestled in a tangle of lush English ivy reflects my surroundings in a fresh way. I notice an abandoned nest woven into the vines just above it. Next spring this area will host many new families.<br> <br>Louisa’s life-sized, serenely beautiful 18<sup>th</sup> century face gazes at visitors; I remember her former home in an abandoned English garden, and now in mine, which is still full of color and life. I often wonder what’s behind that secret smile as I settle next to my dog, savoring September’s last lovely days.<br> <br>Winter is in the wings...<br> Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/38626112015-09-20T00:19:09-04:002017-01-11T09:52:03-05:009/21/15: Fun Stuff<em>Dear readers: </em><br>Here are some bits of news, offered before I tell you of my latest interest:<br> <br>-I will close the garden on Tuesday, September 22, to ready it for winter.<br>If you can visit before then, there is still much to see. The sweet autumn clematis is the best it’s ever been, offering a massive pure white, scented display. And the gorgeously green elephant ears are actually as large as an African elephant’s, and decorated with fascinating markings. The huge banana tree provides a fine foil for the fourteen-foot tall, delicately needled yellow chamaecyparis shrub. And, of course, there are the vivid blue asters, warm, pink masses of impatiens, and my old friends the tall miscanthus grasses, waving their big fringed plumes. Even the hibiscus trees- including the red ‘dinner plate’ hibiscus- are still blooming. It’s outrageous out there!<br> <br>-Some people have written to say that they’ve been dropped from my mailing list, so I ran to my webmaster, who said that if <em>anything</em> involving an<u> email address</u> is tweaked or changed- then you won't receive my email. So for example if you were getting my column at your aol.com address, and aren't finding it in your new Hotmail or Gmail address, that's why. Simply enter your <strong>new</strong> email address, should you have one, in the white box here on my website. That should fix it.<br> <br>Well, maybe. I found <em>myself</em> dropped, and I hadn’t made any changes. And, when I re-entered my address it squawked that I was <em>already</em> on the list. Weird! But, I finally found my column - it was being sent to me all this time, but in my inbox it was being sorted automatically into a different "tab" - it was arriving under the category 'Social' rather than 'Primary.' I use Gmail, so look in your tabs if you have Gmail too. (I don’t understand computer shenanigans: that’s why I have a webmaster.)<br> <wbr></wbr> *****<br> <br> <br>Anyway, we had another adventure last week. Joe, Bryn-dog and I were returning from an early morning ‘swim and fetch’ in the bay. We turned our car onto Union Street from Grand View Parkway, which is right next to the downtown outdoor parking lot where the Farmers’ market is held on Saturdays. “Oh, boy! Look at that!” said Joe, suddenly pointing into the still empty lot.<br>I looked.<br>And fell in love.<br>There, demurely settled into the last parking space, sat a bright red Stella motor scooter, <u>complete with sidecar</u>. There was a ‘For Sale’ sign attached to the windscreen. The price was very reasonable!<br>We bounded out of the car and inspected it, while Bryn admired it from the car window. As we moved around the machine another guy drove up in his truck to admire it as well. We noticed craned necks as people drove by, or waited at the light. The ‘red beauty’ got lots of thumbs up.<br> <br>Silly as it seems, I was jealous. I wanted to shoo this man away. But he wouldn’t be shooed. “Wonderful scooter, eh? Tell me about it.” Hah. He thought I was selling it. I told him I knew little, as we had just discovered it, and then we departed.<br>It was important to leave to think about what was the reasonable thing to do, away from that siren-red temptation.<br> <br>Arriving at home, we talked about what we would use it for; we three could buzz around country roads, and around town. But then I began to fret. “That guy had a covetous gleam in his eye, Joe; he might buy it before we can connect with the seller for more info. Someone else is probably talking to him right now, as he doesn’t answer. I’ve left a message and our number.”<br> <br>Five minutes later the seller rang back. “I just got home after leaving it there. I don’t like to work the phone and drive, so I didn’t answer before...<br>Let me tell you about it. It’s a 2005, 150cc Stella motorcycle, a Vespa knockoff; (Vespa is an Italian motorcycle company.) This bike is handy for zipping around in cities <em>(ahh... I remembered ‘Roman Holiday,’ where Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck rode happily around on a Vespa, through Rome’s streets)</em> and it’s extremely efficient, offering 90 miles to the gallon. It has ample storage space for groceries, too. We added the wire basket, for more.<br>Top speed is maybe 55, but with the sidecar attached--maybe 40-45 mph. I bought this one for my wife, but she hasn’t used it much. And now we’re moving, so I’ve decided to sell it. We’ve put only about 3500 miles on it, accrued when I went on a camping trip once in Wisconsin. The rear fender had a dent and small paint scrape that’s been repaired and repainted.<br>It’s easy to service, as Vespa parts work just fine.<br> <br>We asked more questions, told him we’d like to buy it, and settled on a price slightly less than he’d asked. We’d meet back at the parking lot in thirty minutes.<br> <br>It’s simply amazing what can happen to normal people in just one hour.<br> <br>Before money changed hands Joe drove it around the big empty lot, and found it had an intense shimmy/wobble. He’d been told about it, and that it would disappear at higher speeds- around 20mph. The seller said he just hadn’t had time to fiddle with it, but these motorcycles were known to act this way when connected to sidecars.<br>Undaunted, we exchanged money and title. And danced around the parking lot, thrilled. There is something so very Joe-cool (sorry, Snoopy) about this contraption: it had beckoned to us.<br> <br>Now came the fun part. Joe loves to problem-solve, and he did just that. After careful measurement and a detailed examination he rode it up and down the alley with the frame wibble-wobbling, until he had grasped the ‘what, where, when,’ and then he went into our library to research the solution. A slick-looking English-made steering damper, designed to control/mitigate the wobble, was ordered via the net. It looks rather like a piston. In two or three days this gadget fell through our large mail slot, and he installed it. Bingo! Problem solved.<br> <br>We took it for a neighborhood spin: what fun! Bryn’s eyebrows rose, and she declined to come along, but was happy to pose in it for now. There is room- just- to add her to the sidecar with me there too, with enough small modifications to insure she can’t be dumped out, but that’s down the road. Meanwhile my hair blows, my teeth gleam, and I lounge long, with legroom to spare, while Joe zips us along. The old joke: How to tell a happy motorcyclist?? By the flies in their teeth when they smile!!<br>Life is often about sudden, fun changes, by golly!<br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/13b43cc2ceb9a1db8048d954df4a5dae2c58466d/original/fullsizerender-3.jpg?1442722406" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/a17a1b7a0821c89da10e4d8b512c99c77d6faab8/original/fullsizerender-2.jpg?1442722450" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/ef797c561d638a7bbb16f538844cd7e6dab64434/original/fullsizerender-4.jpg?1442722448" class="size_l justify_center border_" /><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/7ea6043002632ce47aab0e5ad2e572a1711d0ad8/original/fullsizerender-5.jpg?1442722469" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/38526362015-09-13T07:27:29-04:002015-09-13T07:27:29-04:009/13/15: Changing, Evolving...<span class="font_large">I went outside to unlock the garden gate and experienced a delectable whiff of perfume…Heaven! A few dozen fresh white clematis ‘stars’ had opened above the doorway arch and atop the long alley fence. Any minute these two huge vines would birth thousands more. In the main secret garden two more massive vines, comfortably draped along my shadier fences, are weighty with fat buds. One more sunny day will trigger spectacular changes. (If you long for a similar late summer show, purchase a Clematis terniflora in spring, dig a hundred-dollar hole for your twenty-dollar plant, and be prepared to wait three years for your reward. That old adage is apt: “The first year it sleeps, the second, it creeps, and the third, it <em>leaps</em>!” Except – a newly planted clematis is certainly <u>not</u> sleeping, but setting deep roots. Not much will happen above ground until it’s satisfied that there’s a huge, established root system below it.)<br> <br>Anyway, as I stood there admiring all this, two tiny emerald green hummingbirds hovered directly in front of me before darting to selected flowers. Vividly marked monarch butterflies joined them. I watched, enchanted, as these airborne jewels dined. Inside the garden near the fountain five more exquisite little hummers dipped into big ruby-throated white hibiscus flowers. A cardinal’s red wings flashed against the golden chamaesyparis. My September garden is bursting with colorful treasures!<br> <br>The view through the alley garden door now shows a big garden design change: I created a small English-style ‘park,’ complete with gazebo, when I downsized this spring. Ah, it’s so much easier to manage!<br> <br>I’ve noticed that the usual blooming rhythm has changed this year: the hibiscus has never flowered so late. Tons of gorgeous blooms <em>still</em> decorate their boughs. And the giant purple-leaved canna lilies continue to produce huge orange flowers, as though it were July.<br>I’ll mow the lawn: just two days later it needs cutting again. The more usual timetable in September is 10 days or more.<br>A few daylilies are re-issuing gorgeous blooms, as well. Even the butterfly bush is still showing off cat-tail purple flowers!<br> <br>The cool summer has been a boon to every living thing—and created a different problem. I’m absolutely overrun with rabbits! Six half-grown babies living under the huge Chamaesyparis bush emerge at twilight to frolic on my greatly expanded lawn. Right now a much larger rabbit- perhaps their mother- is nibbling fresh blades of grass nearby. These wretches have eaten many lilies, and every single pansy in the Ram’s Head garden, having adapted to the bloodmeal I’d spread around the area.<br>Every time Bryn and I walk around the block we see at least fifteen bunnies. She trembles, but thankfully won’t bolt. (Well, maybe once...)<br> <br>Bryn, 18 months old, has learned much more English. She’ll listen, head cocked, as I mutter about running errands alone, and then go back to sleep instead of moving toward me expectantly. She knows she’s not included.<br>This week I’d decided to read on the front porch, as it was warm. Always before, I’d lead her out onto the grass to a long tether. Today was different.<br>“Lets relax on the porch! You won’t need the leash.” She studied me carefully for about 5 seconds, processing, then walked out the front door and turned right, ignoring the big front stair, to settle down by my usual chair. I stood there, open-mouthed.<br> <br>A red and gold maple leaf fluttered down to land near her paws. A few more beauties followed, reminding us that our world is evolving, too. The lovely last lines from the song “The Summer Knows” come to mind:<br> <br>…<em>One last caress, </em><br><em>It’s time to dress </em><br><em>For fall.</em></span><br> Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/38442482015-09-06T06:29:42-04:002015-09-06T06:29:42-04:009/06/15: Arf!Thursday, seven a.m. Joe and I were eager to take Bryn to the beach to swim- it would be empty of people this early- but frequent lightning made the idea impossible.<br>By early afternoon it was <em>still</em> raining, but my computer’s aviation weather site confirmed that the thunder and lightning-filled cells had moved well east, leaving just one whale-shaped, benign cloud perched directly over the city, dumping rain steadily, but not heavily.<br>A thought picked at the back of my brain. I was missing something obvious...<br> <br>We made lunch. Ate. Cleaned up.<br>And then, the thought surfaced.<br>Why not swim in the rain?<br> <br>Of course!<br> <br>We threw on bathing suits, stuffed two towels and our new blue ‘floater’ bone into a plastic grocery bag and hopped into the car. A few minutes later we parked by the Senior Center that, along with a big hotel to its right, faced the very long, empty beach.<br>Sensible folks were staying inside.<br> <br>Tossing our plastic-bagged stuff onto a convenient bench we ran down to the nearly calm, rain-pecked water. Bryn, however, skidded to a halt at its edge. <em>Uh-oh. This again...</em><br>Her triumphant swimming breakthrough had happened over a week ago. There’d been no time to reinforce what she’d learned since then. Had we waited too long?<br> <br>Joe and I swam out and called for her. Bryn ran along the bay’s edge, taking nervous drinks. She finally put paws in, thought better of it and bounced out again. In chest-deep water we waggled the blue bone. She sand-sat. Whined.<br> <br>Joe waded to shore, picked her up and walked deep into the bay. Released, Bryn ignored the bone- and our entreaties- and swam straight back to the beach.<br>Deja vu.<br>From deep water we threw the bone much closer in to shore: she tip-toed out a few inches, str-retched her neck to grab it, then trotted thirty feet away from the lake to drop it on the sand. Sighing, Joe left the water, fetched it and swam out to deep water again.<br>This ‘backwards-fetching’ nonsense was ridiculous. Who was training whom?<br> <br>Ding! I had a dumb, bright idea.<br> <br>“Joe, move back into shallow water and throw the bone far out while I dog-paddle and watch, then yell at me to fetch it.”<br>He did.<br>I barked (nice touch, eh?) and immediately paddled out, mouth-grabbed it and swam back to deliver it.<br> <br>Bryn went ballistic!<br>We didn’t respond to her cries of confusion and jealousy. Joe lavishly praised me. (I pseudo-snapped at him when he grinned and patted my head.)<br>He tossed it way out again. “Get it, Dee!”<br>Barking happily I did. Bryn raced up and down the beach, licking the lake, torn by indecision. She finally threw herself in and swam out toward me, yelping with indignation. So naturally, water flowed into her mouth. She hurriedly paddled back to the beach to stand on the wet sand, head down, gagging and hacking.<br>We ignored her.<br> <br>“Again, Joe...” I whispered, sniffing the bone like a pro. He hurled.<br>I whirled, barked and paddled out---only to be overtaken by Bryn! (‘Arfing’ with manufactured excitement I hadn’t heard her enter the water.)<br>Mischievously I swam much faster human-style toward my blue prize. She glanced back (mouth firmly shut, I noticed with satisfaction), worried I’d beat her to it.<br>Inspired, I put on some speed, set teeth into bone and turned around to deliver it back to Joe. Bryn swam hard to catch me, determined to steal it away. Kindly deferring to the younger dog (and anxious to avoid her clawed, pumping paws) I let it float off. Triumphantly retrieving it she smoothly swam back to dump it on the beach. Then she shook herself- and didn’t gag once.<br>Our dog was learning the finer points of swimming.<br> <br>She and I competed for that bone three more times in the rain before calling it a day. Bryn ‘won’ every time. She left the lake for the last time and roared far down the empty beach and back again, scattering gulls and kicking up sand, ecstatic.<br>We were ‘back in the groove.’<br> <br>“Your doggy-style demonstration was devious,” Joe commented as we padded to the car, tired and happy. She couldn’t resist -and wouldn’t be bested!<br> <br>I popped Bryn into the back seat and retrieved a bit of time-worn wisdom:<br> <br>“Well, my man, if ya can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em!”<br> Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/38364642015-08-30T06:17:53-04:002015-08-30T06:17:53-04:008/30/15: Dragon SlayerJoe and I have had a plan in place for weeks- to take eighteen-month-old Bryn to the beach daily to accustom her to the idea of swimming. Bryn loves the peculiar feeling of bounding through sugary beach sand, and she’s been happy to fetch sticks—but has always become anxious past knee-deep water.<br>She’s developed quite an eye for just how far out <em>too</em> far is. If we’re a little over-enthusiastic in our tosses she’ll estimate the distance at a glance, find it wanting, and assume an anchor-like stand on the sand<em>. There might be dragons under there. I need firm footing. Sorry, Boss.</em><br> <br>And that’s been that.<br> <br>Yet, she allows Joe to carry her deep into the bay to lower her gently into glass-calm water. As always, she’ll simply turn toward shore and swim smoothly back. Her head remains dry. She’s not upset, just resigned to our inability to understand ‘not keen.’<br> <br>Last Sunday, though, we witnessed a shocking sea change.<br> <br>It was well past seven o’clock and warm; yet the local beach was empty of people until a yearling chow, followed by her owner, ambled onto the sand and right to the edge of the water to watch Bryn determinedly swimming back to shore. The new dog pranced along the waterline, barking.<br>“I’ve tried your carry-out technique over and over,” sighed the woman, “but young Cassie is <em>not </em>impressed<em>. </em>She swims to shore immediately and tries to avoid going out again<em>. </em>It’s really disappointing, as I love doing laps, and playing in the water, and I’ve hoped that she’d like it, too. Her parents <em>love</em> to swim.”<br> <br>We shared our own dashed hopes as the orange sun put a test beam into the flat, opaque water. It would be dark in a minute. Joe wanted to take her out one more time, but Bryn and Cassie were romping and wrestling on the beach, so we three just watched them play as we chatted.<br> <br>“Does Cassie like to fetch?” Joe tossed a rather large stick down the beach, which Cassie ignored. Bryn, though, raced to it, grabbed one end and ran around in circles trying to raise the other end, which dragged. She <em>loves</em> big sticks.<br> <br>Chuckling, we gathered up our towels and sandals. Joe flung the big stick well into the bay. Distance didn’t matter; we were leaving.<br> <br>Bryn followed its path as it sailed over the water to splash down far, far away. She ran up and down the beach, seeing it bob gently out there in the gathering gloom. Cassie barked, urging her to keep wrestling, but Bryn ignored her.<br> <br>Then she did an odd thing. Stopping abruptly ten feet from water’s edge, she sat in the sand and stared out at that vast ocean of water.<br>She <em>wanted</em> that huge stick.<br>She knew how to get it.<br>Before we could grasp what was happening Bryn waded into the water and launched, paddling easily, moving farther and farther away, swimming, swimming---<br>We watched openmouthed, unmoving, not daring to speak.<br> <br>Finally, jaws clamped firmly around her prize, she turned back, soaking up the loud screams, claps and cheers from her thrilled peanut gallery. Her paws finally touched bottom. She dragged the big stick onto the sand and shook herself vigorously. Eyes sparkling, she gave one declarative, triumphant ‘Woof!’ and looked down at the stick, then at Joe.<br> <br>WHAT?<br> <br>Laughing, a stunned Joe threw it back out there, where it all but disappeared in the gathering gloom. Again, with no hesitation Bryn waded in, shifted into ‘all ahead full,’ and retrieved it to even more vigorous cheers and claps.<br> <br>It was almost too much to take in. I stood on the shore, hopping up and down, blown away.<br> <br>“Let’s stop on this high note,” Joe said, still clapping. Bryn shook herself over and over, then dashed down the beach and back at top speed, spraying sand in all directions, mutely mad with pleasure, while Cassie followed on shorter legs, barking.<br> <br>What had triggered this decision? Our assurances that swimming is safe? Our persistence? Her burgeoning self-confidence?<br>All of the above, I think.<br> <br>Cassie’s owner was delighted, musing that <em>her</em> persistence just might pay off eventually!<br> <br>We traded high-fives and staggered to the car in darkness, grins lighting the way. What a marvelous turnaround!<br> <br>Bryn, dripping sand and water, leaned her wet head against the car’s back seat and closed her tired eyes to savor window-wind. She felt lighter, having shed considerable doubt and fear.<br><em>Hah! Any water-dragons are squirrel-sized!</em>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/38296092015-08-23T06:48:29-04:002015-08-23T06:48:29-04:008/23/15: It's Still Garden-Party Time!It’s sad saying goodbye to lovely plant friends whose schedules don’t permit staying late in the Season. Knowing they’ll return next year doesn’t help much…<br> <br>Four large Aruncus (goatsbeards) sit on the sidelines, still useful as a backdrop for the fairy fountain and my big bench, but now plumeless and slightly frumpy.<br> <br>The once gaily-dressed daylilies are bowing out, too. Their graceful greenery is limp, empty of long-stemmed, nectar-packed flowers. Ditto for the catmint, whose faded flowers droop, disconsolate. If I trim them back, though, new leaves hint of a second wind, but probably too late to matter much. I mope, and mop up the dregs.<br> <br>Shasta ‘Alaska’ daisies, once the life of the party, are now much diminished. Yet, a few stems show fat buds halfway down. If I trim to those, another lovely flower sometimes appears. Never mind: Black-eyed Susans have picked up the slack, blooming vigorously throughout the garden, their vibrant honey-gold flowers gleaming atop rich green leaves.<br> <br>Marigolds and geraniums still show off their crisp, vivid, multicolored outfits, intermingled with graceful, purple-plumed pennisetum grasses that wave a greeting to passersby. And the fat sedum are just beginning to turn vivid pink.<br> <br>Old Professor Kippenberg has lived for years in the front garden; those aster-blue eyes should open in September. And one perfumed rose out there, ‘Grus An Achen,’ is reblooming for the third time!<br> <br>Impatiens, still fresh and vibrant, look wonderful under the maple’s protective canopy.<br> <br>The dogwood trees are developing large flame-red seedballs. A few years ago some of their long stems fell into the huge blue hosta’s leaf fold, making me gasp with pleasure! What an idea! (It causes quite a stir with visitors.)<br> <br>Hotshot Lantana has grown immense: it weaves through beds with long, touchy-feel-y fingers and hot orange, yellow and pink flowers. Japanese beetles won’t touch its leaves, so this flower remains perfect.<br> <br>Huge Miscanthus grasses are poised to turn red/orange and don showy plumes, and the Tropical, purple leaved Canna lilies tower six feet high in the background. Big orangey-red flowers atop their heads do look silly, and more than a little bug-eaten, but honestly, this garden needs these overweight comedians right now…)<br> <br>Sweet autumn Clematis drapes long, leafy green arms over the back fence and door arches, promising perfumed, snowy-white flowers soon. This lovely plant will certainly help make rakish Autumn, the ultimate party pooper, palatable.<br>The show ain’t over, yet, folks! Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/38212672015-08-16T07:18:37-04:002015-08-16T07:18:37-04:008/16/15: Bryn-DinWhen Bryn was nearly seven months old she was brought to Lake Michigan’s edge one lovely summer morning. Sand was a novelty: paws lifted high she bounced around like a skittish colt, intrigued by the odd sensation of moving on shifting, yet firm ground. One bounce brought her toes in contact with water; she leaped away as though scalded and barked at it, unnerved.<br>We were surprised. Bryn’s genes reeked of Labrador retriever and poodle. A winning waterdog combination, surely. Yet- that one, wet touch seemed quite enough; we couldn’t persuade her to venture out into the alien cold, where the ground stopped being firm.<br> <br>A year later we are reluctantly beginning to accept that swimming does <em>not</em> make her joyful. Last week Bryn, now eighteen months old, stood at the water’s edge to watch us frolicking and doing laps, upset that we were out there- and she was not. Little howls, whines and low moans poured out as she paced up and down the beach. She tried lapping the water. She lapped and lapped and lapped, but after waaay too much intake, figured out that downing that huge bowl of water might be impossible. So then she tried to distract herself by digging furiously, or biting the odd branch bit, or chasing a leaf, or her tail. (We’d assumed she’d love the water because she’ll chase a stick, but only if she could retrieve it without going in deeper than her elbows. She’ll expertly measure stick distances, and won’t bother to fetch it if her calculations come up ‘deep.’ She’s always spot-on.)<br> <br> I kept calling from the lake, “Come in Bryn, you can do it! You know you can!” But only her soft howls moved over the water. <br>We finally gave up.<br> <br>Yesterday Joe simply picked her up –she weighs 50 pounds- and we three walked into the mirror-calm lake. Happy in his arms, she didn’t struggle. When he finally set her gently down in nearly neck-high water she knew exactly what to do. Without hesitation Bryn swam doggedly toward the beach, but not in panic. Never that. She simply arrowed toward solid ground with fierce determination but zero alarm. Bryn <em>knows</em> she can swim, but it’s so –alien!<br>One needs to feel solid ground under one’s paws.<br>And that’s that.<br> <br>I sighed. “ Give it one more try. Let’s turn our backs and look out onto the lake and splash our arms, and make happy sounds.” We did this. Feeling left out and unable to get our attention she anxiously waded in, a step at a time, crying and yipping, gradually moving deeper and deeper in, toward us, fighting the urge to reverse course. It was a titanic battle.<br>Turn back!<br>Keep going!<br>Turn BACK!<br>Keep going!<br>Howling, she forced herself to continue until her feet found themselves paddling. She swam toward us, wanting our eyes on her. (Our backs were still turned, but I’d followed everything from the corner of my eye.) Reaching us, fifty feet into the water, Bryn looked hard at me, and then-turned around to face the beach. She swam back with no hesitation.<br> <br>The message couldn’t be clearer. <em>This is not fun for me, Boss. Not. </em><br><em>I </em><u>can</u><em> do it, yet I don’t ever </em><u>want</u> <em>to do it. </em><br><em>Sorry, Sorry...</em><br> <br>Oh, well. We praised her effort, and left the beach outwardly cheerful, but inwardly glum. Each creature has its favorite things to do, we mused. I love gardening. Joe loves motorcycles. Bryn loves land.<br>Fine. We’d respect that.<br>But darn it, it’s hard. We can’t take her to the beach, then just leave her on the sand. There would be too many people around. Furthermore, we know of no beaches that allow untethered dogs to be parked (she’d ‘stay’ if given that command) with no owner right there.... She’d have to remain at home.<br> <br>We cheered up, remembering that Bryn’s an integral part of our cycling excursions. The Bike Tow Leash we’d ordered off the web is a five-star wonder! She’ll now actually tow <em>me.</em> Joe leads our little parade, which rarely moves past a fast dogtrot. It’s a wonderful world, crammed with unlimited sights and sounds. We always see and hear other barking dogs and flush tons of rabbits, squirrels, birds and cats, and occasionally there is the faint, delectable perfume of eau de poop- not to mention fascinating kitchen odors that waft toward us from open windows.<br> <br>As Bryn trots along, tail waving, ears perked and nose in high gear, she often glances up at me, her eyes radiating happiness.<br> <br><em>Hey, Boss, now THIS is fun! </em>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/38099142015-08-09T07:32:36-04:002015-08-09T07:32:36-04:008/09/15: A Monster Unleashed<span class="font_large">Last Sunday the sky showed occasional clouds: though the weather was hot, there were hints a sea change would occur soon. By afternoon we realized that the humidity and heat Northern Michigan had experienced for some days would violently exit, because the new front roaring in from Wisconsin had a nasty ‘bow’ signature that signified intense wind. The color purple (degrees worse than red) imbedded on our computer’s schematic storm depiction, was an ominous signal that 100 mile-an-hour prolonged gusts, intense rain and constant lightning were imminent.<br> <br><em>‘Expect considerable tree damage and possible flooding. Quarter-sized hail will accompany this storm. Seek shelter immediately!’</em><br> <br>Jolted by the blunt warning I rushed out to tie thick covers around my garden statuary, made sure the garden doors were secured, and reentered the house to grab a flashlight. Then Joe and I stood by the big kitchen window to await events. Bryn-dog whined, sensing our unease.<br> <br>The air outside was calm. And still. Not a leaf moved. No birds sang. A quick glance at the radar showed that the front was here. Yet, aside from the eerie half-darkness, all was still.<br>Suddenly the sky turned green and black. There came a whoosh and a roar: instantly every growing thing outside was blown violently eastward. Sheets of rain, riding on tremendous wind, blasted the garden into a blur of motion: large objects whizzed by, prompting the three of us to run for the basement. At the bottom of the stairs we paused to listen. The noise outside was awful. Intense rain and hailstones pummeled the kitchen window. We knew the secret garden’s giant tulip tree hovering over the house was shallow-rooted and could easily topple, crushing the kitchen. Nervously we retreated deeper into the basement’s cooler air and watched the computer graphically illustrate the storm’s track and power. Lightning logos filled the screen.<br>Weather systems tend to split to the north or south as they approach Grand Traverse Bay. Today, though, was very different. The city was experiencing a direct hit.<br> <br>Two loud <em>CRACKS</em> made us jump: was the 70-foot tree coming down? I dared to creep up for a quick peek as another tremendous rush of wind and rain shook the house. Constant lightning pierced the blackness; smaller thumps against the house indicated how the powerful gusts could snatch up and fling around any unsecured object.<br>Power faltered for a few minutes before coming on again.<br> <br>Finally, though, the wind lessened, while intense rain continued to fall. The storm had passed through. But there was more. Soon a second wave blew in, bright red, but thankfully showing no purple.<br>Much later, after the lightning ceased, we went outside and looked around.<br> <br>The fountain was buried under leaves, twigs and branches. Much bigger branches littered the lawn. Large and small plants lay at an angle, or were pressed flat. Every bloom on the large hibiscus tree had vanished. One large branch had been torn off our tulip tree and hurled across the garden so violently that part of a section of the eight-foot-high fence was torn out along the bottom, pierced by that thick spear, which was wedged in tightly. A large branch dangled awkwardly from the front garden’s lilac tree, still held to it by flimsy strips of bark. We found tree branches in our yard that had come from neighbors’ yards down the street. One enormous limb of the neighbor’s huge red maple tree next door missed that home by inches, landing instead on their large back yard deck. Hannah Park had some large trees down. Sixth Street was littered with branches. Many trunks showed evidence of lightning strikes: their innards were charred and blackened. We hopped on our bikes to tour other streets. Some venerable trees’ huge trunks had been savagely twisted and wrung, as though by monster hands.<br> <br>Alleys were littered with branches, rubbish bins, lids and other detritus. Cars’ roofs were bruised, and some were blanketed by branches. Power lines were entwined in downed trees, or lay coiled on the ground, still alive, menacing unwary passersby. We took great care to ride slowly.<br> <br>Our twenty-foot long river-moored Rinker boat was incredibly lucky: one huge tree had toppled into the water an <em>inch</em> from its stern, and another huge willow had fallen into the river, barely missing the bow. It was the only boat ‘captured’ by trees.<br> <br>Sirens wailed: police, the fire department and city workers tried to be everywhere at once.<br>Traverse City had been dealt quite a blow.<br> <br>I spent Monday morning laboriously sawing off the monster branch firmly wedged into the fence, doing a few feet at a time. (It would be a week before anyone could chop it gone with a chainsaw. There wasn’t one to spare for 100 miles and I didn’t want to wait.)<br> <br>There were lots of stories passed around at the Garfield Township dog park (which, incidently, had its own damage. Large, tall, slim birch trees had crashed down, severing the park’s heavy chain-link fence in two places like knives through butter- an awesome display of wind-power). A friend, a volunteer usher for the Film Festival, had been working at the Opera House when the storm hit. The film was about knee replacement, and a number of people watching it were in wheelchairs, or needed canes. The power went out right in the middle of the presentation, so elevators wouldn’t work. The theatre was plunged into darkness. Storm noise added to the confusion. No one knew what was happening. No one could leave. A few frightened people cried. The power remained off. Getting patrons outside to their cars was a long process.<br>For a while, going <em>anywhere</em> in the Grand Traverse area was a challenge.<br> <br>Other places, like Glen Arbor, were devastated. Twin tornadoes were captured on a friend’s cell phone, spinning against a green sky very near the Music House on M-31.<br> <br>The next two mornings the air was filled with the snarl of chain saws as people began to free streets and personal property of fallen timber. I saw lawn chairs bobbing in the Bay. Some streets remained impassable. Parts of the area still had no power.<br> <br>Two days later, as I continued to clear the secret garden, there came another loud, cracking sound: a big ‘widow-maker’ branch plunged to earth from high up in the wounded tulip tree, landing exactly where I’d been standing just seconds before. This close call imbedded a new rule in my mind: <em>always</em> inspect big trees for severed branches that haven’t quite dislodged after powerful storms. They’re easy to spot days later, as their leaves, many in an upside-down position, begin to wither and turn brown.<br> <br>A week later, things are looking much better. Now our city faces a new challenge: it must haul away a veritable <em>forest</em> of destroyed trees.<br>And we must adjust to their absence.</span>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/37999692015-08-02T07:18:55-04:002015-08-02T07:18:55-04:008/02/15: Dumb- and SmarterI gave my favorite shovel a good push; it should have glided smoothly into the soil, but no: the dull blade-end grudgingly parted the earth, grumbling the whole time, along with my arms and back. That tool desperately needed sharpening, a boring job I’d kept putting off. Dumb.<br>Fifteen minutes later I’d hand-filed a sharp edge. Oh, such a difference! The shovel slid into the earth, quiet as a breath, taking a nice, dirt-y bite with minimal effort from steerage. But, of course, now it was getting really hot. And the job before me was difficult: Four hydrangea shrubs that had refused to bloom for three years in a row would go. (A late frost had killed the buds on these older shrubs: only lush green leaves, bare of blooms, showed.) Now I’d have to do the job in heat, and replant the new ones as well. Served me right.<br> <br>In the cool of evening I sharpened other constantly used tools, adding oil to the blades after removing stubborn, crusted soil with my wire brush. Hanging on the wall, their business ends filed and gleaming, the tools were ready for work. I’d reach for them enthusiastically now, knowing they’d be as sharp as I wish I were.<br> <br>It seems I’m always in a hurry, cramming umpteen garden jobs into a small time frame, especially when the temperature rapidly rises to the humid 80s. In my eagerness to be done with garden chores before nine o’clock, I’ll get careless. For example, I’ll lay hand pruners, garden gloves or my phone atop piles of garden debris just for a second, then absently continue to add rabbit-gnawed stems and weeds to the heap and toss the lot into in a huge alley rubbish bin, forgetting that things I care about are included.<br>I did manage to save one fairly new phone, only because it distantly rang before I walked away. After a frantic search I located it under two feet of wet garden debris. But even that near disaster didn’t hammer the lesson home. Soon after, my gloves disappeared. I haven’t bothered to wade through the multiple bins to retrieve them.<br> <br>One day I wrestled with an elderly 50-foot long hose. After laying it out to undo the kinks I screwed it to my hose-end sprayer so I could feed annuals. Huh. No proper pressure. After an inspection I discovered two good-sized punctures in the hose’s middle that were too large to mend with tape. Well, the darn thing had lasted some years, but why did it have to fail today? Cross, too hot and tired from nearly three hours of gardening, I gathered it up and chucked it the rubbish bin.<br>A trip to Ace Hardware was necessary.<br> <br>The next day I trudged out to the alley with bagged kitchen garbage and glimpsed a high-quality brass spray nozzle sitting way down at the bottom of the big alley bin, still attached to the holey hose. Stupid me!<br>Now, how to get it out?<br> <br>I stepped on the bin’s foot-bar, leaned in… reached… nope. Not even close. On tiptoes, bent double now, I reached even further down into the depths… and slipped in too far. The lid dropped onto my ankles; my shabbily shod feet were all that remained visible. Upside down, head resting on a stuffed trash bag, I was the poster child for that slogan: “People make their own problems.”<br> <br>I managed to raise myself by degrees up the bin’s filthy edges, fling the heavy lid open, and extract myself, all the while clutching the brass nozzle, which was still attached to the dead hose.<br>Imagine if someone passing by had noticed my shod feet sticking out? (Aha! Dee’s husband’s had enough: she’s been dumped.)<br>I’d never live it down.<br> <br>Yesterday I heard a squeak, then a splash. An inquisitive young chipmunk had tumbled into the fountain pool! (They’re so curious they have to inspect everything.) It swam frantically toward my newly installed wide, stiff wire screen ‘chipmunk emergency’ ladder. (I’d found a drowned ‘munk’ in there a few weeks ago. The pool’s smooth edges had made escape impossible. What an awful death!)<br>Scrambling up the screen this little guy bounced out onto the big slab stones that surrounded the pool and dashed off, chittering in relief, while I cheered.<br> <br>I’d learned from the previous drowning, anticipated what might happen, and was rewarded for my efforts.<br>Ah, there’s hope for this girl.Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/37914602015-07-26T07:48:12-04:002015-07-26T07:48:12-04:007/26/15: Who's Cool: Who's a GhoulI’ve learned some painful lessons as a gardener. If I don’t do my homework, lovely plants suffer.<br>On the other hand, others will overrun everything.<br> <br>One sufferer is the beautiful false indigo (Baptisia). It settled in, and that was that. This beauty can’t be transplanted. I put it in half-sun fifteen years ago (instead of full sun), and realized a year later that it was struggling. A few beautiful blue flowers anxiously search for light, which dwindles as the trees around it grow larger. Yet, I can’t bear to kill it.<br>Planting in ignorant haste, I repent at embarrassed leisure.<br> <br>The annual Eschscholtzia californica, or California poppy, brightens California’s highways and byways. It seeds where it wants to, loves full sun, blooms for a long time, and usually reseeds. This poppy is so accommodating it’ll accept alley dust and rubble piles, as well as decent beds. (<em>Really </em>rich soil makes it flop, so it refuses to grow inside the secret garden.)<br>Like Baptisia, it can’t be moved. That long taproot taps and roots, deeply.<br>Those wonderful orangey-yellow petals roll up at the first sign of rain. The delicate stems and tightly rolled flowers present a slim profile for occasional pummeling by wind or water. (A bird pooped out this gift twelve years ago, by the way.)<br>Thrilled every spring to welcome it back, I still scatter a packet of seeds in my baking hot alley garden every few years, just to be sure.<br>I’m addicted.<br> <br>Ditto for another annual full-sun stunner, Nigella.<br>Once seen, never forgotten. It would win any beauty contest, hands down: judges would gape at those misty whiskers and spellbinding white, pink and blue flowers, and scratch in ‘winner.’<br>Frankly, it’s difficult to tear my eyes away, especially when it grows in groups. Its common name, when in full flower, is ‘love-in-a-mist.’ So aptly named! Visitors gape in admiration, and fall in love.<br>Finally, when the flowers finish, large green and burgundy-striped seedpods (the ‘devil-in-a-bush’ phase) elicit cries of pleasure from passersby.<br>Finally, when the pods evolve to a parchment color, I’ll harvest the little black seeds to scatter around next year. (I fill a large pot with the dry, bristle-y pods snipped from countless brown, spent stems, then empty each pod’s many seeds into a separate container while listening to favorite music or an audible book. Harvesting takes a long time.)<br> <br>I have a love-hate relationship with spiderwort (Tradescantia). This tall bully stampedes through other flowers very quickly. So, though I’m captivated by the royal blue blooms amid those bunches of balls atop thick stalks, I mustn’t forget to chop <em>half</em> of the plant away every season, before it has a chance to overrun every neighbor.<br>This very firm stance has kept it in bounds. Barely. Though I’m nuts about the darn thing, allowing it to stay is akin to playing with fire.<br> <br>The same firm treatment is in order for the spectacular yarrow. Those flowers are simply beautiful. Light gray foliage compliments its vivid colors. Coronation Gold, for instance, smartly sets off every plant around it. BUT. Yarrow, too, multiplies with great vigor. A firm hand and sharp spade every summer are necessary to control this rampant beauty.<br>Again, I can’t live without it. But I better not go senile any time soon.<br> <br>I love gorgeous grasses- there are so many varieties- and two sorts- <em>clumpers</em> and <em>gallopers</em>. The latter will <u>completely</u> decimate the landscape. <em>Never</em> invite gallopers into your bed- unless you fashion a prison impossible to escape. I’ve done this with one handsome ‘Marlboro Man’ grass, Leymus. I buried a two-foot long Rubbermaid rubbish bin (with the bottom cut out) right up to the rim before planting this cool rogue 15 years ago. It’s sulked in there and tried to expand enough to split the bin’s edges, with no success. “Life is tough,” I snarl at it. “Adapt.”<br>I can’t imagine my garden without its outrageously handsome blue fronds.<br> <br>Carex stricta ‘Bowles golden’ is another favorite perennial grass. Offer it decent soil, part shade and ample water and admire those graceful golden fronds, which never grow more than two/three feet long. I have half a dozen of these beauties in the secret garden.<br> <br>Carex, and another special group of grasses, Miscanthus, are <em>clumpers.</em> They grow in a rough circle and spread very gently. Miscanthus, which loves sun, requires only a little chop-back every few years to reclaim its original circular shape. As it ages it eventually goes bald in the middle: simply chop off expanding edges, dig out the bald spot and pop in the transplant. Snicker-snack, the grass is back. (Some Miscanthus cultivars can grow eight feet tall, by the way.)<br> <br>Most grasses’ very long, arching fronds mimic fountain spray, to my mind. And their colors- burgundy, vivid yellow, white, green, and even brown, orange and red, provide a visual surprise, because they stand out from the usual ocean of green foliage one normally views.<br>Properly situated and watered well the first year, grasses require only minimal maintenance after that. (To be precise, whack them to the ground with a chainsaw every April. That’s it.) Consider a grass garden if you have no time to tinker out there. All that movement and color, and ease of care, can offer a champion display.<br> <br>Do your homework, though, or a few cool ghouls will gobble the garden gone.Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/37832452015-07-19T07:39:02-04:002015-07-19T07:39:02-04:007/19/15: One Blooper, and Random, Dirt-y Thoughts<em>(Sorry I’m a bit late getting this column out; I accidently scarfed down the dog’s antihistamine pill at bedtime when I was taking my vitamins, and slept for three hours longer than usual</em><br><em>Ah, well... </em><br><em>Here are some garden offerings and observations unclouded by fog, as I wrote the column yesterday afternoon.) </em><br> <br> ***<br>Nerdy gardener-thoughts litter my brain as I work in the garden.<br> <br>Once I had a security light out there, but discovered that plants don’t like being illuminated 24/7, and bloom poorly. The word “Daisy” used to be “day’s eye,” so named because the pink and white English daisy closes at night, and opens at sunrise. I love these flowers (which litter the lawn of my former English home). Artificial night light interfered with this rhythm. I eliminated the light, and all my plants were-are much happier.<br> <br>I have four fountains going all day, and very quickly they accumulate vegetative growth that clings to the bottom and sides of their water basins. Over the years I tried all the potions advertised- often at a hefty price- to inhibit this, but not one worked. But <em>I</em> had to. Emptying just the big pool every month, then scrubbing it out, took an enormous amount of time and effort. And, after that miserable task it needed filling again- hundreds of gallons are necessary. Then one day, desperate, I tried adding a few cups of ordinary Spartan cloudy bleach to the pool. Just a few minutes later the problem vanished. Bliss! Best of all, every fountain stayed clean for a long time and the cost was nearly zero. (Bonus: birds don’t light and poop in it either.) I renew this treatment when necessary. (A few weeks pass between applications. Just a thimbleful has kept my three littler ones sparkling.)<br>Water changes are unnecessary.<br> <br>One other thing with large fountains: chipmunks fall in and drown. But they don’t give up and die until they’re exhausted from swimming. I found a drowned one a while back, and was horrified. The pool’s smooth sides had made escape impossible.<br>Now there’s an almost invisible stiff wire ladder (made from a bit of screen) in there; as they swim frantically by they see it and climb out, wiser, and alive to tell about it.<br> <br>I collect mowed grass and place into sturdy black garbage bags, add a shovel of earth, a bit of water, and place the tied-off bags in a sunny area away from view, to let Mama Nature cook them for a season in her usual slow, deliberate way. I kick the bags into different positions occasionally to rotate the ingredients. By the next spring l have rich black earth for my grateful garden.<br> <br>It was exasperating to find that slugs had eaten my lamium, and every little hosta. But, curiously, <em>not </em>my giants. I found out that they have a tough time sinking their teeth into <em>huge</em> leaves. Smaller varieties can be made safe by scattering a few Slug-go pellets around them. Slugs rush to eat the pellets, then dissolve, except for their teeth. I probably have thousands of teeny dentures lying about. (A slug has around 100 teeth. When it dies, how long do they litter the dirt? I think about things like this.)<br> <br>To keep my pansies and Johnny-jump-ups blooming vigorously all summer I deadhead <em>every morning</em>. It only takes a minute to pinch off the sagging flower and each worn out stem, and the reward is huge, as long as they’re watered and settled into decent soil in the first place.<br>Then I shake a cup of bloodmeal (obtained at any garden center) around pansies and other plants like lilies, that rabbits love to munch. They’ll avoid the area. (Bloodmeal, dried to a fine talcum- like powder, is all but invisible when applied around plants. There is no smell.)<br> <br>This spring the leaves on my ornamental trees and bushes looked yellow and sickly, exhibiting green veins. I applied liquid iron- obtained at any garden store- with a hose-end sprayer. Adding iron made a dramatic difference. Leaves- and even grass- greened up quickly. Such a vital mineral! (I remember how sailors used to die of scurvy at sea simply for want of an orange, or lemon for the vitamin C. This tree scourge was just as easily vanquished. Knowledge is power.)<br> <br>Roses and rhododendrons are acid lovers. So a morning java jolt of used coffee grounds added to the soil underneath perks them up.<br> <br>If you break stems arranging flowers, try adding a clear drinking straw to what’s left: the flower can be salvaged.<br> <br>Plants with glossy leaves have fewer diseases because the waxy coating is tough to penetrate. Mildew slides off, as it can’t get a grip. I recreate this condition with a product called Wilt-Pruf, an anti-desiccant. I spray any plant susceptible to mildew, like roses. It seals in moisture, too, always a good thing. (In early winter I coat my evergreens, rhodos, azaleas, and other plants that have been deeply watered through the fall. If I’m lucky, they’ll resist drying out from icy winds for about three months-through February or March, when winter is less of a threat.)<br> <br>One ladybug eats 5400 aphids during her lifetime. Encourage their visits. (Who was the dedicated scientist who patiently kept count?) <br> <br>The Guinness Book of World Records declares that one single winter rye plant makes 387 miles of roots in 1.83 feet of soil. This mind-boggling fact is helpful in understanding why I redig my beds every few years. Shockingly vigorous things are happening under ground. <br> <br>The scope of these dirt-y ponders keeps this gardener entertained…Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/37748022015-07-12T05:47:17-04:002015-07-12T05:47:17-04:007/12/15: Plant EnchantmentThe Fairy garden was created to lure youngsters deeper into natural adventures, produced, directed, and starring Mother Nature. (I hope to grow a gardener one day, from little seeds of curiosity…)<br>My garden’s gigantic ferns set the scene: they were among Earth’s first plants, and haven’t changed much since they first appeared, perhaps a billion years ago. And why not? Because their design works.<br>Megaferns help to blot out the usual world, and, as children have reminded me, fairies can flit around, half-hidden among their voluminous fronds…<br>I’ve seen lots of them behind the affectionate fountain fairies, who symbolize enduring love.<br> <br>A family with two children visited on one warm morning. The younger girl looked annoyed. Her sister rolled her eyes. Both radiated boredom. They hadn’t wanted to stop riding their tasseled bikes to come into ‘a dumb garden.’ Mom and Dad looked frustrated and tense as they entered.<br>It was the perfect time to weave some plant enchantment around the girls’ emotionally charged black clouds. <br> <br>I popped a question: “Who likes to take a bath?” The words were so unexpected that both girls stopped whining and stomping around to look at me, amazed, and not a little intrigued. I laughed conspiratorially. “Near you are an awful lot of bathing beauties in their bathtubs. Some wash in freezing water; some like it hot.” The parents grinned.<br> <br>Forgetting their pique the children surveyed the Fairy Garden, skipping right over the ‘bathers’ I’d mentioned. “You’re way cold!” I announced, watching their eyes.<br> <br>“How many are ‘an awful lot’?” The younger one asked, desperate for a clue. <br>“Oh,’ I answered, casually, “Dozens. Hundreds.”<br>The older girl scowled and abruptly folded her arms. “I wannanother clue.” <br> <br>“OK. They’re small. Very. You’re right next to shy, freezing fairy ladies.” They peered at everything, baffled. Hmmm…the only plant blooming spectacularly near them was a white, four-foot high Dicentra, or bleeding heart. Detaching a single bloom I turned it upside down and gently pulled the curved ‘tub’ sides apart to reveal a pale, shivering damsel rising from her bath… It was gratifying to watch their expressions of delight.<br> <br>I couldn’t resist dangling another mystery. “Do you feel watched? Look around for dark eyes…” They knew now to look for a flower. Pansy-faces of every color peered up at them quizzically. And, as they scanned the area more carefully, fairies of different sizes were noticed everywhere: the older girl counted 10. Dad, getting into the spirit of things, pointed out a tiny door partially hidden in the wall, with glowing windows on either side. The children were enchanted. Mom and Dad relaxed.<br> <br>The youngest rang the entrance bell, and they opened the big secret garden door to tiptoe in, giggling and speaking in excited voices as they moved about. The eight-foot high walls surrounded strange new sights. “Look! Someone’s splashed pink and white paint on those wall-climbing leaves…”<br>“Hey, Ginny, I found the hot-bath ladies! They’re super-pink!” <br> <br>Spreading out, they shouted their discoveries. <br>“There’s a giant snail in the swan fountain!”<br>“I found a secret bench back here, with a book-‘The Secret Garden,’ sitting on it…”<br>“Wow! This plant has monster leaves!”<br>“What smells so good?”<br>“Look! Those flowers are teenier than my pinky fingernail! They’re fairy flowers!!”<br>“There’s Winnie-the- Pooh, see? He’s under these big leaves, and those cats in that library window are staring at me; are they real?”<br> <br>The parents, enjoying their vindication, were wreathed in wide smiles, but wisely stayed in the background as they gave me the ‘thumbs up’ sign.<br> <br>The girls found more tiny, partially hidden doors in the final Brick Walled garden. A tiny fairy peeked out at them from thick English ivy climbing its walls. The story of the man-with-a-finger-up-his-nose, carved by a frustrated cathedral worker a thousand years ago, whose visage they’d noticed in the bricks, left them speechless for a bit. Both stared. “How high is 150 feet?” the youngest asked. “How could those workers climb so high? Are old cathedrals that giant?”<br>The questions flew!<br> <br>They insisted on going through again; this time the younger child rang the big garden bell. There were giggles, and then delighted shrieks as they peered high and low, discovering new treasures. A smallish cottontail bunny shot out from underneath the huge yellow Chamaecyparis shrub and bounced away, alarmed by small faces peering into its dark haven, and that caused much laughter, too.<br> <br>Gardens can cause children to bloom… Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/37660052015-07-05T07:27:40-04:002015-07-05T07:27:40-04:007/05/15: Unsettling VisitorsOne summer day I looked up from my noon meal to find a well dressed older couple inspecting the elephant ears (Colocasia) near the back alley gate while barely hanging on to a huge young labrador retriever. The wriggling dog was eager to explore rabbit scents. (My garden is, unfortunately, a rabbit haven.)<br>These visitors hadn’t rung the big garden bell. Furthermore, they’d bypassed the ‘No pets Please” sign. Horrified, I ran out and asked them to remove their pet immediately. Denying they’d seen the sign the couple assured me that fido “had already done his business,” but any male dog worth his salt will always have a reserve in his tank. <br> <br>Dog urine burns yellow holes in lawns. And just one can decimate a garden. A few summers ago a big husky, wearing a collar but attached to nobody, sneaked in past a gate inadvertently left open by a child. He galloped through the beds, chased the sleepy neighborhood cat, leaped for a panicked squirrel, and snapped at me when I tried to corral him. He finally trotted out the alley gate, but not before flattening lots of flowers.<br> <br>On the more fascinating side, an enormous raven suddenly appeared in the main garden, landing gracefully on the big fountain’s rim. He pondered me quietly for a long time, then called out in a low, croaky voice, to two more ebony giants, who joined him, flying in from a big branch on the giant red maple next door. I stood absolutely still, enchanted, and recalled Poe’s immortal poem, “The Raven,” while they drank and exchanged comments, studying me. My skin prickled. I hadn’t seen the likes of these since touring the Tower of London years ago.<br> <br>An evening storm was rapidly approaching; the leader bird turned a red eye toward his fellows and croaked another command. Tossing me a final glance they unfolded huge, jet-black wings, rose, and, with dark, roiling clouds lending an air of mystery,<br> <br>“…Left me for the Night’s Plutonian shore,”<br> Left “no black plume,” on fountain floor-<br> Alas! I beheld them<br> Nevermore.”<br> <br>Oh, and speaking of unsettling visitors, take careful note of this one.<br>One hot July afternoon a few summers ago I came into the kitchen for a cooling drink, and heard crashing, banging and angry shouting coming from the second floor! Puzzled, then alarmed, I dashed up the back stairs and up the hall to discover a tall, casually dressed man in his late twenties tearing through the master bedroom, doing his best to dismantle it. Dresser drawers were pulled out and emptied; framed pictures littered the carpet. Shouting for his wife to “come out, by God!” he shimmied under the bed on his back, looking for her. I was stupefied with amazement- and then fear, for now, glaring at me from behind the bed skirt, he screamed that I’d better show him where she was hiding- or else. Gasping and swearing he tried to heave up the heavy mattresses, yelling, “I’m buried alive!” and, “Where IS she!?” (The words he used were much more colorful.)<br> <br>Realizing he was temporarily stuck under there I gathered my wits, snatched up the bedside phone and called police. Three arrived (after what seemed forever, but which was probably no more than three minutes), heard the invader’s accusatory screams of anger, which pointed them up to the bedroom. They managed, with difficulty, to drag him out from under the bed and down the front stairs to the police car while he fought. He actually fell asleep for a minute after they’d secured him in the back seat.<br>The emergency room staff tested for hallucinogens while he continued to yell that his wife be freed from “that white house.”<br> <br>What if he had nodded off under <em>my</em> bed, until, say, evening? <br> <br><u>Back yard gardeners, lock your front door.</u>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/37576182015-06-28T06:34:38-04:002015-06-28T06:34:38-04:006/28/15: A Harvest of GoldOld houses often have a rich history. Our smallish, very tall 1872 brick farmhouse in Saginaw’s countryside, where Joe and I raised our family, has an especially sweet one, revealed just yesterday.<br> <br>The adventure began about two months ago, with a honeybee or two banging against the large living room window, as they’d been doing every spring for years. But now lots of bees meandered along the pale carpet, or stumbled around on the stairway leading to the second floor, too many to simply scoop up and usher out. They were even found in our beds. During bathroom visits in the deep night, our elder daughter Jen and my husband Joe noticed sleepy bees crawling along the upstairs hall carpet, attracted by the nightlight. Yikes! Imagine stepping on one, bare-footed!<br> <br>There had to be a hive outside somewhere, perhaps in one of the many trees living on our two acres of wooded yard. Busy distracted honeybees had probably bumbled into the house whenever we entered.<br> <br>Or maybe…just <em>maybe-</em> they were inside the walls! Like the bats!<br> <br>Years ago my husband began capturing and releasing confused adolescent bats who’d somehow found their way into our home. The invasion gradually increased, indicating that they were roosting somewhere inside the brick exterior walls of the 145-year old structure. But where?<br>To test the theory, he took a lawn chair outside as evening fell, and waited. Wow! <em>Countless</em> bats exited the house from a point just under the high roof.<br>It took a long time.<br> <br>Now he knew where they were living. The next morning a batman came to set up a tall extension ladder and affix a bat door to their entryway. The creatures could exit, but never re-enter. No bats would die; they’d simply find another home.<br>This simple, elegant solution stopped the problem.<br>Now, years later, the experience got us thinking.<br> <br>There just might be a honeybee hive up there, too!<br> <br>We hired a contractor/builder, who climbed up a long extension ladder to the roofline, in the same area where the bats had once lived. He found a rotting soffit board.<br>Aha! There <em>was </em>a thriving hive deep inside!<br>He’d replace all loose and elderly boards that had allowed their entry, but not until we contacted a beekeeper, who’d charge no fee, but instead, extract and keep the precious bees- and their waxy stores of golden honey.<br>A huge scaffold was set up to that end. Dressed in protective suits the beekeeper and his assistant climbed up- and tore out a decent section of the roof!<br>They gasped.<br> <br>A massive hive, maybe decades old, lay exposed. About 25,000 healthy honeybees buzzed around, confused by the morning light pouring in. Worker bees tried to protect a nursery, where new bees were just emerging. The queen, deeper inside, was busy making more bees. And, of course, huge stashes of honey, tidily stored in combs, lay in orderly rows. (An older part of the hive had been vacated years ago as the bees gradually expanded deeper into the roof rafters. Some of the big roof timbers in there were <em>half</em> the size they should have been, worn down over the years by bees, weather and time…<br> <br>Jenny donned a protective suit and climbed up for a closer look. She sampled a bit of honey and pronounced it delicious, tasting of clover, thistle and spearmint.<br> <br>The keeper dangled queens to get the bees’ attention, then gently sucked the insects into a specially altered shop vac. They were then transported to their new digs at his home not far away. Their relocation took all day. By the way, each pound of honeybees represents 2500-3000 insects. Over eight pounds of bees were extracted.<br> <br>One summer day many years ago a dear friend found thousands of bees blanketing the outside walls of her home. They were removed. Problem solved. They’d probably been swarming…<br> <br>But then, dining in their home with friends a few days later, there came a thick, golden drip-drip-drip from the ceiling, down into their hair, their food… and then the dining room ceiling collapsed, unable to support the weight of a mountain of untended honey and melting combs. Fortunately no one was hurt.<br> <br>Our attic ceiling might have met the same fate if, say, mites had infested these honeybees, killing them, which would leave their huge stash of honey untended. Mite infestation is a huge problem in this country.<br> <br>Part of the top of our Saginaw home now lay exposed to the elements, but no rain was predicted. Never mind: it came anyway. The builders rushed to temporarily tarp the wound, and will secure the roof later today, after the rest of the honey is extracted.<br> <br>Sweet!Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/37494152015-06-21T06:47:32-04:002015-06-21T06:47:32-04:006/21/15: The Pause That Refreshes6/21/15: The Pause That Refreshes<br> <br>Dear faithful readers,<br>Yesterday I finally opened Sunnybank’s renovated secret garden (though we’re still painting and staining and three fountains are giving us electrical fits). Within fifteen minutes a parade of garden lovers had come in to inspect the changes- two having driven up from Grand Rapids!<br> <br>(The winter of 2014-15 I got sick, and then broke my shoulder, forcing me to accept my new limitations as a gardener.)<br> <br>The new, simplified design is reminiscent of a small English park, enhanced by colorful blooms. Visitors may notice some intriguing surprises.<br> <br>Alas, I find myself too tired to think properly, and my hands really ache. I need some time off.<br>I should be up and running by next week, though.<br>Thanks for your patience!<br>Cheers, DeeDee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/37408262015-06-14T07:09:30-04:002015-06-14T07:09:30-04:006/14/15: Be Careful About Conclusions...I’m finally learning to listen to my ‘little voice’ instead of burying its persistent nudges deep in my subconscious mind when I make, and lock onto, a plan that turns out to be stone-cold dumb.<br> <br>Here’s the thing: the little gazebo in the back of the secret garden is nearly finished. The design goal for the space around it was complicated: surround the new structure with the large and medium fieldstone slabs I’d lifted from other spots around the secret garden. Leave ample space between them to replant my succulents, and other little flowers that enjoyed sun. Oh- and I could even grow lots of perfumed herbs, like basil and lemon thyme!<br>The plan enchanted me.<br> <br>Fine. My two strong helpers managed to roughly place each monster around the gazebo. It was hard work. (The dolly’s tires went flat with the weight.) When they were done, I stepped back, happy.<br>Except for that wretched brain-niggle I tried to ignore.<br>I’d fallen back into cumulative ‘plant passion’ as quick as that.<br> <br>It took three days to find my brain.<br>I woke on the third morning to sketch out which flowers would be beguiling between what stones- but then the exasperated murmur in my brain became a roar. <em>Idiot! Look at the gazebo, and the space around it!</em><br> <br>Sighing, I looked. I backed up about thirty feet, studied it again.<br>And winced.<br>It was a hard, busy landscape. The planned ambience had definitely tipped toward tough, and was way too complicated.<br>I’d almost made a really bad mistake.<br> <br>That afternoon we relocated many of the huge stones to sensible places, like the secret garden entrance, where the new grass there is already balding from too much foot traffic. The rest were banished to the garage. (Later I’ll break them up and use the bits as stepping-stones to access and maintain the redesigned flowerbeds.)<br>Brain-roar dissipated. Whew! The gazebo, escaping a stony future, felt much lighter. I felt relief. ‘To simplify’ my world meant something again.<br> <br> <br> ****<br> <br>Other entities stifle their little voices, too, perhaps with more success, to fulfill a dream…<br> <br>Our labradoodle, Bryn, has aspirations. One, born in early puppyhood, was to catch a squirrel. She’s yipped about the prospect in dreams while her paws twitch furiously. But, like children fantasizing about a wrapped birthday present, the anticipation may be huge, while the reality is often anti-climactic.<br> <br>It was six a.m. We were walking around the block, when Bryn froze. Ten feet ahead a plump black adult squirrel lay sleeping on the sidewalk, almost completely hidden under a big tree’s ground-level, leaf-heavy tree suckers.<br>What luck!!<br>With infinite care, a millimeter at a time, Bryn crept close, then assumed a perfect point. Her respirations doubled, betraying her tremendous excitement. Body rigid, paw up, tail arrow-straight, she pinned that squirrel with her eyes and Held. That. Point, body vibrating, for over five minutes- before I got antsy and tugged at her leash. Forced into action she instantly sprang high into the air, and, positioning her front legs straight down, landed full force on top of the doomed rodent.<br>Wump!!<br> <br>It died without protest. Bryn did her circle dance, ecstatic.<br><em>Gottcha!</em><br> <br>But wait! She stared down at the body.<br><em>That was too easy…Huh. Squirrels, for all their bravado, are wusses.</em><br><em>Aren’t they?</em><br>Puzzled, she thoroughly sniffed the perfectly intact, stone-dead rodent, then looked high up into the huge tree. <em>Why</em> <em>hadn’t it climbed? Too dumb?</em><br> <br>That it might have been dead (her little voice whispered) <em>before</em> she dispatched it- was unthinkable.<br>She’d killed it.<br>And so there!<br> <br>Now squirrels aren’t spared more than a disdainful glance as we do our walks. <em>Been there. Done that.</em><br><em>Bunnies-</em> which squirt out of bushes everywhere- command her full attention.<br>She’s always leashed as we move along. They boldly sit on lawns just a few feet away, understanding dog-tethers, knowing the odds massively favor cottontails.<br> <br><em>Still… </em>(mulls Bryn,) <em>one rabbit might lack decent feet, or sit there, still as stone, distracted by dreams of making love in the bushes…</em><br> <br><em>Luck favors the persistent. </em><br><em>Doesn’t it?</em>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/37323462015-06-07T05:40:25-04:002015-06-07T05:40:25-04:006/07/15: Ruby's StoryI enjoy listening to fascinating dog tales as we humans stand around the dog park watching our pets enjoy their romps. Many owners who have rescued their pets don’t mind relating their often poignant histories.<br> <br>Ruby, a beautiful three-year old 55-pound Vizsla (a popular Hungarian hunting dog aptly described as gentle, loyal, energetic and affectionate) ran happily about the big park, playing with her Labrador retriever ‘brother.’ She regularly checked in with her human family, dashing up to nose their hands and look deeply into their eyes for a minute before happily charging off again.<br> <br>Ruby’s teats were more prominent than usual. Before I could ask if she was a recent mother her owner noticed my interest and elaborated, smiling.<br> <br>“Oh, you should have seen them a couple of years ago; they were over four inches long, and swayed when she moved. The vet told us they’d probably not shrink much, but was he wrong! Just look at them now- only a little over a half-inch long!<br> <br>“A notorious puppy mill was raided and Ruby was one of the wretches they rescued. She’d produced litter after litter, and had mothered and nursed them tirelessly until they were snatched away too early and sold. When we got her she was completely exhausted and very thin, and shrank from people. She avoided eye contact and looked so bewildered and lonely. Her body language was pure apology; Heck, she apologized for living. She didn’t trust anyone and had never experienced affection, or a gentle touch, except, perhaps, from her pups. Locked up her whole, short life she’d never been outside, never learned to play…Her circumstances were heart- wrenching, to say the least.<br> <br>“We brought her home, introduced her to our three-year-old Lab, Roscoe, and began her rehabilitation. Just look at her now!” He smiled at her and stroked her face. She stared up at him, her brown eyes soft.<br> <br>“Initially she didn’t know what to do with so much freedom and space. She cowered, crept around the edges of our yard, and felt safest in corners. One day, though, her nose picked up some interesting smell, and she dared to move carefully through the grass to investigate, lifting her paws high, because the sensation of walking on grass was so different. Roscoe was delighted, and encouraged her to play. That day was the turning point. She began to relax, and notice things in a new way.<br> <br>“Our vet gave her a thorough checkup: she needed vitamins, worming, and had to gain ten pounds before he felt comfortable spaying her. Amazingly, those super-long teats began to shrink slowly, but steadily, as she got stronger. In a few months she was ready for the operation, which went well.<br> <br>“About two weeks after the surgery I woke up to find my cell phone missing. I <em>always</em> put it on the end table at bedtime, but that morning it had vanished. My wife and I looked for it everywhere- under the bed- in the car- before finally giving up.<br> <br>“Come to think of it, where was Ruby? She was always very near one of us, like a shadow, but not that morning. She wasn’t with Roscoe, either. We found her lying on her side in her own bed, with four small, stuffed doggy toys- <em>and</em> my cell phone- nudged into a row next to her teats! We were astonished! She’d clearly missed nurturing her pups, and found great comfort in arranging this scene. Her babies had been the source of her only good memories.<br> <br>“She’s never felt the need to do it again…”<br> <br>He wiped his eyes, still moved by the image. I wiped mine, too.<br> <br>Ruby, a too-young mother too often, is now herself reborn, free of the daunting responsibility of trying to nurture endless little ones in appalling conditions, only to have them ripped away.<br>Now the tables have turned. Her family will forever cherish and provide for this gentle, trusting dog.<br>There’s a sort of justice at work here.Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/37226512015-05-31T06:53:05-04:002015-05-31T06:53:05-04:005/31/15: Birdling BoldnessBryn and I had a feathery adventure in the secret garden.<br> <br>A fat fledgling robin, speckled breast sprouting stray bits of fluffy remnant down, landed unsteadily on the brick garden walk right in front of us. Its loud, inquisitive cheeps startled Bryn. She stood abruptly, poised to pounce. I gave sharp commands: <em>sit! Stay!</em> My baffled dog shot me an incredulous look, but minded. Her brown eyes, though, bored into the short-tailed, naïve birdling facing us, who seemed oblivious to the danger we represented. Instead, it fired off questions. <em>‘Who are you? What are you? Do you eat big worms?’</em> while its frantic parents flew back and forth just overhead, begging their youngster to <em>‘Fly! Fly! Or die!’</em><br> <br>Ignoring them the fascinated robinette studied us, and especially Bryn. <em>‘Are you my mother?’ </em>It hopped closer. The parents screamed <em>‘NO!’</em> Our hair ruffled from the wind they created rocketing back and forth past our heads, calling, calling.<br>Bryn’s back arched and she trembled, but stayed in the ‘sit’ position, trying to keep track of flight paths and baby- squawks at the same time.<br> <br>For many minutes the three of us observed one another; then we two ‘monsters’ backed away. The fearless little featherhead followed us, still cheeping incessant questions. I sensed Bryn’s self-control wouldn’t last another minute, so, with difficulty, I dragged my saucer-eyed dog into the house to prevent disaster.<br> <br>I returned to sit on the walk in front of birdie, who hadn’t budged. We traded mystified, cheerful cheeps, but the parents weren’t reassured.<br>Bryn’s black nose mashed the kitchen window as she stared, dumbfounded by my inaction. <em>‘Grab! Grab!’</em> she mentally shouted.<br> <br>Hmmm…<em>Could</em> I reach out and touch it? I extended my arm slowly, but the fledgling, finally alarmed, hopped and flapped along the walk, setting up for an awkward departure. I realized that this was probably its first gravity-defying takeoff, from <em>down</em> to <em>up,</em> requiring much more worm-power than simply stepping off its nest into space.<br> <br>Inexperienced wings gathered air; laboriously the youngster rose, carving out an erratic flight path that barely missed the fence. Its relieved parents managed to shepherd it to the big maple tree, scolding all the while. <em>‘You. Must. Listen! </em><br><em>Stay close to birds, high trees and big sky! <u>Never</u> stay close to low, bird-eating monsters!’</em><br> <br>I smiled ruefully. Parents everywhere complain that their adventuresome children often dismiss those who try to pass on invaluable skills they’ve learned from Wisdom, and its rougher companion, Experience.<br>If our robinette is lucky, though, that ancient duo’s benefits will be more fully appreciated later…Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/37119712015-05-24T05:55:10-04:002015-05-24T05:55:10-04:005/24/15: Bugged5/24/15: Bugged<br> <br>I looked in the mirror this early morning and winced. A weird-looking alien looked back. Truly. My left eye is a mere slit, and my forehead has reverted, becoming an impressive Neanderthal-type brow. There’s a massive lump/bump there; my skin is painfully stretched. This horrid topographical rearrangement was caused by a gnat- one teeny, tiny, almost invisible gnat that gleefully sank its practically invisible proboscis/biter into my forehead, right beneath my hairline, to inject me with its poison. I was chatting with the window-cleaner guy when <em>Bam!</em> I felt a shocking pain, and grabbed my forehead. It felt like someone had lit a fire there.<br>(I’m super-allergic to gnat bites, which is why I’m attempting to escape them by building the gazebo, complete with screens and discreet bug-zappers.)<br> <br>Anyway, I raced inside to grab my antihistamine pills, but noted that they had expired, so I raced to the pharmacy on my bike, praying I’d get there before it closed. There were six minutes left before the doors locked. The pharmacist took one look and ran for the meds I needed. He kindly brought a cup of water, and I gulped down a pill as the sale went through.<br>“Don’t drive; this stuff helps, but makes a person sleepy pretty quickly.”<br>“No worries,” I said grumpily. “I rode my bike…”<br>“That’s worse! Unless you live close by?”<br>“Yes- just three blocks…” He was reassured, but told me not to travel anywhere for a while. I rubbed the lump fiercely and wished the medicine would hurry up and work. I was worse than I’d been just five minutes ago. Fortunately I’d had the presence of mind to grab my sunglasses, which half-disguised my condition. I hate it when people stare, but hey, I would. I look awful.<br>The thing is, I got caught napping, having mistakenly reassured myself that this really cold weather would make gnats wait a bit before venturing out. So I hadn’t donned my mosquito veil.<br> <br>This fat head will last about a week. I must continue taking the meds until at least Monday, which means I’ll garden half-asleep. I really shouldn’t use ladders, sharp tools, or try to weed, because now my right eye is swollen as well. I might, for example, jab my hand with the weeder’s sharp, forked tongue. Being half-blind leaves one awkward.<br>So, I’m probably useless out there.<br> <br>I guess misery loves company. I’ve noticed Bryn is sneezing. She’s become droopy and lethargic; her nose is running.<br>I don’t think it’s an allergy, as her eyes are clear. (Allergies cause eye and ear irritation for her.) I think she has a cold. She isn’t as lively outside, but her appetite and water intake are reasonable, so no vet, yet.<br>I bought a big bottle of Ester-C, excellent for 24-hour immune support, and use my mortar and pestle to pummel it into a semi-powder. After smearing a decent bit of crunchy peanut butter onto my palm I dump the crushed 1000 mg Vitamin C onto the peanut butter ‘bed,’ then smear another nice dollop of the gloppy goop on top. Bryn <em>loves</em> crunchy peanut butter. This palm ‘sandwich’ is the perfect way for her to take pills.<br> <br>Though we’re both off our feed, it will pass.<br>Today there is something much more important to think about.<br> <br> ***<br>It’s Memorial Day weekend. I reflect on the sacrifices my Uncle Milton made as a Marine in the Pacific during the Second World War. He knew misery, and fleas, and foxholes, and intense heat, and he witnessed not only cruelty, but also incredible bravery, over and over. He spoke of his experiences briefly, and only once. <br> <br>Years ago I found a way to remember, and symbolically thank, all the brave men and women who sacrificed their lives to keep this country free. I always choose one dozen perfect red roses at the local flower shop, and then visit a cemetery. Any one will do. I move slowly past graves- often situated under giant, sheltering trees- marked with American flags. Older headstones might have the soldier’s rank in the Marines, the Navy, the Air Force, the Army or the Coast Guard, perhaps carved into granite.<br>On graves that have no flowers, I leave a rose, and a heartfelt ‘Thank you!’<br> <br>Bless them all. Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/37104082015-05-17T06:05:52-04:002015-05-17T06:05:52-04:005/17/15: Not Yet...Slowly, steadily, the new secret garden is taking shape. I regularly despair that I’ll ever get done. My complaints about pace happen mostly in the evening, when I’m too tired to think straight. But, if I stand in the kitchen and look outside, the bigger picture does look promising. The grass seed has mostly sprouted, baby blades giving the emerging lawn a fuzzy emerald shine when sun hits the tiny new growth just so. I’ve scattered straw over the places we workers must walk, to try to protect the seedlings, and I water regularly. Moistness is key. But it’s not fun to work around cold spray on a cold day. So, when we stop tramping around the landscape at lunchtime, on goes the newly installed irrigation.<br> <br>The big problem is the unpredictably cold nighttime weather. The garage is crammed to overflowing with potted annual and tropical plants, the latter having lived inside throughout the winter. They can’t be planted yet, and so must share garage space with mountains of stacked bricks, tools, bags of earth, timber, paint, bikes- and yes, even one motorcycle and a car. We must hop over things- literally- to navigate inside the jammed interior. Furthermore, every plant inside must be brought outside daily to savor the sunlight. Big pots and trays line the sidewalk, leaving mere inches for workers to move from A to B. Manipulating wheelbarrows around them is nerve-racking.<br>Arghhh!<br> <br>Oh- have I mentioned the huge piles of stacked fieldstone lifted from the old garden design? They’ll be reset elsewhere, but not yet.<br>Waah! Everything is ‘NOT YET.’<br> <br>I forgot to mention another thing: the piles of lumber that are slowly morphing into a gazebo of our design.<br>Why?<br>-I can’t be in sun without my veiled big-brim hat.<br>-Insect bites are a constant threat, as I react with massive swelling.<br>I’ve never been able to enjoy the garden in the morning or evening without donning my mosquito-net suit, which means this garbed pseudo-Martian can’t eat or drink, or feel normal around others. The new, screened area will help.<br>Meanwhile, construction clutter adds to the confusion.<br> <br>Two baffled mice sit on their haunches next to their garage escape hole to gawk.<br>Long rows of birds perch on power lines just outside in the alley, to offer opinionated squawks.<br>Rabbits venture out onto the straw-strewn almost-lawn to stare, causing Bryn-dog to stand at the kitchen window, frozen into a frustrated, perpetual point.<br>Alley passersby peek in to cheer us on.<br> <br>Renovations are always- interesting.<br> <br>I crept outside very early Friday morning, put a bag in the alley trashcan, and then sat quietly inside my half-finished, roofless gazebo. The garden smelled of wet straw, sawdust and freshly turned earth. I love this time of every new day, for its stillness- for the sense that time has paused.<br> <br>My hair rose. I felt- watched. I have well-developed antenna, acquired when I spent a year in the flooded out ruin of my rural cottage in England, doing restorations. In the wee hours I’d often sit in the forest behind it to enjoy its wildlife. (Helen’s Wood, by ancient decree, will always remain pristine- i.e.- untouched by humans.)<br>My patient stillness would usually be rewarded. Furtive mice, owls, hedgehogs, badgers and foxes would flit by in search of food, knowing, somehow, that I posed no threat.<br> <br>Now I looked up. A curious fox, copper coat shining from alley pole light, had sauntered into the garden via the alley door, which I’d forgotten to shut. His expressionless eyes locked onto mine. We studied each other for a long time. He’d probably been dustbin-foraging, or mouse-hunting out there…<br>He felt comfortable enough to sit for a bit, bushy tail curled around his hindquarters. I didn’t move a muscle, except to smile. Interestingly, Sir Fox had no scent.<br> <br>I was reminded of the time during the awful British winter of 2009, when the Queen and a fox happened to meet right at Westminster Cathedral’s main door. The animal looked up at her expectantly. Unruffled, she let him in, and he went straight to a big heater to warm himself. Then, a few minutes later, he trotted out again. Her Majesty’s only reaction as she held the door open was to shrug and smile.<br>An estimated ten thousand foxes live inside the city of London.<br> <br>My visitor broke off his survey of the disheveled garden to lick his lips. Then, without a sound, he vanished into the alley.<br> <br>At 4 a.m. there are no cars. No planes. No people.<br>Not yet.<br>But sometimes, in here, there <em>is</em> enchantment. Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/37014002015-05-10T07:35:22-04:002015-05-10T07:35:22-04:005/10/15: From Scraggly to Scrumptious5/10/15: From Scraggly to Scrumptious<br> <br> <br>Shaggy Bryn rocketed around in the dog park, just barely ahead of two larger dogs in hot pursuit. The threesome roared through the huge arena at full speed for a long time before pausing to shake, sniff bottoms and wrestle in spring dirt. Finally, she flopped down on the dusty earth under some leaf-naked birch trees, long tongue hung low, panting in the spring heat. Her thick, long, once-white coat was grubby gray. Exhausted, happy and very hot, she wandered over to drink deeply from the park’s water bowl. Dripping liquid created long, ropey black dirt tendrils that dangled from her chin-beard. Yuck!<br> <br> I love her woolly look and brush her every morning, but to keep her clean and un-matted in summer, when she wallowed in water and mud, would be a challenge. I said as much to another owner standing next to me. “Well,” he grinned, “here’s a solution! There’s a guy, Barry Schweirkart, who’ll come to your house to relieve Bryn of that pile of hair, in style. Our big dog, Charley, used to whine and try to slink away when we drove him to the groomers, but now, whenever Barry drives up to our home with his trailer- a clever dog salon complete with tub and table and all the relevant stuff he needs- he’s greeted with lots of wagging and licking. They’re friends. Charley walks right into the trailer, and the rest is easy.” (How did Barry get started? A few years ago he tried to set up an appointment to get his dogs trimmed, but the wait was far too long- weeks. His annoyance morphed into an ‘Aha!’ moment. <em>He</em> could do it! He loved dogs, and had a way with them: why not enroll in school to learn the art of grooming? It could be a fine way to earn money. Plus, he’d never have a boring day.)<br> <br>We noted the clever business name- ‘Clippin’ Along.’ I rang the number on his website and left a message, the minute we got home. Barry rang me back in early evening and we settled on a date- May 7<sup>th</sup>, late enough that Bryn’s reduced coat wouldn’t be a problem, as summer is right around the corner.<br> <br>I was nervous, though. I’d heard owners comment that no matter how many times they tried to tell professional clippers what they wanted, their dog was shorn too short, or weirdly, or how the <em>groomer</em> thought it should look. Facial hair was often cut incorrectly. I loved Bryn’s long whiskers, and her interesting, fuzzy face: would those endearing features vanish?<br> <br>A picture is worth a ton of words, so I entered ‘labradoodle haircut ideas’ on Google, and prowled through endless photos showing trimming possibilities. She could look like a pampered poodle- ugh!- or a slim, shorn, leggy doodle with a skinny tail- ugh!- or come away with odd-bod cuts favored by owners. Only a few doodle-ly-dos appealed to me. Simply put, I wanted a shorter, tidier version of what she had. I saved two photos to show Barry, and crossed my fingers.<br> <br>On Thursday morning he arrived right on time- a tall, comfortably built man with a cheerful demeanor. I liked him immediately. We sat on the front porch and I proffered the photos. “Leave her lovely tail as it is; ditto her whiskers. I love her eyebrows, but there’s too much hair around her eyes; she can’t see through all that shrubbery. What can you do?”<br> <br>He listened, studied the photos. A curious Bryn watched us chatting through the screen door. I invited her outside to meet Barry. She came to him slowly, sniffed his hand, sat, and calmly offered a paw. He took it gently. “Would this be her first haircut?” Yup.<br>“How old is she?”<br>“One year and four months,” I responded.<br>He was amazed. “So young, and yet so calm! Labradoodles are so exuberant and full of energy they can hardly contain themselves. How unusual to work with a calm, young ‘doodle!’<br>I grinned, reassured when he commented that Bryn would be more comfortable and tidily attractive when he’d finished. He would stick to my guidelines.<br>The thing is- Bryn’s hair grows back slowly. Very slowly. If this turned out badly, she and I would be stuck in ‘dopeydogland’ for a very long time. Oh well. In for a penny…<br> <br>.<br> <br>We three walked to his compact trailer and through a sturdy screened door. Inside was a spanking clean room, efficiently filled with tub, adjustable grooming table and all the equipment he’d need. Bryn could see her home through the door. He picked her up and placed her gently into the tub. She minded not at all. I told her to stay, and turned away. She understood that Barry was in charge now.<br>He put on a waterproof apron and began to shampoo her. She was fine with that, and stood there patiently. I remained inside for just a minute, pretending to examine the literature on the far wall.<br>A minute later I left without fanfare or eye contact.<br> <br>90 minutes later my dog ambled up the walk.<br>I stared!<br>Bryn. Was. Gorgeous!<br>And I swear, she knew it! Her tail wagged; she grinned and pranced about, happily showing off her white, soft coat. Two inches of her over four-inch-long scraggly hair had gone, and her dear face was trimmed perfectly. Those brown eyes would view the world without hairy barriers, but she was the same funny labradoodle I loved to look at. (And, to my husband’s pretend dismay, she sported a cute little ribbon atop her left ear.)<br>I’d never seen her look this good. The man had listened- and delivered!<br> <br>The price for this fine service isn’t cheap.<br>But, for me, his sensitivity and talent were worth every penny.Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/36881372015-05-03T06:22:09-04:002015-05-03T06:22:09-04:005/03/15: Beginnings, Endings, BeginningsI can’t remember being this tired. I can’t remember being this old, either. Never mind. It’s an honest, working tired. Plus, I’m still alive and kicking, which is much better than the alternative.<br> <br>I’m in the secret garden heaving dirt, along with a crew of three strong men. There’s so much to do! But as we dig up and clear the ground of roots, relocate plants, move stones, and eliminate borders I reflect that this rapidly disappearing design took years to construct. It won’t exit easily.<br>(My shoulder, broken in mid-January, is coping pretty well. Movements involved in digging and tossing dirt are steadily strengthening muscle-attachments. Pain has gradually dissipated. Today, after two weeks of hard work, I’ve won back almost full range-of-motion. Almost.)<br> <br>I’m also fiddling with furniture. We’ve swapped sofas, hauling the one from our Saginaw farmhouse up here, and hauling the one from here, back there. This living room is different, yet familiar. I like it.<br> <br>My fourth musical CD is nearly done. And, I’ve discovered a wonderful book- <u>The Hundred:</u> <u>A Ranking Of The Most Influential Persons In History,</u> by Michael Hart, published in 1998. It’s riveting! Today I woke at 3 a.m. hot to read about Edward de Vere. I agree with the author’s reasoning: he’s answered a lot of nagging questions, but I’m still dazed by his daring proposition. (Are you intrigued? Check it out.)<br> <br>All this physical and mental exercise has created a potential monster: Me.<br> <br>To wit: Two days ago I put peas in a pot, added an inch of water, turned on the flame, and wandered off to contemplate a chord sequence in a song I was composing. The fire alarm honked! Horrified, and sadly clueless as to why, I rushed into the kitchen to look around. Phew! The stink of burning filled the air. Oh, jeez- the peas! My brand-new Caphalon pot was a charred mess.<br>After reassuring the alarm company, I cleaned up.<br>Imagine if I’d gone to the store…<br> <br>The next day I tramped out of the garden and into the kitchen to pop a tortilla into the toaster. I was starving. The thought of wrapping it around crunchy peanut butter, salad dressing and diced purple onions made me drool. Alas, while it warmed I wandered off to worry about my three holly bushes.<br>Three minutes later black smoke billowed out of the oven: fire followed. That tortilla was toast.<br>What if I’d been walking Bryn three blocks away?<br>The fire alarm shrieked. Again.<br>The kitchen stank. Again.<br>I wearily reassured the alarm company and cleaned up. Again. <br> <br>Two alarms in two days! Clearly, I’m a one-thought pony. Two thoughts- and I’m dangerous.<br> <br>New Rules:<br><em>Set aside </em>musical composition thoughts.<br>Books- and the thoughts they give birth to- shall remain unexplored until the garden is shut down for the day.<br>Buy a thigh or have food delivered until the new garden is finished.<br> <br>Sunnybank House is marginally safer.<br> <br>While I worked outside yesterday Bryn sat next to me gazing up at the sky, following jets as they lined up to land at the local airport. Suddenly, our attention was drawn to a noisy commotion on freshly turned earth nearby. Two fat robins were fluttering and squawking on the ground, mating. My incredulous puppy flew there to scoop up both busy birds, her eyes huge with triumph! This was a dream come true: <em>two</em> birds in one jaw!<br>With horrified squawks the robins tried to wriggle free.<br>Wasn’t happening.<br>I moved faster than light to her side and yelled a command: “Bryn! Drop them!” Surprised, she opened up. The terrified pair tumbled out with soft plops, untangled themselves, and shakily flew up to the phone wires, there to peer down at the white monster. Though some belly feathers poked out oddly, they were unhurt.<br> <br>Fat rabbits frequently pop up from behind mounds of earth to watch us busy humans. Two bunnies, though, were done before they’d begun.<br>I glanced up to observe Bryn move slowly across the garden, her twitching nose held high. She stopped to point stiffly for thirty seconds. Finally, she moved hesitantly toward a shallow depression under the huge hibiscus bush. This behavior was unusual, so I walked over. “What is it, girl?” She glanced toward me before gently nosing two perfect baby rabbits. Though still warm, both were dead. There was no sign of trauma. Their fur-lined nest was undisturbed. <em>What</em> had happened?<br>We’ll never know.<br> <br>The new irrigation system is in; the relocated fountain is up, but not running yet; five big flowerbeds have gone to grass. A brand new garden is emerging from the ashes of the old one.<br>Birth and death-<br>Here, then gone, then back again-<br>But different-<br> <br>It’s the cycle of Life.Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/36775112015-04-26T07:10:50-04:002015-04-26T07:10:50-04:004/26/15: Invention = Adventure!It’s biking season!! The TART trails are wonderful for exploring this area, but, alas, Bryn would be left behind, as it would be difficult and dangerous to hold her leash and still control my bike. If she spotted a squirrel, or saw another dog, she’d bolt to chase them, and bang! Down I’d go, at speed, to re-break my half-healed shoulder, or my head or arm...<br>That possibility made me shudder.<br> <br>But at the dog park Joe and I struck gold.<br>Dog owners exchange information and advice about the best groomers, toys, veterinarians, dog food- you name it. For example, I wanted to purchase dog poop bags that didn’t take forever to open. A woman suggested a better bag brand, and where to buy it.<br>A man mentioned that Tractor Supply carried a beach ball sized, heavy rubber ball with a handle, made for horses to play with. “They roll it all over the pasture, or toss and kick it around, and have a wonderful time. It works just dandy for dogs, too.” He went to his car to fetch his, and let his 60-pound dog demonstrate by rolling the enormous ball everywhere using his nose. “He’ll do that for a long time and wear himself out,” the owner commented. “It’s great exercise!”<br> <br>Then, pay dirt! Another man standing with us suddenly piped up. “ You want a way to run Bryn safely next to your bike? My friend recently came across a really clever American invention online, called the Bike Tow Leash, or BTL. It’s pricey, but he and his wife absolutely love it. The inventor designed a strong, yet flexible gadget that won’t cause rider or dog any problems. Its design is really ingenious.”<br> <br>We went home and immediately looked up ‘Bike Tow Leash’ on our laptop. It looked odd and <em>was</em> expensive- $145.00. But if it worked, Bryn could be part of our adventures. We hesitated over the price, but after watching movies of bikers demonstrating its effectiveness, and noticing that dogs <em>towed their owners</em> happily, and after reading the rave reviews, we ordered it. (There are cheaper versions, but I wouldn’t trust them, as their center of gravity is too high.)<br> <br>A few days later, it came. I took it outside, attached it to the frame holding the rear wheel, and summoned Bryn. She studied that long, bright red, flexible arm sticking out 90 degrees (it comes in different colors, by the way, and snaps back onto the frame when not in use) and slunk off. It took a few firm calls to get her back.<br> <br>She refused to even sniff it. <em>It looks stupid, Boss…</em><br>Yeah, it did.<br>Determined to try it, I attached the gadget’s business end to the top of her harness, straddled the bike and peddled off slowly, before gradually moving to trotting speed. <br>She went along quietly, while shooting me <em>Are you nuts?</em> looks. I ignored them, and cheered her on.<br>Far down the alley I turned my head toward her again, saying “Good girl, you’re doing fine…” <br>She was gone. Just gone. The empty harness, though, still hung in the air at the correct distance from the ground as it obediently accompanied the bike.<br> <br>Shocked and confused, I stopped and looked back. Bryn was by the garage with Joe, watching me. She’d slithered out, Houdini-style! I’d felt nothing!!<br>Except foolish.<br> <br>Joe was doubled over, laughing. Actually, it <em>was</em> pretty funny, but in a sad way, because we’d have to send it back. Bryn would remain alone in the kitchen while we were out having fun. Rats.<br> <br>But then, some Yankee stubbornness kicked in. I would NOT give up.<br>I put Bryn back into her harness and coaxed her, inch by reluctant inch, to my bike. I snapped on the BTL. She looked at me incredulously, hunched her back, made herself thin as toothpaste and simply backed out of it in two seconds flat.<br>Wow.<br> <br>Third time’s the charm, I thought. I dragged her back, harnessed her again, knelt down, looked her straight in the eye, and said firmly, “No!! Don’t. Even. Think. About It.” She hunched anyway, shot me a glance- and thought better of it.<br> <br>This time I got smart and slowly <em>walked</em> the bike from its right side, giving her time to adjust. An attached Bryn followed at heel on the left side, shooting me <em>you know I can ooze away whenever I want to-</em> looks. But <em>I</em> was the Alpha Dog. I shot her <em>that</em> look, and growled ‘No.’ She sighed, and allowed herself to be walked, as that seemed safe enough. But still, she’d hunch, relax, hunch, relax, to show what she <em>could</em> do if she felt like it.<br>I snarled, just to let her know she’d better not go thin.<br>We made a strange pair.<br> <br>Finally I straddled the bike. “let’s go…” and peddled off. She trotted alongside stiffly, but never once oozed out and away. And about a block into it, a miracle. Her back unhunched. She began to relax and look around! Hey! We were a pair! Thrilled, I dared to grin as we moved briskly along, but I was still quite nervous. Our neighborhood was full of dogs. We’d absolutely meet some.<br>Oh, well, in for a penny, in for a pound. This gadget had to be tested.<br> <br>Five blocks later the worst happened. Two big Labrador retrievers barked thunderously and threw themselves toward her from behind their fenced-in yard. My 50-pound yearling reared, then bolted toward them. Oh, God! The cement would be my pallet in another second…<br>Nothing happened.<br>The bike tow pole, unimpressed, had flexed an inch or two- and that was that.<br>My bicycle remained rock-steady.<br>On the way back- another potential nightmare at ten miles an hour! A fat rabbit dashed out of the shrubbery, right in front of us!! Bryn charged!<br>Same thing happened.<br>Nothing.<br>Heavens! The BTL <em>worked!</em><br> <br>I enjoyed the rest of that ride! Bryn was tired- and happy- when we came home.<br>She’d liked it, too!<br>Joe was elated!<br> <br><em>So much </em>will be possible, now!Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/36657712015-04-19T06:20:51-04:002015-04-19T06:20:51-04:004/19/15: For Everything There is a SeasonDirt is flying in Sunnybank’s secret garden.<br> <br>But what’s happening this year behind its high walls marks a radical change for it, and me.<br>I must, of necessity, rethink everything. I had three huge hints over the last long, often difficult winter, that it’s time to adjust to new realities.<br> <br>Ahead lies a big challenge- to give my secret garden a fresh, much simplified layout that is still lovely. For the last 23 years I’ve been happily wedded to this cherished spot for five of the loveliest months of every year. For 23 years the garden was First. Joe has been incredibly gracious about my dedication. I rarely left. I cared for it every single day, and found deep pleasure in tweaking dear plants that had special needs. Though enormously fulfilling, this sort of passion always extracts a price: our time to do other things together during gardening season didn’t happen often enough.<br>It will, now. We’re looking forward to lots of gentle summer adventures, away.<br> <br>I’ve set a goal: to open on June 15, our 48<sup>th</sup> wedding anniversary, if all goes well.<br>Watch the sign on the front lawn for days and times to visit, as availability won’t be as regular as before. As before, ring to schedule larger tours.<br>Otherwise, simply pop in if the sign reads ‘Open.’<br> <br>So, what’s changing, specifically? Well, I’m relocating the huge fountain well away from the 15-foot high Chamaecyparis shrub, which has nearly overtaken it. Its lovely golden branches would ruffle my shirt as I squeezed past the fountain pool to garden in another area. I grew to dislike crawling deep into and under its lush growth to reach the electric outlet.<br>When I planted this lovely shrub 15 years ago it barely reached my waist. Today, enormously fat, the elderly beauty towers ten feet above my head. It would be sinful to cut it down and impossible to move, so I’m shifting what I <em>can</em>.<br>But, as always, snags happen, just to keep life interesting.<br> <br>My dear friend Les pulled out the pool, traced around its 50-inch girth in the new spot, set its fiberglass roundness to one side and began to dig a fresh, eight-inch deep hole. Our plan: spread in ten bags of pea gravel, level the bed, and then reset the fountain and pool into their new home. Simple, huh? Alas, no. I’d inadvertently selected the exact spot where a large snarl of multi-colored electric wires had been buried 20 years ago. Six large irrigation pipes were exposed as well, joining up here from all points of the garden in a complex tangle of elbows and angles. Our sharp shovels penetrated two of them before we realized what was happening.<br>Good thing the irrigation system hasn’t been activated yet. What a blast <em>that</em> would have been!<br> <br>This situation was beyond my pay grade, so I rang Lautner Irrigation. Luckily, its irrigation manager was able to come immediately. He hopped into the hole and set to work relocating everything to an area adjacent to the pool’s new location. It was exacting work. Three hours later, though, things made sense. He covered his work, but just barely. “Leave this new arrangement exposed until the water’s turned on next week. If there <em>are</em> leaks or other problems, they’ll be easy to find.”<br> <br>Large chunks of sod lie scattered about on the winter-worn grass; tons of chopped out roots, tools and tarps litter the area. Massive step stones have been collected and stacked beside the Chamaecyparis. Stone slabs and flowers will be relocated here, or passed on to friends and family. Five garden beds will go to grass.<br>I’ve removed all the iron fencing that once divided the garden into rooms. The Ram’s Head garden’s entrance pillars are gone. The beautiful little arbor we built fifteen years ago has been removed to sell. Soon I’ll have fashioned a large, open park bordered by flowers.<br> <br>I’ve left the Brick-walled and Faerie Gardens as they were, as well as the front border gardens.<br> <br>Some wag once commented that ‘the one constant in life is Change.’ Never mind: Change can be fun.<br> <br>For me, it’s time to embrace it.Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/36537022015-04-12T07:09:59-04:002022-03-15T07:17:26-04:004/12/15: I Wish I Could Explain... It’s awful when a dog cries from the pain of a loss not understood.<br> <br>Last week I left my labradoodle yearling, Bryn, at a new doggie daycare center to enjoy a few hours of indoor play with other dogs, some of whom she knew from dog park visits. The weather outside was frightful; high wind and drenching rain had created mud everywhere. Except for quick backyard potty visits she would have been confined to the house, as we don’t walk out in bad weather.<br> <br>I thought she’d grasped the concept of <em>day</em>care because she’d been enrolled at one other center in Bay City, Michigan, when I’d travel back to our little farmhouse home for a few days. She’d mope very briefly, but then throw herself into games. Drop-offs weren’t new.<br>But, for some reason, <em>this </em>one was different, as I found out later…<br> <br>From a big, low window in the reception area she’d watched me drive away, horrified. What had she done? Why had I left her? My normally self-assured Bryn hung her head and cried. It wrenched the staffer’s heart. She couldn’t be enticed from the window. Heartbroken, head in paws, she mourned, ignoring the happy barking and scampering-around-noises just beyond the front reception area. She was utterly miserable.<br>It was as if I had died…<br>She wouldn’t be comforted, so they brought in a dog her size who immediately bounced over to nibble her ear. Bryn ignored the newcomer, but finally allowed the staff member to lead her and her companion into the play area, where she was instantly surrounded by other dogs eager to include her in their games.<br>A frisky pup dangled a tug-of-war rope in front of her. She looked up dully, then instinctively took it. According to a science program I just saw, it seems that mammalian brains are designed to focus on one thing at a time. She had to give up the realization that I was gone forever to concentrate on keeping the rope from being snatched away-- and suddenly it was all right. She stopped moaning and began, slowly, to play.<br> <br>Dogs and staff kept her busy, introducing new toys, cheering her on, and by the time I returned, perhaps 5 hours later, she was in full throttle. (Interestingly, distraction can be a very useful tool to manage human grief, too.)<br> <br>I will never forget the look on her face when she saw me. Arriving in the reception area she stared, thunderstruck. Then her bewhiskered face was transformed by joy. She pointed her muzzle at the ceiling and cried, then rushed over to lick my pants, my face, my hands, and thrust her nose between my knees so I could scratch her ears, which was difficult, as Bryn was a 50-pound body in motion. (Dogs show unreserved happiness so very well; that’s one reason we love ‘em.) There was no need to snap on her leash; her head was glued to my leg as we walked to the car. She never stopped gazing up at me. It was an intense experience.<br>I settled her in her back seat nest, answered a phone call, and then concentrated on driving.<br> <br>Two days later I brought her back for another romp, as I needed to pack for our trip downstate.<br>This time, her greeting was warm and much more relaxed. I commented, so the staff relayed what had happened two days earlier. “Initially, dogs can react with intense sadness to being ‘dumped’ in an alien place,” commented one minder, “but they’ll quickly revert to their normal optimism. Today Bryn was immediately eager to join the other dogs. She hasn’t stopped playing.” <br> <br>I was thoughtful during the three-hour drive to Saginaw.<br>There is no way to explain to her why I do things like this. All I <em>can</em> do is continue to expose her to new experiences, such as drop-offs for grooming, staying with friends and other family when Joe and I fly somewhere, occasional daycare, etc. to build her confidence.<br> <br>Bryn is learning to trust in one simple truth:<br>Family Always Comes Back.<br> Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/36419312015-04-05T00:29:12-04:002017-01-11T09:52:03-05:004/5/15: Old Times Are Not Forgotten...<span class="font_large">Arizona still emits startling whiffs of the Old West. <br><br>In mid-March Joe and I flew there to visit his sister Nan and her husband Jim. One bright, cool morning they took us to the elegant Scottsdale Art Show, situated in a lovely treed park, after which everyone padded a few blocks to Old Town, whose main street was reminiscent of ‘the way it was.’ Example? An older cowboy, clad in comfortable, well-worn clothing, rode his placid horse slowly up the street -and straight into a saloon. He ordered whisky and a burger from ‘on high’-- and was served. The horse, who seemed confortable in the confined, rather dark space, waited patiently with eyes half-closed as the guy high in the saddle knocked back his whisky and gobbled his grub while gabbing with his more conventional table-and-chairs buddies.<br> <br>A twenty-minute ride deeper into the desert brought us to Cottonwood, a small town with some unusual shops. Larry’s Antiques and Things, anchoring one end of Main Street, boasts two acres of ‘are you serious?’ offerings- rusting ringer washing machines, countless commercial metal signs, old clay pots of various sizes, ancient gas pumps, a desiccated violin and cello, iron horses with dusty manes, monkeys in Stetsons…Exhausted, well-made furniture lined the metal walls of two vast, dark two-story sheds. Amid all this stuff a satisfied tan cat licked its paws atop a giant iron wagon wheel.<br>The owner does a brisk business.<br>Cottonwood made the national news two days after we flew home. There was a shootout in their Wal-Mart parking lot. The sheriff and other police arrested seven sullen, mute people, including a wild-eyed, tangle-haired woman and a teen, after a big gunfight.<br>A deputy was seriously wounded.<br>Store employees were roughed up.<br>One of the aggressors was shot dead.<br> <br>A few miles further into the desert we came upon a huge ‘J’ set into the edge of a steep mountainside, marking the mile-high ghost town of Jerome. The narrow, winding mountain road, which had no barriers at its too-close cliff, tested our resolve. We parked in a dirt lot capable of holding perhaps 6 cars that was carved out of a small mountain shelf 5,350 feet above the desert. Our car’s dusty nose brushed the cliff’s edge. One dead tree stump was all that lay between it and a terminal tumble.<br>Our world-view from this dusty spot was simply incredible.<br>Only booze-free souls with steady nerves, excellent eyesight and dependable car/motorcycle brakes, not to mention a full gas tank- should make the Jerome journey regularly. Gulp.<br> <br>Once a thriving mining town of 15,000 in the late nineteenth century, Jerome now supports a population of 448 itinerant artists and shopkeepers. Saloons and brothels once lined its winding, cobblestoned streets. Over a billion dollars worth of gold, copper, silver and zinc were extracted for over 70 years, until the last mine sighed and died in 1953. Now tourists mining for merchandise swarm its steep streets, which have barely changed. Original plank buildings have been converted to attractive shops that still cling to the 30-degree incline of the mountainside. Gravity has pulled some down. Their ruins often have historical significance (like the jail, which slid down to oblivion many years ago, to the townspeople’s delight).<br>This partially abandoned/ruined, partially stunning town, with its ‘billion dollar’ views, is a photographer’s paradise.<br> <br>I spotted a street sign- ‘Husbands Alley’ -screwed onto the brick wall of a dark, narrow, high walled alley. In its shadows a bustling brothel, ‘The House of Joy,’ specialized in entertaining errant husbands a century ago.<br>Jerome’s little shops feature fascinating, beautifully handmade things. The largest collection of kaleidoscopes in the world can be found in one plank-floored store, along with stunning, framed sand paintings, one of which I had to buy. It’s hard to stop gazing at its ever-changing landscapes.<br>Clean, well-pressed vintage clothing is offered for incredibly good prices. I had to climb a steep, cheerfully painted wooden stairs to reach one little business, but it was worth the effort.<br> <br>We ate tasty burgers at The Mile-High Grill while gawking at the spectacular desert far below, and brought home a memorial mug sporting its name. The sun’s rays, partially blocked by the huge Black Hills, created deep black shadows that blanketed much of the desert floor. It’s a painter’s dreamscape.<br> <br>Finally, in late afternoon, it was time to leave. But thirty minutes outside of Phoenix we made one last stop for a good dinner in the small, rough-looking genuinely old-west town of Cave Creek (pop. 5,000).<br>Cave Creek (whose town motto is- ‘Where the Wild West Lives’) has its fair share of cowboys: one lean fellow in a battered Stetson enjoyed a cigarette as he rode his roan horse bareback through our eatery’s parking lot.<br>The town made news in 2009 when its city council vote was tied between two men vying for a place on it. Someone whipped out a deck of cards and cut the deck. The contestants drew. High card won. (Arizona’s Constitution allows this, recognizing a quick, efficient way to break ties.)<br>I gazed across the dusty street at a life-sized white plastic horse that, at first glance, looked real, standing half out of a large window on the second floor of a dilapidated building. You can’t make this stuff up. It was astonishing, absurd, delightful- and so unexpected. (See photo below.)<br>Arizona is a visual adventure. I was never bored. Not once.<br> <br>Dick Van Dyke bought a little ranch in Cave Creek in 1968, where he still loves to live (but never in summer, when he, a Brit by birth, finds the temperatures unbearable). Some episodes of his great show, ‘Diagnosis Murder’ were taped here. Van Dyke’s favorite restaurant, the peculiarly named ‘The Horny Toad,’ is just down the street. And he’d often play the drums for the local band at Harold’s- our chosen eatery!<br> <br>Arizona is full of straightforward, straight-shootin’, cut-the-deck-and-deal folks.<br>While living just fine in the twenty-first century, people here still revere the old ways, the old days, and the ever-changing, priceless scenery we were privileged to witness. Go there if you can, and explore!</span><br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/fc79bbe04649173f13022c0b621279325164a4b4/original/img-1572.jpg?1428208060" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/36301562015-03-29T06:32:59-04:002015-03-29T06:32:59-04:003/29/15: Problem? Solved!I saw a lady the other day reach into her car to pull out an odd-looking, brightly painted, holed board with little bicycle wheels attached underneath, which she set on the parking lot’s tarmac. Next, she lifted out a 25-pound dog with no hind legs. In a jiffy the cheerful animal’s thigh stumps were lowered into the holes. A bungie strap secured its back end. She saw me staring, and explained. “Jazz and I are gonna explore this area; his legs had to be amputated- a birth defect- but we’ve solved the problem with this personally designed dog-mover, haven’t we, Jazz? I’m constantly making modifications…” Off they went, the little dog navigating with his front paws, his nose busily sniffing the air, his tail wagging. Wow!<br> <br>Which brought mind another lady-with-dog I’d met in England a few years ago…<br> <br>I’d parked my car and was heading for High Street in Hereford, England one sunny March afternoon in 2010. I’d been working on restoring my family home there, and needed a break. Town strolls are always interesting.<br> <br>As I walked through the parking area I came upon an elderly lady who was organizing herself to go shopping. She’d expertly maneuvered her compact car into one of the typically tiny spaces I’ve always found so daunting, and was gathering her paraphernalia: a cane, a book and gloves. When she opened the back door of her sedan a mature Alsatian dog emerged, wearing a backpack capable of carrying small purchases. The animal looked me up and down and smiled, the way dogs do, and her tail wagged politely. Her owner and I struck up a conversation about this clever tote.<br> <br>“Toni and I drive into town weekly to grocery shop. She loves to be useful and it’s a great help.”<br>As if on cue the dog reached into the car’s front seat to collect the woman’s purse by its wooden handles. Then she sat quietly beside her owner.<br> <br>What was this?<br> <br>The woman explained.<br>“We were potting around in town about a month ago, enjoying the various spring window displays, when I felt an almighty jerk. My purse was yanked out of my hand! The yob who snatched it ran down one of the alleys. I was too shocked to react until it was too late. Toni was leashed; cars were everywhere on the side streets, so she couldn’t give chase. Witnesses couldn’t produce a decent description, as the thief had worn a hoodie and was dressed like most of the young men milling around here. I lost nearly eighty pounds, along with my driver’s license, house keys and cell phone. Later the police found the purse- the very one Toni’s carrying now- in a rubbish bin, along with my emptied wallet. I’ve had to change my home’s locks, and haven’t felt as safe since.<br> <br>“When the two of us came into town the next time, Toni nudged me aside, thrust her muzzle into the car and took out my purse. I swear there was a gleam in her eye as she looked up at me. I was astounded that she would think to do this, but now it’s our new routine. I dare anyone to try that theft again.”<br>Her eyes gleamed, too.<br> <br>I looked at Toni sitting calmly beside her owner, controlling the purse. She looked right back. That dog had thought it out. She, with her clever brain, sharp teeth, and four huge, clawed paws would make snatchers pause- to contemplate those jaws.<br> <br>Nope. No worries here.<br> <br>We parted and they strolled confidently toward the giant, car-free plaza with its surrounding shops and restaurants. Toni kept to heel; her mistress stroked her head occasionally.<br> <br>Other mammals can astonish.<br>Using his smart phone a Russian father and his family filmed a big crow squawking with glee as it repeatedly sledded down a steep, snowy city rooftop while clinging to a decent-sized white, circular disc it had found somewhere.<br>Furthermore, when one sled path eventually wore through to the roof tiles, the bird shifted to a snowier one!<br>Seeing is believing. Simply google ‘sledding crow in Russia.’ And keep watching as other clever birds, filmed by fascinated people, demonstrate <em>their</em> reasoning skills!<br> <br>It’s a wonder-full world!Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/36165112015-03-22T04:46:17-04:002015-03-22T04:46:17-04:003/22/15: Strangers in a Strange LandDryness- and the alien wildlife- are what impressed me most about Arizona.<br> <br>From the air the earth looked moon-like. I saw no signs of human life, no roads and no water for hundreds of miles. The ground seemed to consist of black and brown sand and gravel. I marveled that anything could survive down there.<br>We flew past two high, snow-covered, extinct volcano-mountains, which towered over the topography. From our window they seemed to have skins of smooth gray granite- very different from the black, pointed, cindery, much smaller pseudo-mountains that dot the desert landscape around vast, sprawling Phoenix (the sixth most populous city in the United States). It was easy to picture these snow-blanketed monsters coughing out the desert’s ‘sea’ of dark sand and boulder-rubble, eons ago.<br> <br>On vacation for a week, Joe and I lived with his sister Nan and her husband Jim in their large, lovely desert home near the edge of a big subdivision, twenty-five minutes north of the city of Phoenix. At dawn on our second day we two woke very early and tiptoed outside to our big, quiet machine. We’d explore a little bit of the massive Sonoran Desert. Its landscape shone a dull gold as the sun crept higher, accenting countless tall saguaro cacti framed by numerous pointy, pseudo-mountain ‘cinder-cones’ (my term) that poked out of the mostly flat, parched earth. House-huge, smoothly worn boulders in varying hues of pale gray and black appeared to defy gravity as they clung to the steep sides of those black ‘witches hats’ that climbers and walkers love to tackle.<br> <br>Water exists in dam-lakes created by the mighty Colorado River. One, Lake Pleasant, is just north of Phoenix. (Here’s a fascinating fact: Arizona boasts <em>more</em> registered boat owners than Michigan!)<br>Bottled water is often free, and available at every store. People here down lots of it, to avoid ‘dessicated prune’ syndrome, or even heatstroke. Temperatures can reach 122 degrees, and often linger for days. The only time to safely explore the desert is very early. (The motorcycle’s thermometer read 57 degrees at 7 a.m. By ten o’clock that number would rise to 70; by two o’clock it would be 90+. And spring was still a week away.)<br> <br>We moved along on an asphalt road that wound on and on past scorpions, snakes, coyotes, puma, lizards, pigs, jackrabbits, and a plethora of other strange and wonderful creatures who eek out a decent existence in this unforgiving place.<br> <br>Arizonians have learned to co-exist with its wildlife, which has adapted very well to human encroachment. Serpents, for example, seem unfazed by every home’s very tall, smooth, thick stucco garden walls whose solid foundations are laid deep under the iron-hard terrain. Nan’s son Todd, who walks his property daily, found a decent-sized rattlesnake on the patio, right outside his living room’s sliding doors, only the week before we arrived. <em>How</em> could it have gotten there? That serpent was a magician. Those walls were impenetrable. And unclimbable. Weren’t they?<br>His careful inspection yielded not one entry clue.<br>Todd and his lovely wife have two young children and a collie dog. Imagine an annoyed rattlesnake objecting to the vibrations generated by their boisterous play…<br>(There are firms, by the way, that routinely deal with these- visitors. They’ll come immediately to remove and relocate.)<br> <br>A few folks who live much further into the desert keep mongooses. “I sleep better when Phil is around,” commented one grizzled oldster. “He loves to battle rattlers; it’s a deadly dance that Phil always wins. God, he’s fast. He sure earns his keep.”<br> <br>In last week’s column I mentioned the feral pigs (havelinas) in Nan’s front pebble and cactus garden, busily devouring every potted geranium.<br>Coyotes sing lovely, eerie songs in the wee hours, and trot down suburban streets most nights, making themselves at home- in their home.<br> <br>Nan grabs a special black light flashlight to regularly scour the house’s interior for scorpions. We heard a satisfied “Aha!” when she found one under <em>their</em> bed in the east wing, during our stay. (Scorpions are flesh-colored, making them easy to spot with black light.)<br>Imagine stepping on one in the middle of the night, on the way to the bathroom.<br>(Again, I can’t imagine how they find their way inside. These houses are no older than ten years, and solidly built.)<br> <br>Our bedroom was searched, too, just before our arrival. “It’s not a bad idea to do a morning shoe shake-out,” she commented. <br>Oh.<br>I wondered if the creatures could get <em>into </em>our bed. But I never did ask. Instead, I put that query right out of my mind. We were there to relax and enjoy Arizona life. And, by golly, we did.<br> <br>For me, a little selective ignorance can be a very good thing.Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/36016882015-03-14T22:51:02-04:002017-01-11T09:52:03-05:003/15/15: Phoenix Treasures<span class="font_large">Our big packed jet touched down in Phoenix last Wednesday evening. The sky, black as ebony, framed a cement landscape bright with twinkling lights of every color and variety that surrounded huge, slim aluminum birds of many colors. I gazed out the jet’s window at service people who hurried about on the tarmac, holding slim orange guiding lights, driving electric vehicles, directing other jets to their parking areas. There was no snow.<br> <br>Joe and I are visiting his Arizona-based family for a week, as Michigan’s icy white winter is wearing thin. Joe’s sister Nan and her husband Jim collected us, and an hour later we arrived at their lovely new desert home. One entire wing was ours, but we were barely able to appreciate it, as it was well past <span data-term="goog_519917212" tabindex="0">midnight</span> before we finally slept. (Arizona has a three-hour time difference.).<br> <br>First thing <span data-term="goog_519917213" tabindex="0">Thursday</span> morning he and I collected our 800 pound ‘big mama’- a beautiful silver Honda ST 1300 1261cc V4 motorcycle we’d reserved. The business’s owner, an older man with a life-long passion for these sleek machines, warned us that the Sonoran Desert (the hottest in the United States) routinely kills macho bikers. Apparently <em>every year</em> over-confident dudes disregard his rule: Never. Motor. Off-Road. They do it anyway, hot to explore the endlessly parched, hilly and mountainous moon-like landscape. Eventually, out of gas and bottled water, they find themselves stranded in a featureless, oven-hot wilderness. Phones don’t work that far out. There is no shade. So, they try to walk out, with no clue where ‘out’ is.<br>Thirst and heat exhaustion claim them quickly.<br>We listened, impressed. No chance of that happening. No sir. We older dudes are thankfully wiser.<br> <br>So. This morning just before sunrise we fired up Silver, pleased at how quiet this bike was. It purred.<br>We crept out of the subdivision and five minutes later entered the desert on a nice paved, barren road, with our trusty GPS and lots of water stored in the aluminum saddle bags.<br>The world was ours, as nobody was up this early. It was a perfect morning. The rose-streaked sky provided a dramatic backdrop for rolling hills set off by huge cindery grey and black mountain backdrops. Bushes boasting gorgeous flowers that thrive in drought brightened the parched landscape. Countless giant Saguaro cacti towered over everything. (These stunning plants don’t begin to grow ‘arms’ until they reach 75 to 100 years of age. Some, though, refuse to grow any. They can reach dizzying heights.)<br>Teddy bear, or jumping Cholla cactus, are cuddly-looking, but one must <em>never</em> touch. Their needle sharp spines ‘jump’ onto and pierce human skin, causing great pain. It was just dumb luck that I didn’t go near any.<br>Then there are the Organ Pipe cacti, whose many thick arms grow from a central ground-based bud in massive profusion. Like the Saguaro cacti they’re huge, but ball-shaped, and often live some 200 years before succumbing to bird beaks, age and weather.<br> <br>Wild life abounds. We saw two pale-coated coyotes padding along an arroyo. They ignored us. We’d been treated to a coyote concert in the middle of the night, so seeing these animals was an extra treat.<br>Quail and jackrabbits- lots of them- darted away as we passed them at a sedate 40 m.p.h. The temperature registered a very comfortable 57 degrees. (It would rise to over 90 in early afternoon.)<br>(Nan had commented that wild burros, horses and pigs live out there, too. She and Jim had been reluctant hosts to javelinas, small, gray wild pigs with a distinctive collar of spiky hair around their necks. (These creatures stink! They have a gland at the base of their tails to mark their territory. Its odor is disgusting- except, of course, to fellow peccaries.<br>They’d driven into their driveway one evening to find a group of ugly pigs (who sport long javelin-like fangs) devouring every potted geranium she owned. All they could do was watch from the safety of the car. The rancid creatures were unfazed by noise and flashing car lights.)<br> <br>Anyway, as the sun rose hot and incredibly bright we turned our motorcycle back toward home. Darn! I’d hoped to spot a snake, but no such luck…<br> <br>We eventually arrived home, parked the motorcycle and got out the bicycles. Wouldn’t it be fun to cruise around these beautifully kept blocks, just to check out the homes- all earth-colored, all fairly new? We peddled up and down the quiet streets enjoying the crisp air, when—Oh, Boy! We came upon a rummage sale! We were their first browsers.<br> <br>I love this sort of thing. We parked our bikes and inspected the offerings in the sellers’ spacious garage. But nothing caught my eye…until I bumped into a HUGE, fat, gorgeous 15-foot red snake with black and white bands, draped fetchingly over a tall floor mirror. Bang! I fell in love! I had to own it. Would it be a pricy treasure? <em>How</em> would I transport it home? Security might not let it through the check point…While I pondered these vital questions Joe, noting ‘the look’ sighed and said, “I’ll bike back home to get my wallet. Back in a minute.” He knew.<br> <br>Gleefully I draped the creature over my shoulders and around my neck. A few minutes later Joe returned and paid the man- who wanted only $5.00 for this treasure! We peddled it home with some difficulty. “Nan,” I hollered; “I bought a big snake! It’s a fine specimen; have a look!” Horrified that I would bring one into the house she refused to look, until I insisted. There was Sheba, draped languidly over the couch, right at home. Her black felt tongue hung out as my reptile surveyed the room. Nan had to laugh.<br>I rushed outside to pose her in their beautiful garden.<br> <br>I know… I’ve lost my head over that snake.<br>See the photos below to more fully appreciate my appreciation…<br>The day had ended very well, I thought.<br>I’d found my snake…<br> <br>(P.S. <em>They’ll drive Sheba back to Michigan at the end of March.)</em><span class="font_large"><span class="font_large"><span class="font_large"><span class="font_large"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/2e2f3590ada99e0dbea5ee7a384aee7d6faa736e/original/img-1605.jpg?1426387749" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span></span></span></span><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/aaa788c6723784e31349281a4e79abef91e43ee8/original/img-1604.jpg?1426387740" class="size_l justify_center border_" /></span>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/35837732015-03-08T07:51:59-04:002015-03-08T07:51:59-04:003/08/15: An English Reminiscence <br>A while ago I hosted two long-time British friends at Sunnybank. Chatting with them brought back the flavor of England, where I’d spent over forty years exploring the intriguing nooks and crannies of this lovely country, and most especially in Hereford and Ross-on-Wye, two ancient towns very near my family’s home in Herefordshire. Ancient buildings lean comfortably, their dignified timbers seemingly impervious to insects and time.<br> <br>One cold, snowy day I noticed a tiny teashop in the middle of Hereford’s huge mid-town square, where cars are banished. It would be lovely to set down my groceries, rest my tired feet and enjoy a bracing cup of tea. Bundled people milled around outside, toting webbed shopping bags crammed with crusty loaves of bread, fresh veggies, and perhaps a beef or lamb ‘joint’ for Sunday dinner. Sighing, I settled next to an ancient, stooped man, who was slurping his tea with obvious pleasure. His bright eyes scanned the square, never missing a thing. I bade him good afternoon.<br> <br>Turning to me with a smile he said, “‘Tain’t good ‘til me teatime sweets pass under me nose, young lady. What brings you hereabouts?” I explained that I was visiting England, and grocery shopping to prepare dinner for friends. He nodded, noting my American accent.<br> <br>“The States—too young to know any better, too brash to grasp what’s important. Look around. What strikes?”<br> <br>I immediately shot back, “The architecture. I never get enough of venerable English Gothic cathedrals, black-and-white timbered houses that Shakespeare saw, cobblestoned streets, huge, centuries-old trees that are still thriving… but mostly the buildings. For me they sing. The English do understand preservation.”<br> <br>“Aye; ’tis the Old World, you know.” He grinned, and, startled, I saw his teeth in the palm of his hand. He’d removed them quietly, and his amusement at my discomfiture was clear.<br> <br>“Haven’t thoroughly broken ‘em in, m’dear. They’re new, see, and I always enjoy how white me choppers are in the beginning- ‘til a thousand cups of tea finally stains ‘em brown.” So I pops ‘em out regular at teatime- ‘til I forget. Everybody preserves everything here.” and he threw back his head and laughed.<br> <br>Clearly, this little joke had made his day. Amused, I joined in. Then my tea and his sweets- scones, clotted cream and jam- came. He expertly popped in those gleaming teeth and polished off the treat.<br> <br>Mr. Longworth told me he came to town weekly to visit his wife’s grave, change the flowers, and “have a wander down memory lane.” They’d been married 58 years.<br> <br>He’d dug his future wife out of the debris that had been her London home, during the Blitz. Though she’d lost everything she’d kept her sense of humor, joking that as long as her spectacles worked, and she never missed teatime, all would be well. He’d admired her brusque dismissal of her broken arm. “She said the lads fighting the massive nightly fires were the ones to admire.” He sighed. “So, I married ‘er. She liked my smile. It was the first thing she saw under the flat’s rubble as I bent down to pull ‘er outa there. Young teeth, wire spectacles and teatime…Funny what comes to mind when you’ve too much time to think.”<br> <br>Replete, he sighed and pushed away from the little table, paid for everything, then shook my hand firmly. <br> <br>“I hope the world always remembers what’s important, lassie. History’s more ‘n old buildings, or old people like me hanging on. It’s about spirit, and laughs, and, o’course, warm digs with a great lady.”<br> <br>With a wide smile he capped his bald head and slowly left the shop.Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/35663672015-03-01T07:03:05-05:002015-03-01T07:03:05-05:003/01/15: Medicine for Limp Spirits 3/01/15: Medicine for Limp Spirits<br> <br>Exhaustion seems to be a by-product of a broken shoulder, compounded by viral bronchitis. It’s a major challenge to do things that were easy before. Sleep is a powerful attraction for this battered body. I drop off immediately after flopping on the couch, and I stay down much longer. It’s been a difficult winter, all in all, but ‘spirit lifters’ have made a major difference. <br> <br>I was awed to receive so <em>many </em>emails full of support and encouragement from you, dear readers. It’s such fun to open my computer and find floods of mail from all over the world, our Atlantic coastline, Florida, Phoenix, California…And every one- every single one, was full of warmth, best wishes. People shared delightful little movies about animal antics, as well as a myriad of other thoughtful gestures. I’m unable to answer them individually due to their numbers and my very limited energy level, but please know that I’m so grateful. <em>Thank you!</em> <br> <br>Joe’s also coping with the virus, but we’ve still managed to see to Bryn’s needs. She’s a lovely young dog, and exercise is vital for her health and spirits. We feel unable to take her for her usual long city walks; sub-zero temps and icy sidewalks are certainly off-putting for folks in our situation- so we try to provide her daily dog park fix. Joe takes the first twenty minutes of park duty while I remain in the warm car: then I relieve him for twenty more freezing minutes.<br> <br>In one dog park a yearling bulldog-pit bull mix took a liking to Bryn. They wrestled for control of a stiffly frozen tug-rope and sprinted around the park, one holding the tail of the other. There was something subtly different about the bulldog’s gait, though, so I questioned his owner.<br>“Charley’s an adventurous dog, but sometimes too exuberant,” she laughed. “We adopted him about six months ago. He’d been caged more most of his life, and when allowed to run about after being confined for so long he went little crazy and leaped too high over piles of rock-hard snow, stumbled, and Bang! His full weight landed on his weakened knees, and they shattered. The vet tried everything, but they wouldn’t mend properly; Charley couldn’t move. It was heartbreaking to watch him try to crawl. What could we offer? Well, There was one promising thing…knee replacement surgery. What a huge success! Now, with his slick new knees, he’s irrepressible. Look at him run! There’s no pain; only freedom.” So true. The bright-eyed bulldog cross was running flat out, thrilled to be mobile. And he clearly loved his family. The 60-pound dog kept running over to them to rub his head on their mittened hands before dashing off. The gesture warmed everyone’s hearts.<br> <br>The most vociferous greeting came from my daughter’s 5-ounce yellow budgie, BB. She’s passionately social, and especially loves being wherever Peter and Lisa are. BB has the entire apartment to fly around in; the living room area is gym-huge, and she zips up to the ten-foot high ceilings, then swoops down to perch on her owners’ heads or shoulders to watch Lisa chop veggies, or gather washing.<br> <br>One evening last week Joe and I decided we’d visit, as we were no longer contagious. I was tired of feeling so wrung out; a distraction would be fun!<br> <br>We walked in to see Lisa doing vocal exercises at the piano. BB budgie, perched on her head, watched Lisa’s long fingers play the scales: she cheeped along with the do-re-mes. Her golden feathers, streaked with sky-blue, shone in the lamplight. I entered the big room; BB did a birdie double-take, then squawked in surprise and whizzed across the room to land atop my wind-tangled hair. She walked around up there chirping a welcome, and then lowered herself down to my eyebrows to look deep into my eyes. It was a “<em>Where</em> have you been, missy?” moment.<br> <br>I offered my high-pitched ‘BBBB-birdie,’ followed by a whirring noise she loves. Head cocked, she looked deep into my eyes and crooned her happiness, then carefully groomed my eyebrows. I’d definitely been missed! She rode around on my head for some time, cheerily sounding off, before flying into the next room to join her other bird friends.<br> <br>The little budgie had certainly revived my flagging spirits. Then, arriving home, Byn greeted us like royalty, too.<br> <br>No doubt about it- friends in my ‘readership ether’- and animal spirits- are the very <em>best</em> medicine.Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/35490432015-02-22T06:13:23-05:002015-02-22T06:13:23-05:0022/22/15: SpeechlessSpeechless <br>I’m sick. Violent cough, temperature, super-sore chest, no appetite. Joe and I have viral Bronchitis. Plus, I have a broken shoulder to deal with, so this week there’ll be no column, as I’m overwhelmed.<br>My voice abandoned ship yesterday. Don’t miss it, because I sleep 18-20 hours a day.<br>Sorry, folks. <br>Maybe next week…<br> Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/35320102015-02-15T06:38:46-05:002015-02-15T06:38:46-05:002/15/15: Blizzard! - and Boots on the Ground<span class="font_large">Sometimes I suspect Nature gets bored with the usual stuff she trots out, and decides to show humans what it means to be truly helpless. Here’s one demonstration I could have done without.<br> <br>I’d broken my shoulder in a dog-driven fall from our front porch in TC and needed help to function, so I moved back to Saginaw, where Joe still maintains his medical practice. After two weeks in our little Saginaw farmhouse I got restless and bored; we decided to drive back to Traverse City to spend the weekend at Sunnybank. I certainly needed the change of scene.<br>Settling Bryn-dog in her bed in the back of the car we fled Saginaw on Wednesday at 5 o’clock, right after leaving the orthopedist’s office. The day was bright; earlier in the day radar had shown no snow at all. None was expected until much later that evening.<br> <br>As we approached West Branch the sun, still over an hour from setting, winked out. A solid gray sky moved in. No worries: it was still fine outside, though extremely cold- minus 3 degrees. Two minutes later a few snowflakes wandered lazily past the windshield. The expressway remained dry. We could see for miles.<br> <br>Another minute passed. Snowflakes began whizzing by horizontally as the wind suddenly intensified. Then the car trembled from an enormous gust--- and the world simply vanished. There was no road. No view beyond the wipers. Snow fell as thickly as white cloth.<br> <br>For just an instant we glimpsed a car that had careened off the highway: an instant later it vanished. Snow fell frantically; Joe slowed radically. We turned on our car’s flashers to warn approaching cars of our location and speed. But these bright blinkers, covered in sticky snow, were barely discernable.<br> <br>Rarely have we felt so disoriented- and yes, scared. We were driving totally blind. <em>And so was everyone else.</em> We’d hit- or be hit -before we could ever react. Bryn would take the brunt of a rear-end collision. Unthinkable! We had to exit! Moving at a crawl we turned the wipers to full speed, but icy snow thickly clogged the windscreen. This was terrifying. Would we have to stop in the middle of the expressway to clean it? Then I saw a glint- a reflecting pole- just one- that <em>might</em> mark an exit lane. (I’d remembered seeing a sign about two miles back.) We inched along, leaning nearly to the dashboard to see outside. (I was ready to open the door to watch the road’s surface, in an effort to guide Joe. The situation was that desperate.)<br> <br>Miraculously, we <em>had</em> stumbled onto an escape route. West Branch was behind us, but at least we’d be off the highway. We inched forward, stopping at a nearly buried stop sign. Turning right would eventually lead us back to West Branch, where we’d take refuge in a motel. But- could we even move? The snow was so intense that the road had disappeared. So, after scraping a hole in windshield ice, we guessed. There were no buildings anywhere to use as reference points.<br>Once a car’s headlights dimly appeared and moved toward us. Joe and the other guy both veered to their right, passing each other at a crawl. The world was still just a suggestion.<br> <br>Then- <em>finally</em>- a simple sign loomed. MOTEL. Just that single word. We crept up a road to a small one-story building on a hilltop; I stumbled in to book a room. But dogs were not allowed. There was nothing for it but to head out again into the blizzard toward West Branch. Long minutes later we cheered: a Super 8 was right next to the expressway entrance we’d passed ages ago! Happily, the establishment welcomed Bryn. The room was fine (though Joe thought it smelled a little ‘doggy,’ from previous residents) and we three slept soundly, exhausted and grateful to be alive.<br> <br>Next morning it was bitterly cold- minus 7 degrees, but the wind had died and the sun shone. Breakfast at the Lumberjack Restaurant sounded wonderful, but- once bitten, twice shy. We grabbed a light breakfast at McDonald’s and set off again for Traverse City. Nature wouldn’t fool us again with a pretty sky. We’d drive straight there, THEN relax.<br> <br>Good decision. When we left Kalkaska, M-72 was enveloped in more blinding snow. A minute before, the sky had been blue. (This fresh, familiar ‘pounce’ lasted the rest of the day.)<br>Driving next to the bay into Traverse City, wind-blown snow made the road difficult to discern. Sensibly, very few cars had ventured out. Bryn whined softly from the back; she felt the tension, too. But as soon as we put that long line of hotel buildings between the lake and our car, we could see much better.<br>Our homecoming felt like a major triumph.<br> <br>Inexplicably, we decided to take Bryn to the city dog park for a gallop. Hey- we’d even break out the new snow boots Joe had ordered for her! Our patient labradoodle stood stock-still as we struggled to fit them for the first time. I finally secured the last Velcro strap. They fit perfectly, and didn’t look half bad! No more freezing paws or iceballs between her toes! (Now, if only they’d <em>stay</em> on…)<br>Bryn pranced around the dining room like a fancy dressage horse, raising each paw chest-high; it was terribly funny. She was puzzled by their odd feel, but pleased by our delight.<br> <br>At the dog park, we were alone. (Only idiots would do this.) Amid the stinging blizzard and sub-zero temps Bryn bounced around, sorely testing the boots. They stayed on! Joe and I laughed, threw a half-eaten green tennis ball for Bryn to try to find, and tramped through the deep drifts alongside her. The vigorous exercise felt wonderful: hours of accumulated tension were released to the brutal arctic wind.<br> <br>Take <em>that</em>, Mother Nature!</span>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/35144532015-02-08T05:45:18-05:002015-02-08T05:45:18-05:002/08/15: Soggy, Delicious Memories <span class="font_large"><em>(In 2009 our little English cottage experienced a disastrous flood. Mother had died in 2001. David, her still broken-hearted English husband, was now in a care home, as the cottage was wreaked. I flew there to live for a year in what little what was left, and to rebuild what was lost. </em><br><em>Amid the ruins, though, there were shining moments…)</em><br> <br>Sitting on the carpet-stripped, unlovely floor of our flooded-out cottage I sadly sifted through damp, intriguing mother-mementos. She’d saved limp old London Times Sunday magazines for their wonderful commentaries, or for the alphabetical listing of the 1000 most influential people of the twentieth century, or for any interesting information that had caught her eye. Some of the sodden pages were tough to separate.<br> <br>Hmmm… Here she’d circled an article about tail-less cats…<br> <br>Mother loved to read about the universe’s origins, biographies of interesting people, or even about why tigers have stripes. She (‘the great experimenter’) devoured cookbooks gleefully; a few of her elegant meals wanted a decent burial; most were wonderful.<br> <br>Occasionally, careful sifting would yield personal treasures. <br> <br>I found a folded page containing a cherished poem about a tree at the end of its life. Mother loved trees: one photograph shows David and her standing next to an immense 700-year-old oak, a sapling during England’s Great Plague. It’s still living happily outside a nearby country pub we’d loved to frequent, called Loughpool.<br> <br>More memories surfaced. I recalled sitting <em>inside</em> an even more gigantic, thriving tree nestled in a Gloucester churchyard. Its massive lower branches rested quietly on the ground, too incredibly long and massive to remain suspended. So, over the centuries the earth had gently risen to meet them.<br>In spite of that room-sized, hollow heart, Tree, fully dressed in green, was happily soaking up the sun. The medieval churchyard’s ancient, teetering tombstones kept it company.<br> <br>And what was this? I exposed a tissue-wrapped stone bearing the stunning fossil of a finger-polished, hundred-million-year-old tubeworm, and smiled. She’d carried it in her jeans for 25 years after spotting it one day, cast up on a remote, wind-swept Scottish beach.<br> <br>My mother died amazed that it was happening: she had so much to do, to see, to taste, to learn, and suddenly, she found herself blinking out. <br>A poem she loved- with just 7 lines- is titled<br> <br> <em><u>A Life</u></em><br>And reads-<br><em> Innocence?</em><br><em> In a sense- </em><br><em> In NO sense.</em><br> <br><em> WAS that it?</em><br><em> Was THAT it?</em><br><em> Was that IT?</em><br> <br><em> That was it.</em><br> <br>Oh! Here was a magazine photo of a gorgeous, fully dressed, delectable-looking hamburger. In a margin she’d written, “Frame this!”<br>Good heavens—I knew why, because she’d told me her ‘hamburger heaven’ story, once.<br> <br>One summer lunchtime in the little Welsh town of Abergavenny, not far from our home, where she’d often sell their beautiful, handcrafted clocks at craft shows, Mom brought out a plump, seven-ounce hamburger patty she’d formed at home from butcher-bought ground (the British say ‘minced’) beef. She’d obtained permission to cook it on the craft park’s communal grill.<br> <br>Next, she unpacked a pretty china plate and placed slices of purple onion, Double Gloucester cheese and crisp lettuce on it. She halved a generous bun. Ketchup and English mustard stood guard. Passersby, noticing the gorgeous beef patty and her preparations, gathered to watch what was about to happen. One amused Welshman couldn’t resist a comment: <em>“M’love, tha’ overweight ration of meat canno’ stick together withou’ cereal and additives…</em>” (British burgers (always anorexic) are ‘kept together’ with ‘binders.’)<br>Mum looked up, astonished, then grinned. “<em>Why ever not?”</em><br> <br>People shook their heads and settled down to watch her ‘unbound’ burger fall into ruin. This silly, deluded American didn’t have a clue.<br> <br>She popped the open bun and naked burger on the grill and added seasoned salt and freshly ground pepper to the meat. It sizzled happily. A few minutes later she flipped it to cook the other side to medium-rare, then slid it onto the perfectly toasted bun, added the condiments, and downed the burger triumphantly, chasing it with a chilled, local ale. Onlookers gaped. Nobody spoke.<br> <br>Suddenly, late-comers pushed forward, proffering bills, saying, “<em>Eh, I’ll have one o’ those</em>…” The bewildered grill master stood open-mouthed amid the clamor of futile shouted orders. His thin, additive-bound burgers, stacked between waxed paper, were ready to be grilled and sold. Compared to her robust, unadulterated beef patty they looked positively unwell.<br> <br>Unabashedly licking her fingers Mum collected her spatula, plate and condiments, thanked the Welshman for the use of the grill and returned to her booth replete- and not a little smug.<br> <br>“Americans may be brash and wet-behind-the-ears,’ she’d gloated to herself, ‘but by golly, we understand how to form and cook a proper hamburger!”<br> <br>Ahh, what a delicious memory!</span>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/34982082015-02-01T07:22:43-05:002015-02-01T07:22:43-05:002/01/15: The No-Barking Zone<span class="font_large">What a week! I’m overwhelmed by how many of you wrote to offer best wishes and helpful suggestions! I haven’t the strength to reply to so many, so please accept my hearty <em>thank you!</em><br>Apparently my elbow and ulna bone were damaged, too. But as they kindly cracked in place the remedy’s the same as for the broken shoulder: Tincture of Time.<br>Starting yesterday I began doctor-prescribed exercises to be done throughout the day, which consist of my bending enough to let my arm hang free. I swing it in twenty increasingly larger circles, rest a minute, then do twenty more in the opposite direction. A little discomfort offers big agility gains down the road.<br> <br>Bryn-dog and I drove to Bay City to enroll her in another doggy daycare/training facility. (She attends a fine one in Traverse City, too.) I’ll use it intermittently throughout this convalescence because she needs much more exercise than I’m currently able to provide. (Even though I do drive to dog parks here in Saginaw/Bay City, it <em>can </em>be a harrowing experience. I never leave the fence’s shoulder-shelter to scoop up poop. Other owners help with that chore.)<br> <br>The Bay City KAYBEE K-9 Training Center requires a detailed application and vaccination certificates. I was carefully questioned about Bryn’s temperament.<br>The woman who owns the business came out to the car to shake hands with Bryn, and generally inspect her. She wasn’t invited in, as all the dogs would bark greetings, and Bryn would be desperate to join them. Chaos could ensue.<br> <br>Besides offering daycare for those dogs who already grasp rudimentary commands, this facility offers advanced obedience school, agility training, fly-ball, competition/rally skills, and how to be effective therapy or sled dogs.<br> <br>During my first visit I observed how well dozens of dogs played together in the bright, clean room. Some had ‘timeouts’ and watched the fun from a separate fenced-off area. Others were escorted, once every hour, one-at-a-time, to a special potty break room just off the play area. The rest romped. There were toys, tunnels to explore, tug-of-war ropes, and a myriad of other interesting objects to manipulate. An experienced minder made sure no one was bullied, or was practicing bullying techniques. Little growls and yips during play are allowed. Barking is <em>not</em>. The constant cacophony would be intolerable! One huge St. Bernard lay sprawled in the middle of the floor, inviting delighted littler dogs to climb onto and over him while they played ‘king-of-the-mountain.’<br> <br>Something remarkable occurred on my second visit, when I returned the application and booked next week’s Orientation Day appointment. A bell sounded, lights flickered, and soft, soothing music blanketed the playroom, which was just off the lobby where I stood. The dogs trotted into their cages, ate a little chow and drank, then settled down for an hour’s nap.<br>WHAT?!<br>True.<br>Just imagine: <strong>53</strong> dogs, ranging from enormous to pocket-sized animals, yawned and nodded off, or, with chins-on-paws, simply gazed thoughtfully out at the now-empty, semi-dark play area.<br> <br><em>Silence reigned</em>. <br> <br>Open-mouthed, I thought about it. Dogs spend the better part of every day asleep at home. So, halfway through a stimulating day here, mandatory Quiet Time is welcomed.<br> <br>The contented silence, punctuated occasionally by snores, was a masterful demonstration of who’s in charge. </span>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/34850072015-01-25T05:21:16-05:002015-01-25T05:21:16-05:001/25/15: A Bone-y Journey <br><span class="font_large"> I’ve spent just over a week adjusting to my new reality- a broken right humerus bone. <br>There’ve been surprises.<br> <br>First: I sleep- a lot. I sleep all night, wake up around four o’clock a.m. as usual, pad around for a while, and fall asleep again as soon as I sit. I can sleep most of a day away (a quieter body promotes mending.) In between snoring I’ll ride the stationary bike and catch up on news. Eat something. Hug Bryn-dog. Everything always ends in sleep, though. And I still sleep all the night long, even with so many day naps. In fact, by 8:30 p.m. I’m so tired I don’t move, once bed-settled. Not an inch.<br>Second: I’m learning to carefully think be<em>fore </em>I move, which avoids shocking jolts of pain. Spontaneity is a no-no.<br> <br>I’ve discovered huge bruises, six days later. My arm – and right side- have turned black and gray. Ugh. And the blackened areas itch and are tender. I can’t scratch. Probably a good thing.<br> <br>Lots of can’ts.<br>Can’t cut meat, or cheese, butter toast, fix hair, floss; can’t wear coats, or my backpack, shirts- anything with sleeves- or pants. (Buttons and zippers are impossible.) Not a hope. But I unearthed some elderly pull-on sweat pants: perfect.<br>Can’t be around crowds- too much risk of being bumped. A howl of agony isn’t socially acceptable. Half way to the packed Frankenmuth Ice Sculpture Festival we remembered that danger and turned around.<br> <br>Can’t walk Bryn (Joe has caught me holding Bryn’s leash in my slinged right hand!), or write checks, or walk outside, or tie my shoes or snowboots. Can’t cook, or wear a bra. The list is endless. I need Joe for the simplest things. Things I always took for granted. So, practically the first thing I did was to send $100 to Wounded Warriors Foundation. Those heroes- those defenders of our right to live free to watch soccer games and laugh, and hug in public, and say what we think- must cope with this sort of thing for as long as they live! We live in the Land of the Free because of the brave. (Poor me- I face only a few months of dependence/inconvenience. Big deal.)<br> <br>Where was I? Oh- yeah. Some ‘cans.’<br>Four days into this adventure I did an assessment. 95% of me is fine. Up and operating. Only one little part is dysfunctional. So, I decided there was no reason I couldn’t drive. My leased Buick’s layout makes it impossible to reach over to shift, but my old Subaru, which is configured differently, allows the motion without more than a twinge. So I c.a.r.e.f.u.l.l.y eased into the driver’s seat, pulled the seat belt over my uninjured shoulder and buckled up. (Putting on a <em>passenger</em> side seatbelt will be impossible for a long time.)Then I practiced backing up, reached over to put it in ‘drive’ - and then –went. It worked! Staying off main streets I drove to a hairdresser recommended by a friend, who assured me that the lady would listen to what I wanted. (I can’t cut my hair, or cut anything, for a long time. Meanwhile, my unruly locks had grown too long to see properly, so a decent trim was imperative.)<br>She DID listen, and I drove home happy, even though she couldn’t wash it. Too painful.<br> <br>It really annoyed me that I’d had to wear the same long underwear top for days and days. Frankly, I was beginning to stink. So I parked myself in the bathroom and had a think. (Joe could have helped, but I wanted to figure this stuff out myself.)<br>The door handle! It wasn’t a knob, but a lever…Perfect! I hooked the grubby undershirt’s thumbhole to the lever, which was rock steady because the door was closed, and slowly, slowly pulled it off the <em>un</em>injured arm. Then I inched the shirt over my head using my good arm. That left only the wounded part to denude. To move it even a little brought stabs of pain. But there had to be a way. (Joe once told me that one could climb any stairs at any age, if one went about it s.l.o.w.l.y. “Just do one step at a time. <em>It may take a while,</em> but you’ll definitely get there. If you must, pack a lunch to eat on the journey. But never give up and just sit.”)<br>O.K. Applying the same reasoning, I took ages to remove the complicated sling before inching that cotton shirt’s long sleeve a millimeter at a time over the broken shoulder. Then down, down the blackened arm. Five minutes later it was off. Phew! I flung it into the laundry with a shout of triumph.<br> <br>Next challenge. A shower. Again, the same approach. Turn on the water. Step in, shampoo, scrub what I could, rinse, towel-dry, all with the one operating hand. (An old belt served admirably to brace my broken arm.) I was jubilant! Putting on a fresh underwear top required doing everything in reverse. It took forever. But, ‘impossible’ goals like this are not ‘out of reach,’ mostly because Time and I are friends.</span>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/34727492015-01-18T05:18:23-05:002016-04-09T23:11:39-04:001/18/15: Flying Lesson<span class="font_large">Well. Friday was an interesting morning. Joe and I finished our coffee. Bryn needed a walk. No problem. As he wasn’t completely dressed, I volunteered.<br>I shrugged on my thick coat, two scarves and two hats, snapped on her long, retractable lead, stepped outside, turned to pull the front door closed- and felt the 15-foot leash playing out in a blur of speed! Bryn had seen a fairly large, shaggy dog walking by with its owner, an older gentleman.<br> <br>Alas, in that instant my fate was sealed. Nearly fifty pounds of muscled athlete rocketed down the stairs and clawed down the snowy front walk to greet the strange dog- sprinting from zero to thirty m.p.h. in one second. I barely had time to turn toward the street when I felt a giant jerk. Still hanging on to the leash (in doggie protection mode) I took flight, soaring over five 17-inch wide stair treads all the way out to nearly the middle of our faux brick front walk. It was a long way. I finally landed hard on my right shoulder. Crack!! Something snapped. Stunned, I lay curled up on the icy, snowy path. There was no pain. For a while the world was scrambled; then I heard a man’s voice: “Are you all right?” I couldn’t answer.<br> <br>The poor fellow busied himself untangling leashes, too distressed himself to think coherently. Dimly I saw lots of paws moving around close to my face as the two dogs inspected each other and me, before I finally managed to croak, “Please ring the doorbell…”<br>He did, happy to be helpful. Joe answered, saw the situation, exclaimed once, then was all business. (He’s a doctor.)<br>“Right shoulder’s done; don’t touch me yet,” I gasped. I needed time to assess what else might be broken. The increasing pain there was a warning. One wrong move and it would evolve into agony.<br>My thickly padded head- fine.<br>Swathed neck- fine.<br>Legs and hips (the old ladies’ curse)- just fine.<br>Lucky in the big things: no broken neck. Only my shoulder was damaged. Oh Lord, it had begun to hurt fiercely. Joe waited while I did the review. Then, quickly securing Bryn in the front yard he half-carried me into the house without stressing my shoulder, and guided me to the couch. My legs had turned to jelly. I found myself shivering and panting. This was shock. Breathing more slowly wasn’t possible. My body wouldn’t comply. But trying to regulate it gave me something to focus on.<br> <br>Joe brought Bryn inside and settled her, fetched the car, and we drove to Munson Community Health Center, reasoning (correctly) that its Urgent Care would be less busy. I was wheeled into the building, and thirty minutes later x-rays revealed the damage: an impacted fracture of the neck of the right humerus, just below the ball, with minimal displacement. The socket itself was fine. “If you have to have a fractured shoulder, this sort is best,” intoned the doctor.<br>Six weeks in a special sling to keep the arm immobile, was the only treatment necessary. I stared at the awful x-ray picture, grateful that I’d escaped worse.<br>The area was really swollen; cold compresses helped. And the pharmacy’s potent pain meds were so welcome- at first. I’ve decided, though, that careful movements keep the pain down to manageable levels. Sharp shocks serve as reminders that certain motions are to be avoided. And I’m a lot more alert, and steadier on my feet, undrugged. Extra strength Tylenol at bedtime truly helps, though.<br> <br>It’s taken an age to type these words left-handed, but at least I’ve gotten something off to you, faithful readers. Bottom line: six weeks = fully operational. Meanwhile, I’ll learn to cope with one appendage.<br> <br>Family will take over doggie duty, so all is well.<br>Except that I must wear the same top for a good while, and sleep almost sitting up, and not move… Well--I can do all that.<br> <br>Lesson: When healed, keep Bryn on a regular leash and be much more situationally aware.<br>Yup, I can do that, too.<br>(Once broken, twice cautious…)</span>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/34611752015-01-11T06:55:59-05:002015-01-11T06:55:59-05:001/11/15: Bog-gone!<span class="font_large">At 4:30 a.m. Bryn and I went outside, and I chuckled as she bounced through huge drifts. This dog has springs on her feet! One particularly enthusiastic boing resulted in her complete disappearance. She looked up at me from down under and grinned. Hmmm. <em>How</em> would she get out of there? Easy. Crouching, she leaped straight up- to pop out like a done piece of toast. Subsequent dancer-high ‘now-I’m-here, now-I’m-gone’ bounces brought her to the sidewalk for a millisecond- until another huge drift beckoned.<br>Bryn <em>loves</em> snow, and really puts on a show.<br> <br>Speaking of extractions…<br> <br>A few cars have skidded off roads into deep drifts, to become almost invisible, thanks to county plows that regularly roar past to redistribute more of the white stuff. The effort it will take to dig those cars out brought to mind an adventure I had one summer in Traverse City when I was driving our ancient ’89 jeep.<br> <br>Needing groceries but hating long lines, I motored to Meijer about 5:30 a.m. in the jeep heap, parked in the middle of that huge, empty lot and trotted inside. Ah! Hardly anyone was shopping at this hour, so I strolled along, happy not to have to maneuver around other carts. Much later, food-laden, I made my way through the rapidly filling parking lot toward the jeep. <br> <br>It was gone.<br> <br>“Silly twit,” I muttered. “You’ve forgotten where you parked it.” I slogged along, lugging the heavy bags, trying to recall its location. Hmmm. Were bigger cars and vans blocking my view?<br>I peered behind lots of them. Alas, no jeep. Would thieves have stolen it? Nah. Nobody would lust after that rusting pile.<br>Nevertheless, it had well and truly vanished.<br> <br>Sighing, my frozen food slowly melting in the warmish weather, I found a security guard to report it stolen. He asked for a description, then made his own search. Nothing. But as I nattered on about thieves he grew thoughtful.<br>“Did you lock it?” Yup.<br>“Did you put it in park?” Uh-huh.<br>“Did you use the parking brake?” Ah— probably…Why?<br> <br>He didn’t answer, but walked all the long way across the huge concrete parking lot to its curbed northern edge and looked down. Searched. Grinned. Pointed. Disbelieving, I gasped and ran to look, groceries banging against my legs. Sure enough, there was the old rust bucket, waaay down in the bog, half-enveloped in mucky water and creeper vines. In the darkness it had somehow rolled stealthily across that vast, slightly uneven cement acreage, gathering speed. The curb’s edge acted as a launch pad. It had become briefly airborne before landing hard and barreling down, down, down through a thick mat of tall waist-high grasses and weeds to finally settle, still upright. Tire tracks told the tale.<br> <br>Seeing our stunned reactions a small crowd gathered to gawk. Someone offered to call a wreaker, but one wiry fellow had a better idea. “Ya know, I race stock cars for a living. I’m used to challenging situations. Jeeps are pretty resilient. Maybe I can rescue it. Gimme the key.” I did. He slip-slid down, sloshed over to the half-buried jeep, wrestled the door open, squeezed inside and turned the key. V<em>arooom</em>! After rolling down the window he switched to four-wheel drive, put it in reverse, stuck his head out, gunned it and backed up, up, up that really steep incline, staying within the tracks it had made going down.<br> <br>Oh, no! The jeep lost its nerve and slithered back down into the slime, to gasps from onlookers. Undaunted, the guy gunned it again, this time more forcefully. Everyone scattered as it roared backward up the slope to thump over the curb and onto firm ground, amid cheers. Algae-green water poured out when he pushed open the door. Vines and creepers clung limply to the floor mats and frame; long tendrils hung from the tailpipe. People pulled away the worst vegetation, marveling at my poor jeep’s unlikely resurrection.<br> <br>After profusely thanking its rescuer I crept home, laying a string-thin water-and-weed trail the whole way.<br>Incredibly, except for an occasional cough, it handled just fine.<br> <br>(After that experience I put bricks under the jeep’s wheels whenever I parked it.)<br> <br>Would a thoroughly frozen car be as resilient when extracted from its icy tomb?<br>Yup, if it was a jeep. Even elderly, they’re army-tough!</span>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/34511162015-01-04T06:47:54-05:002015-01-04T06:47:54-05:001/04/15: New Year Thoughts<span class="font_large">2014 passed incredibly fast- ahh, the physics of age… April brought us Bryn-dog (who turned one year old this New Year’s morning). Summer shone with lovely flowers and interesting garden visitors, and subsequent months offered the usual good and bad events that can shift lives a little, or a lot. But, if I had to select one vivid memory <em>this minute</em>, it would surely be of a single five-inch-wide daisy flower atop a long, graceful stem that popped up in the secret garden in late October, after every other sensible flower had vanished. I was gobsmacked! The huge, blemish-free beauty bloomed for over a month. Finally, on December first, it folded in on itself and quietly finished. The audacity! The daily delight! Every morning I’d step outside to acknowledge its perfection with a grin and a salute.<br> <br>I’ve made a few resolutions for 2015. The first: research the history of hot water bottles. This wonderful invention has brought me innumerable, deep-sleep nights coddled in delicious warmth. Its inventor deserves recognition and kudus. Electric blankets can’t hold a candle to its comfort-power.<br>Back in the day, when I’d overnight at Gran’s house, she’d slide a Mason jar full of really hot water between my bed sheets and shift it around; three minutes later I’d climb into a warm nest blanketed with her handmade goose down quilt brought to America from the Old Country. I was six years old. That memory is still bright. But still, quart jars can’t compete with the enduring comfort of my proper British Warm hot water bottle. Best of all, its flannel-covered warmth endures all night!<br> <br>Second, I want to gaze deeply into the eyes of an alpaca. (I just happen to know someone who has recently acquired a few.) What fascinating, durable creatures! (I do know that alpacas pre-date the Inca Empire.) Specifically, I want to see what sort of eyelashes they possess. The most beautiful, of course, belong to cows. I know this because I’ve gazed at many a cow in England, and appreciate why there are so many of the beasts: bulls find gorgeously lashed heifers irresistible.<br>My prediction: alpaca eyelashes won’t be quite as alluring. (There aren’t nearly as many of these animals, are there?)<br> <br>Third, I’ve lived in Michigan most of my life, and have often driven past Hartwick Pines State Park, but have never once stopped to explore. Shocking!<br>Joe, Bryn and I plan to rent a cabin nearby and hike around the interior for a day or two, trying to imagine much of Michigan blanketed by these immense trees! Someone, over a century ago, experienced a moment of farsighted clarity: men with axes weren’t allowed to decimate this one lone fifty-acre stand of virgin pine forest.<br>Photos don’t do it justice, say friends.<br>‘Go!’ they urge.<br>So we will. Soon. Maybe packing snowshoes!<br> <br>Right now it’s snowing like stink, so Bryn and I go outside to walk silently down the street in the very wee hours, needing to experience it thickly blanketed. It’s dark, very still and quiet, and always full of mystery. Right now we own it all; nobody is up. We’re completely alone, yet surrounded by a hundred sleeping neighbors. Century-old leaf-bare trees show jet-black as the snow pelts down. Even swathed in three thick sweaters and a heavy coat I feel the biting cold, but that soon vanishes as Bryn and I pace the length of four blocks admiring the Christmas lights.<br>She blends perfectly with the monochromatic scenery: only her black nose and one dark ear are clearly defined. We eventually stop in the middle of the street to sit and stare pensively at each other, and at the blurred beauty beyond.<br> <br>When I was fifteen, while visiting my Uncle Irvin’s Illinois farm, I came upon a moon-white horse standing in the middle of a pasture a little distance away, on an intensely cold, snowy night much like this one. Only the huge beast’s brown eyes and nostrils were clearly visible. He looked at me for a time, blowing out steamy breaths before soundlessly moving much closer on snow-muffled hooves. My palm and his nose connected, sealing the enchantment. We stood face-to-face for a few minutes, our exhalations mingling. Then he breathed into my hair, shook himself and turned away. Swirling white snowflakes pixelated his dark-flecked white tail as my visitor gradually faded into gone. I smiled; cold, happy tears crept down my cheeks to freeze into frosted diamonds…<br> <br>What <em>is</em> it about deep night shrouded in thickly falling snow, when one is lucky enough to exchange a few moments of silent communication, in perfect peace, with <em>non</em>human beings? It’s the essence of magic.<br> </span>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/34427832014-12-28T04:51:49-05:002014-12-28T04:51:49-05:0012/28/14: Holiday Thoughts About Power<span class="font_large"><em>While December brings the only Christmas day, Christmas can happen every day in the things we do and say.</em><br>Anonymous<br> <br> <br>The other day I witnessed a joyful reunion between a woman and her cat. The animal was let out of a car, and it raced to, and wound around, its happy owner’s legs, meowing with happiness. What a sight! Turns out the woman had flown back to Saginaw from Connecticut, but without her pet, who’d been lost. The cat was returned to her two weeks later by friends who’d found her, and driven her back to Michigan.<br> <br>That loving reconnection reminded me of George Adamson- remember him? Mr. Adamson lived with lions in Kenya in the 60s and 70s, and raised worldwide awareness of the plight of Africa’s wild animals, especially elephants and lions, killed by hunters and poachers in that country. Recently I’d read that 25 years ago he himself been killed by bandits there, but that his legacy lived on. <br>In the 70s a famous film, called ‘Born Free’ cemented Adamson’s fame. Here’s a thumbnail sketch of one lion, Christian, that he reintroduced into the wild.<br> <br>Australians Ace Burke and John Rendell had just arrived in London in 1969. When visiting Harrods department store, where one can buy almost anything, they saw a very young lion cub for sale! The rest of this story is best grasped by typing <em>‘a lion called Christian’</em> onto Google. Read the fascinating little blurb and then look to the right, where there is a blurry movie named ‘Christian the lion- full ending.’ Witness love’s impact for yourselves.<br> <br>When the cub grew too large to keep in England Ace and John managed to bring him to Kenya, where George (and Joy Adamson, his wife) agreed to introduce Christian to the wild, and a pride. Their lion wound up being its leader. One year later Ace and John returned to Kenya to visit Christian, though experts strongly discouraged the idea, insisting that they risked being eaten by the huge beast. Christian would have no memory of his early life with them: the men would certainly be viewed as prey.<br> <br>Undeterred, they went anyway, and spent days on the baking African savannah looking for their friend. One hot afternoon they finally spotted him amid his small pride of wild lions, and boldly called out. Christian stared, then padded slowly closer. Suddenly, a hundred feet away, he began to run straight at them. I still remember a thrill of horror as I watched his charge. But the huge animal reared up and gathered the men into a crushing embrace, licking their faces and hugging them for a long time. He’d remembered, all right.<br>His mate, seeing what was happening, joined the happy threesome without reservation, taking her cue from the ecstatic Christian. It was an astonishing sight.<br> <br>The witless experts crept away.<br> <br>Never mind what sort of animal one is; never mind the enormous differences in cultures, Love can trash assumptions; Love can certainly adjust to differences; Love can connect us all. </span>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/34239992014-12-21T05:13:42-05:002014-12-21T05:13:42-05:0012/21/14: Out With It!<span class="font_large">After two years it’s time for another good purge of my kitchen’s cupboards, drawers, nooks and crannies. It’s a fascinating, irritating task, but the room and I are certainly the better for it.<br>Here’s how the latest giveaway/putaway scenario unfolded.<br> <br>I spread two Ace Hardware tarps on the floor. Then I emptied <em>everything</em> in the kitchen onto one of them. This took some time, but I’d checked out a story tape from the library to keep me entertained. After the cupboards were bare I dragged out my new shop vac and hoovered every emptied drawer and shelf before wiping each one clean.<br>An enormous pile confronted me. How much was really necessary? This would be an- ‘Out, damn’d stuff- ‘Tis time to do ’t…’ day, to tweak the words of Lady Macbeth.<br> <br>I studied the heap- pans, lids, toaster, plastic food containers, orphaned lids, dishes, chipped and intact mugs. The cluttered contents of my ‘junky’ drawer (rubber bands, broken pencils, scotch tape, batteries, little calculators, screws, nails) begged for weeding. I pondered nice, but rarely used, ironed and folded tablecloths…OK. Time for ‘whatifers.’ What if I’d need this or that for our larger family gatherings? Well, I’d put those ‘might want’ things in a medium-sized plastic container, list the contents, tape the list to the lid, then store it in the basement. A ten-inch high pile of interesting placemats I’d bought at garage sales had brightened the kitchen at various times over the years, but I kept just four sets. The rest were bagged for Good Will.<br> <br>Tarp #2 would host essential things. I plunked down the toaster, teakettle, coffee pot, utensils, favorite pots and pans, dishes- and just eight mugs I’d never tire of.<br>Oh, but that froggy one beckoned. But no. I hadn’t used it in ages. Well, what would my children do with that frog-in-the-mug? (This standard question helps me make ‘D-Day’ decisions.) “For heaven’s sake,” they’d mutter- “let someone new chuckle over it.”<br>It stayed on tarp #1.<br> <br>Next, the floor-to-ceiling pantry cupboards were emptied. Tins of soup, sardines and oysters were pushed against the wall, to be restacked later. I cast out elderly flour, stale crackers, expired cans of pumpkin, etc. A big pile of mending, vases, receipts, scented candles, and the like, were sorted. Ancient mending was examined, and put into a do-it-this-week plastic sack. Unimportant receipts from this past year were tossed.<br> <br>Bryn, watching all this activity with great interest, wanted to help. While I was on my knees crawling well into the pantry’s nether regions to find and drag out items that hadn’t seen daylight in ages, she quietly, delicately nipped off every wrapper from the seven floored oyster and sardine tins. It was a thorough job. In future, Joe and I, faced with blank tins, would have no idea what saltwater creature might rest on our crackers until we peeled back the lid. Oh, well…<br> <br>Next, she quietly picked up a slim, half-full plastic sugar container with one end open for pouring out measured amounts- and trotted off to her nest to inspect/chew it. A substantial stream of sugar granules poured out of the business end, leaving a clear trail.<br>She’d no sooner settled than I emerged from cupboard depths to make a cup of tea. My shoes crunched on the sugar, exposing her mischief. I admit to some gnashing of teeth; what a mess! The shop vacuum roared to life.<br>Fifteen minutes later all was spic n’ span.<br> <br>Tarp #1, heaped with lots of giveaway goodies, were packed into bags and boxes and trundled out to the car.<br> <br>I put away what had survived, washed the interior windows, mopped the floor, then looked around. There was a ton of room in the drawers and on shelves. The kitchen felt huge and airy. It had certainly lost weight.<br> <br>“Lets celebrate with a dog biscuit and a smidgen of tawny port,” I said with a grin to Bryn.<br>“Here’s to eliminations: May they be regular and thorough!” </span>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/33971772014-12-14T05:31:56-05:002014-12-14T05:31:56-05:0012/14/14: Goodbyes and Hellos!<span class="font_large">Dogs understand much more than people realize.<br>My mother’s husband once told me of an old friend’s passing after a long illness. Just before he’d died, his dog, Reilly, lay on the bed next to him, keeping vigil. The man smiled, touched his friend one last time, and let go. The dog would not be moved for a long time. He stayed with his master, eyes half-shut, tail still, sorting out what had just happened.<br> <br>He had a rough few weeks, off his feed, too quiet, but <em>not</em> in seeker mode. His 89-year old master, who had insisted on Reilly’s presence at the end, had been right. “Better this way,” he’d said. “Easier on Reilly to be with me now. He’ll understand the way of things.”<br>After awhile Reilly began eating better, and would respond when called by his master’s children to enjoy walks in the woods again. He was adjusting, and coping. <br>Dogs are very good at this.<br>This memory popped into my head as I prepared to leave Bryn to board a flight to Florida. Joe and I would be gone just over a week.<br> <br>My goodbye was understated. I handed 11-month old Bryn-dog’s leash to my relatives and told her to stay with them. She looked at them, then at me, cocked her head and sighed. Then I held her white muzzle, smoothed her lush whiskers and beard and said, simply, “I’ll be back. Be a good dog.” Bryn sat, head down, knowing things were changing, but clueless about why. I fervently wished I could explain. We’d never been apart before, so this would be quite an adjustment. Mostly for me. She’s my shadow, my confidant, my cheerer-upper, my dear, non-judgmental friend. I knew she’d adjust much more quickly if I ‘transferred the reins’ in her presence. Dogs are philosophical.<br>She would accept, and adjust.<br> <br>Mary and Vince are experienced dog people, so it would be fine. I, however, was less sanguine. I slept fitfully the first night in Naples, missing her 20-second concerts when she’d settled into her nest for the night, then squeeze a favorite fat cloth hedgehog to make it grunt. Sometimes she’d sleepily toot her orange snake. Such silly sounds! So loved.<br> <br>Naples was wonderful. My sister and her husband Joe gave us a special experience. We read, ate, talked music, biked, enjoyed sunsets on the Gulf of Mexico’s white sugar beach, and crashed on their comfy couches while waiting out 85-degree afternoons. My gaping ‘Bryn chasm’ got smaller. A week later, truly rested, we were ready for winter in northern Michigan.<br> <br>Spirit Airlines made the trouble-free journey from Detroit to and from Fort Meyers in 2.5 hours.<br> <br>We landed on time, at 7:30 P.M, and gasped when icy air hit our lungs. What a shock! We’d flown to Naples wearing long underwear, flannel-lined jeans and thick sweaters, and returned in summer clothes, to shiver and shake for our folly.<br> <br>The next day I drove up from Saginaw on I-75 straight to Acme Creek Kennels, Bryn’s birthplace, located in Acme’s rolling countryside. She’d been boarded there for the last two days, as my relatives had had to leave for Alpena.<br> <br>Bryn had known early that morning that something was up; she’d been whisked into the shampoo room, scrubbed clean and blown dry, then decked out in a bright red bandana decorated with tiny, cheerful snowmen. When I arrived she was brought into the reception area. At the door she stopped dead and sniffed the air. Those brown eyes widened: Oh! I’d come back! She rushed to me, claws scrabbling for purchase on the linoleum, her whole body wriggling with joy.<br>Though ecstatic, she never once jumped up on me, but contented herself with licking my hands, my jeans, and finally my face when I knelt to hug her. Little whimpers of happiness, mixed with my croons and pats, made for a marvelous reunion. Dog welcomes are simply the best!<br> <br>All the way into Traverse City she snuffled my neck from the back seat, and ruffled my hair with her long nose. While waiting out a stoplight I felt a paw tap my arm. <em>‘Hello, Boss: Hello, hello…’</em><br> <br>Bryn has another special way of expressing happiness; she bobs her head. It dips quickly, then springs back, over and over, exactly like a brisk nod (especially when we’re within a half-mile of dog parks). Now, as I watched her in the rear view mirror, she bobbed, over and over, and shifted her feet slightly, too excited to stay still.<br> <br>Dogs do smile. After I’d parked in the garage I turned to her, chuckling. “Shall we go inside, Bryn?” Her long mouth turned up at the corners, just a little; fringed brown eyes shone with anticipation.<br>There’s no place like home!</span>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/33702802014-12-07T06:12:19-05:002014-12-07T06:12:19-05:0012/08/14: Curious Stalkers in a Heavenly Place<span class="font_large">Joe and I have briefly vacated our icy, now snowless Michigan winter: my sister and her husband invited us to fly to Naples to stay at their beautiful condo, as they’d be elsewhere for a week. The idea was irresistible.<br> <br>It’s in the low 80s here at this time of year, perfect weather for renting two bikes from Big Mama’s Bicycle Store, the better to explore. Friday after breakfast we pedaled toward the ocean, just a short ride away. Before continuing on over the big bridge to Wiggins State Park, which borders the endless beach on the Gulf of Mexico, we paused to look down at the ocean water flowing quietly, but briskly, through a very wide canal. Two years ago we’d spotted the huge dark shapes of manatees moving languidly down there, just below the surface. Maybe we’d see some again…<br> <br>A bench almost underneath the bridge looked inviting, so we pedaled down there. A slim older guy sat at the canal’s edge on an accommodating chunk of chopped, erosion-preventing cement, expertly casting line after line upstream, then rhythmically simulating his lure’s ‘aliveness’ by doing controlled jerks as the bobbing, baited hook floated past him. Speaking quietly so as not to disturb him we watched and tinkered with our camera, focusing it on huge, still-empty condos across the canal. (Most ‘half-timers’ apparently migrate down to Naples just after Christmas and remain until the heat and humidity become unbearable, usually around about mid-May, or so.)<br> <br>The man’s pole bent- Hooray! A fish! Quickly he reeled in a seven-inch-long Jack too little to eat. Using a towel to grasp the slippery, flapping creature he carefully removed the hook and threw it back.<br> <br>Suddenly, as he re-baited, a four-foot-long blacktip shark jumped out of the water right next to him! It had been hovering in the fast-moving, opaque water, practically at his feet. (Blacktip sharks commonly haunt shallow coastal Florida beaches and waterways.)<br> <br>“Well,” the man said softly, wiping ‘splash’ off his face as he glanced back at us, “<em>That </em>was a little startling…” <br> <br>And so, with this tacit permission to chat, we moved closer and began an interesting conversation.<br> <br>Turns out that Chuck, a 73-year-old former school principal from Illinois, had retired here some years ago. He and his wife owned a small condo nearby, and he enjoyed coming to this spot to fish. (Lots of other people favored it, too. Not twenty feet above us the lowest of four major power lines crossing the canal was bizarrely festooned with all manner of tangled lures from bad casts made by inexperienced fishermen over many years.)<br> <br>“Have you had any interesting fish adventures?” I enquired. He nodded, and settled down to talk.<br>“When we first moved here I’d wade out into the Gulf.” He gestured toward the spectacular, miles-long sugar beach just a quarter-mile further on. “The sea bottom gradually descends from inches deep to maybe a foot, and stays at that level until it drops suddenly down four or five feet. Great for fishing, I thought. So, a few weeks ago I waded out to the drop-off carrying my pole and a pouch crammed with bait, determined to catch a decent-sized Jack or two for dinner. Friends who’d accompanied me to the beach considered it reckless behavior. ‘My God, Chuck, you’re carrying bait. <em>You’re </em>bait! Dinner waiting to happen! Have you thought this through?’<br> <br>“Well, I just laughed and brushed off their comments. I’d be fine. A passionate fisherman for years and years, I knew a thing or two.<br> <br>“Soon enough my cockiness was trash-canned. A startled fisherman just a few feet away from me inadvertently hooked a very large blacktip shark. Two muscled men managed to maneuver it onto the beach with barely a struggle, simply by flipping it over. (Sharks go placid and tame when turned upside down.) They removed the hook, and then drew two lines in the sand, one at its head and one at its tail, before dragging it back to the ocean. Righted again, but befuddled, it swam off slowly.<br> <br>“They measured between sand-lines. That shark was seven feet long, and weighed over 400 pounds!<br>Though they hang around shoals and beach shallows they just aren’t noticed, except from, say, small planes or helicopters. Hotels and resorts sometimes hire pilots to patrol swimming areas and ocean beach ‘shallows’ at certain times of the year. They radio every shark’s position, and often comment about vacationers frolicking very near them, clueless.<br>Mostly these fish are <em>not</em> interested in sampling swimmers- except when they are.”<br> <br>“Still, isn’t it amazing that shark attacks are so very rare?” My husband commented.<br> <br>Chuck smiled. “True enough. What surprises me is how numerous <em>these</em> particular sharks are, and yet, mostly not perceived. Last week I caught three smaller black tips <em>in one hour</em> at this exact spot. One measured almost three feet long. Each was a surprise.”<br>He smiled. “I, ah, don’t wade any more. If the sharks didn’t kill me first, my wife certainly would. She threw a <em>fit </em>when I told her what I’ve told you.” <br>We exchanged goodbyes and biked away. I looked back to see him collecting his gear to leave, too.<br> <br>Later, back at the condo, we read that though people have reported bites, there’s never been a fatal attack.<br>Small comfort….</span>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/33431862014-11-30T05:47:27-05:002014-11-30T05:47:27-05:0011/30/14: Exaggerated Glories RecalledReaders occasionally ask me what experiences have made a lasting impression on me during the decade I’ve been writing my columns. Here’s one that stands out…<br> <br>Four years ago Joe and I flew to Phoenix to an exclusive, Asian-style spa/resort, to attend our friend Ron’s Christmas wedding there. His lovely bride was- and still is- the resort’s popular social director. Guests are often elegantly turned out People of Note.<br> <br>Tree trunks were wrapped in lights; huge cacti twinkled from top to bottom. Large, imported Christmas trees were tastefully decorated. Even in the high desert, t’was The Season.<br> <br>During our delicious balcony lunch outside, above the intriguing infinity pool—which seems to defy gravity—Joe suddenly choked on his salad. His eyes widened. He gestured with his fork toward the large patio area below us, where guests were sunbathing and chatting. I looked, and gasped! A tall, gorgeous woman, probably in her early thirties, wearing 5” spiked heels, walked delicately toward two chaise lounge chairs, followed by her man. She bent over one, the better to display <em>her</em> gravity-defying wonders—a volleyball-sized bust. Sunbathers lowered their shades to gape at the spectacular sight. (This resort attracts the discretely understated sort, so she—ah, stuck out.) Every incredulous female on the big patio felt ironing board flat.<br> <br>Three men in the generous Jacuzzi dunked themselves to clear their heads, then checked ‘the vision’ again. Sure enough, she was real.<br> <br>Her companion, a tall, tanned, massively muscled fellow with a narrow waist, wore black silk trunks that flowed expensively to knee level. There was something peculiar about him, though. From the top of his bald head right down to his toes he was dyed a deep plum-purple. A huge eagle tattoo covered his back. Intricate, vividly colored tattoos decorated his limbs. His ton-y torso and tapestry made every other man there feel boring and inadequate.<br> <br>She slowly massaged his plummy calves as he lay facedown on the lounge chair, then carefully laid her own generous purple towel across her thighs and fussed with the drinks on her little table in such a way as to display her eye-popping frontage.<br> <br>Her one-of-a-kind one-piece purple ‘swimsuit’ was never meant to be wet. I decided that its creator/designer had poured her into a regular swimsuit, then snipped away at every bit of material that wasn’t absolutely necessary, until what remained could easily fit into a whisky shot glass.<br>She constantly adjusted the microscopic bits of cloth, which struggled heroically struggled heroically to cope.<br> <br>The woman possessed lovely, long, tattooed legs, a perfect tan, fluffy blond shoulder-length hair, and up-to-date plumped lips. Satisfied she’d captured everyone’s attention, she positioned herself carefully sideways on the lounge chair to sunbathe. Arranging herself was a tricky business that required some patience. I wondered how she managed to sleep. In the background Frank Sinatra sang, “I’ve got youuu—under my skin,” which made me gasp, then giggle into my napkin.<br> <br>Joe, finding his voice, whispered, “Do you see what I see?” I nodded, and focused again on the plum man, who’d lowered himself into the Jacuzzi to chat with the other lightly tanned, or pot-bellied, pale men. The dye, obviously impervious to water, was off-the-wall odd, but honestly, on him it worked. “The guy’s probably a professional wrestler,” mused Joe, who’d spared him only a quick glance. His eyes were glued to wonder-woman, who had carefully risen to teeter toward the dressing room while sipping from a long-stemmed martini glass. After a brief absence she teetered back, head held high. Nobody spoke. Everybody looked. The scene was surreal.<br> <br>We finally finished lunch and left, a few minutes too soon, as it turned out. Apparently one too many martinis had been her undoing. Inebriated and wobbly, mademoiselle tripped on a towel and toppled backward into the big Jacuzzi. She surfaced, sputtering but unhurt, wearing only her birthday suit. A hot tub male, who’d managed to avoid being hit, dived for (her) ‘cover,’ then triumphantly held up his micro-trophy before handing it over to her rattled escort. Another gallant fellow proffered his skimpy towel. Pandemonium reigned for a minute or two as she climbed unsteadily out, clutching the ridiculously inadequate towel to her ‘assets.’ The rest of her was on full display. She probably didn’t notice. (This sort of script would have been rejected as too fantastic, even for Hollywood…or- maybe not.)<br> <br>At breakfast the next morning the odd couple, who’d checked out early, was the main topic of conversation. Apparently she, an exotic actress, had just finished making a movie, with her companion as co-star. Exhausted from weeks of filming they’d come to the resort to unwind. Some wag commented that the two had inadvertently created another unscripted, short-feature reality show that the resort’s captivated audience would remember, and talk about, for years.<br> <br>Yes indeed. I’m proof of that…<br> <br><em>Note: My book, <u>The View From Sunnybank</u>, is packed with true stories about the fascinating people and animals I’ve encountered over more than twenty years of sharing my secret garden with visitors. All book proceeds go toward maintenance of the garden, open four months of every year. A fun Christmas gift, it’s available at Horizon Books in Traverse City, or online, on Amazon.</em>Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/33190372014-11-22T22:11:27-05:002017-01-11T09:52:03-05:0011/23/14: Foul Balls, Money-Crunching and Panty Raids<span class="font_large">My eleven-month-old labradoodle girl bounced like a springbok through a foot of fresh snow, dark eyes sparkling with delight. A new game was born in an instant: Snowplow! Burying her slim nose in the white stuff she broke into a trot; a largish white mound immediately piled up over her eyes, making her snow-blind. Clunk! She bumbled into a tree trunk, backed off, shook herself vigorously and sneezed out snow. With a little yip of excitement she dropped her front legs and pushed off again, using her shoulder as a plow. Fun!<br>Next? An enthusiastic roll, until every inch of her was snow-coated. It was sheer delight to bounce and bounce, snap up an icy mouthful, floof it out, grin, then bounce around again.<br>However.<br>After a few minutes she stopped dead and cocked her head. Something wasn’t right! Large rounded ice balls clung to her lush eyebrows, pulling them down over her eyes. Weighed down whiskers drooped; wavy white fur harbored quarter-sized balls, which stuck like cement around her mouth and fought for dominance from paws to elbows. Her toes were wedged open by ice globs. Actually, snow-stiffened Bryn looked bizarrely festive.<br> <br>Baffled, she twisted herself into a pretzel to gnaw at the mess. Didn’t help. She vigorously scooted her muzzle along the packed snow to scrape them off. Instead, more balls formed.<br>She tried rolling, then vigorously shaking. None dislodged; she’d simply gained more weight. But now her teeth showed, not by choice. Dime-sized balls had tightened her curly mouth fur so much that her lips were pulled up. She looked around, trying to locate me, but dangling balls banged her eyes: she truly couldn’t see. I ran over to rescue her.<br> <br>Eyes squeezed shut she stood stock-still while I worked on her eyes and lips with my bare hands in 18-degree weather.<br>She tried to help by offering encrusted paws. Heavens, those balls were tenacious! Patiently I worked my way up her sturdy, feathered legs to her elbows until my fingers went numb and I was forced to stop. But she could at least see, and walk. Done with the park we made our way toward the car through foot-deep snow. Balls immediately ensnarled her fetlocks and crawled between her pads. It was maddening! Again, she assumed impossible positions to lick and bite them off.<br>I was freezing though, and hurried her miserable self along toward the car’s relative warmth.<br> <br>“Try Mushers Wax!” a pet owner yelled from the other side of the fence. Of course! Alaskan dog mushers <em>would</em> have a solution! At home Bryn’s balls melted into a large puddle while I looked for the product on Amazon; sure enough, a little round can offered exactly what I needed. Bonus: the wax wouldn’t stain carpets. But wait! Maybe PetSmart, here in Traverse City, might stock it. I went in; they offered ‘Paw Pad’ in a can that closely resembled the one online. ‘Prevents Damage & Conditions Paws,’ I read.<br>If this worked, I’d have a source right here in town.<br>Hmmm…Would Bag Balm do just as well? I love this salve, found at any pharmacy, and use it constantly on myself.<br>Fine. I’d try both. Those balls, especially on her paws, would slip-slide away.<br> <br>Joe and I also purchased little blue rubber paw booties. To our amazement she somehow knew their worth, and played at the dog park unbothered by their tight grip. They did tend to shred as she dashed around, but <em>are</em> quite effective for our more sedate city strolls.<br> <br> <wbr></wbr> ***<br> <br>Bryn’s suddenly starving all the time. She used to eat to live. Now, practically overnight, she lives to eat. She used to scatter nuggets all over the kitchen. I’d step on one in my stocking feet and yelp. Now, every single one is crunched gone, straight from her bowl.<br>Wow! I might have a bigger dog brewing here.<br> <br>Curious adolescent Bryn is drawn to anything she sees on, or near, the floor; dropped pens, discarded mail- it’s all tooth fodder. We installed a nice canvas sling to protect our car’s back seat, and threw in a new, comfy dog bed. Then we treated ourselves to a restaurant lunch, leaving her there to enjoy a bully stick. When we returned 40 minutes later, that bed’s white foam padding had been teased out of a gnawed hole and chopped into a zillion fat chunks. She looked surprised at our howls of dismay.<br> <br>The other day when I left the bedroom for a minute, she shook my nice down pillow to death. I returned to a snowstorm of floating feathers. Some hung from her mouth and eyebrows; most blanketed her white coat. When her tail swished, air-light duck down floated lazily around before resettling into little piles on the carpet. She was entranced by the effect. I was not.<br> <br>Accidently dropped pens are crunched. She twisted my favorite glasses into a pretzel. (Foolishly, I’d left them in an open slot between the car’s front seats.) Magazines removed from trashcans are meticulously torn into long strips (always near the big kitchen window, so she can keep an eye on foraging squirrels). And yesterday I found her wasting money. A dollar bill, dropped from my jeans pocket, lay in fragments on the floor, torn into so many tiny pieces that it took over an hour of careful work to reassemble it (just to see if I could). One tiny piece had vanished, though.<br>The next day, I spotted a flash of faded green, nestling in her poo. Laughing, I rinsed it off off and finished the mosaic. That dollar is certainly resilient!<br> <br><span data-term="goog_1043611808" tabindex="0">Tuesday</span>, exploring the bathroom, she teased out one of my undies from the shelf, wormed her head through a leg hole and managed to work it around her neck, probably by rubbing her face along the floor. I came up from the basement to find Bryn draped in dangling panties. I laughed and laughed while she sat there, looking dopey and clueless.<br> <br>Check out her ‘panty raid’ Kodak moment!</span><br><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/23293/dfc80cf707de3a931f85a414b83a7d650b4b9680/original/fullsizerender.jpg?1416712112" class="size_l justify_center border_" />Dee Blairtag:deeblair.com,2005:Post/32917272014-11-16T04:40:28-05:002014-11-16T04:40:28-05:0011/16/14: Stranger in the Night<span class="font_large">Michigan weather is never uninteresting. We’ve received a good amount of snow; yet, when I peer through the window the wee hours of the night, everything out there is enveloped in a blanket of thick mist—and it’s softly, almost invisibly, raining! What an irresistible lure! I snatch my umbrella and venture out to walk up and down our street in the dark.<br> <br>The mist-coated air swirls gently. Hannah Park is a series of vague outlines. I hear occasional muffled quacks; the thick air mutes these sounds as ducks, half asleep, drift on the swift-moving river past a white, tree-naked world. Grinning, I decide that quacking helps to keep everyone together, as ducky reference points have all but vanished.<br> <br>There is no sound; even the cars are asleep. The moon, mimicked by frosted street lamps, bathes everything in an icy halo, intricately highlighting wet, jet-black trees and shrubs. Structures gleam. I walk slowly, my cleated boots biting into the slick snow. Rod Serling is my silent, invisible companion.<br> <br>The dead of night seems devoid of life—but wait! Just ahead, movement disturbs the fog. Three fat, bandit-marked raccoons emerge from the mist and stroll toward me, holding things. They rear up: six little eyes skewer me, the intruder. I feel caught out, like a trespasser, or a peeping Tom. They don’t move—or even blink. I know what they’re thinking. (Why is this human wandering around in the sleet-rainy dark, disturbing our peace?)<br> <br>One ‘coon is clutching a half-wrapped parcel of something edible; the papered item brings to mind fish-and-chips, a favorite takeaway in England, which is usually enveloped in yesterday’s newspaper headlines. It seems I’ve interrupted their scavenging trip. <br> <br>After a bit, I say, tentatively<em>, “Hello, there.”</em> The greeting breaks the spell; they lower themselves to waddle slowly down into Hannah Park with their stuff, never once looking back. I’ve been dismissed.<br> <br>Whose trash has been lightened? <br>These guys are stealthy; I never heard them coming until they’d suddenly materialized. <em>‘Strangers in the night, exchanging glances…’</em> Sinatra’s voice winds around my neurons as I carry on.<br> <br>This deep-night dimension, infrequently explored by humans, is the Moonlight Zone. Those who venture into it are susceptible to a sort of otherworldly enchantment. Night life moves to a different rhythm, and experiences its own kinds of triumphs and tragedies, ignored by oblivious day-treaders. In the wee hours anything can happen. The rules are different. Alien. We two-legged creatures are irrelevant. <br> <br>This softer, darker stratum has smoothly adapted to civilization’s changes, using landscape alterations and human discard habits to further its own ends. The lessons are simpler. Food is life. Inattention invites oblivion. Careless mice are prey for silent owls; raccoons scout alley trash bins or fish along the shallows; sleepy trout stay in the river’s deeper middle, hoping to avoid them; furtive cats slink delicately along snowy walks, intrigued by potential menu choices in a world etched in white.<br> <br>I am a spellbound stranger in a strange land…</span>Dee Blair