Category Archives: Random Thoughts

>Green in the City

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I do a lot with my small city yard. Small city, small yard, and it’s just right for our needs.

We live in an older neighborhood not far from downtown: old Victorian homes, narrow streets, parks, big trees – lovely, really. Neighborhoods near us are similar, but many don’t have yards. We are lucky. Most homes near our downtown were built in an era when garages weren’t necessary and yards were just work. Only one block away from mine, large houses overlook a gorgeous ravine, but have no place to shelter the cars. My block doesn’t have a prestigious address, but it offers great neighbors, 2-car garages, and room to grow tomatoes.
I feel very lucky to have the space we do. True big city dwellers might have a balcony if they’re lucky, and it may or may not get sun. With a little square foot style gardening and a small section of rhubarb, we get a remarkable yield from our downtown piece of land.
In my own little corner, in my own little yard, we compost, use rain barrel water, grow tomatoes, herbs, and more. I always feel a little down in the fall as I bring the pots inside and start piling leaves on top of the garden plot. It’s a bittersweet time: lovely, colorful trees surrounding dying tomato plants and zucchini vines, picking tiny beans that never got enough warmth to fully mature.
This is the time I begin looking ahead. If my ankle heals sufficiently, I’ll spread compost on the new plot to help prepare it for spring. I’ll pull the boards that make the walkways and set them aside. Eventually I’ll drain both rain barrels and turn them upside down to avoid freezing and cracking.
Yes, small city and small yard, it’s a good place for growing. We do a lot on our small plot. Winter’s coming, but I still feel that life is good.

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>Random Dental Thoughts

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If you’ve been following my plurks or tweets lately, you know I’ve spent several weeks in pain from an unexplained ankle problem. I realized the ankle pain was serious when I was in the dentist’s chair getting work done. Yes, the dentist.
I’m a wimpy dental patient – the kind who wants every kind of painkiller and relaxant available. Our dentist is kind and understanding. He doesn’t call me a wimp; he says “We want you to be comfortable. Would you like some tylenol before we start, too?” And then the assistant hooks up the nitrous oxide and I take a deep breath.
Back to the ankle. I was breathing in the nitrous and relaxing, finding a focal point on the ceiling (Lamaze style), and realized with a Woodstock-style tone “Wow, my ankle doesn’t hurt. For the first time in a week, my ankle feels good.” This thought was followed by my logical self saying “Wow, that’s not good. Self, call the doctor when you get home.”
Two weeks later: The ankle still hurts, but the teeth are doing great. No pain, easy cleaning, and the final crowns go on in next month. The dental assistants are really good at giving practical advice, too. They show me how to brush better, how to floss, and how to make sure the temporary crowns stay in place until the final pieces go in. Somehow, they’re polite and professional and non-judgmental the whole time.

When is dental floss not a floss? When it’s a Bryton pick. It’s small, reusable (wash it after each use, it’s quick), and easy to handle. Bryton sent me two samples, and I tried them out during a busy season: sweet corn on the cob season. The little pick worked for me: less waste than traditional floss, tiny and easy to store, and effective in getting rid of the residue from the delicious farmers’ market corn.

Now if only I could get rid of this ankle/foot pain as easily….

BrytonPick sent me a sample product in order to do this review. Yes, it honestly came in late August when we were buying and cooking and eating sweet corn every week. Perfect timing, as far as I’m concerned. I was not otherwise compensated for this review.

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>The Adventures of Sun-Loving Rat

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>Hi, I’m Sun-lovin’ Rat! I came from Cambridge, Ontario, Canada to visit Daisy and family. Any visit to the O-K Chorale (yes, I did mean to spell it that way! ) includes a road trip of some sort.

On our way out of a medical appointment we stopped at the golden arches. Mmmm, fries. That huge Ronald guy was kind of scary, though.
Next we drove a long, long way to drop off Amigo at the school for the blind. We got him there just in time for track practice. The Visitor tags were so cool I decided to wear mine all the way home.
It was a beautiful day for a long drive; I think I napped a little. The seats in Chuck’s Saturn are a nice gray color, just like Sun-Lovin’ Rat!

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>What do you remember?

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>Short pieces, memories from September 11, 2001

Realizing that if Amigo could read the headline, it was big.
Both kids, then high school sophomore and fourth grader, ran into the house from their school buses calling out “Mom, did you hear what happened?”
My panic reaction of “fill the van with gas before prices jump!” only to find that the entire city had decided to do the same thing was a decision rapidly abandoned. I had half a tank, and in our normal driving habits, that would still last several weeks.
Teachers gathered in the lounge not to talk (we were a friendly, social group), but to watch a TV we’d dragged in. We’d been called in during our first recess of the day, informed of the district decisions on how to handle the situation. School was in code yellow: not in lock-down, but extra security added. We were not allowed to tell our elementary students until the end of the day.
Reactions varied, but life went on. Amigo and Chuck went to a Lions’ Camp weekend for families the following weekend. Chuck was worn out from a week of crazy stress working at the TV station. He needed to get away from media for a few days.
Every house in the neighborhood lit a candle on that Friday, an impromptu vigil spread by Internet communication. La Petite and a friend took their candles for a walk and saw our neighborhood cop with his bagpipes, playing Amazing Grace and pacing, marching a square around the corner.
Five years later, I suggested a journal prompt to my students about their memories of the attack. They remembered nothing. Nothing. They’d been in first grade, six and seven years old, and no one in the class had any recollection of the day the United States found out we were no longer invincible: we were vulnerable to terrorism on our own soil.
I remember the patriotism that followed and the sense of community that spread. But I also remember the knee-jerk reactions, including passing of a law misnamed the Patriot Act that only one senator actually read before voting.
I remember a huge power outage, a blackout in New York City the following summer, when New Yorkers pulled together rather than looted each other.
I remember a color coded warning system, advice to stock up on canned food, plastic, and duct tape in case of nuclear attack. Then we as a country calmed down and lived our lives again.
I remember a neighbor, a Muslim woman, mother of four boys, being harassed and feeling scared to get out of her minivan to fill it with gas. She is still my neighbor, and her boys are now grown up. She and her family are wonderful people – one of her sons knows La Petite.
I remember a vindictive and vocal minister of a very small church getting too much attention for a terrible, narrow minded act of collecting and planning to burn the Muslim holy book, the Koran.
Wait: the last one just happened. Nine years ago we reacted to a tragedy by coming together.
Readers, let’s stay together.

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>Weekend Pajama Mama

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>It could be a reality show. Really. It’s the actuality on many weekends in my house.

Accomplishments, worthy of air time;

  • Read the entire Sunday newspaper, including sorting the ads and reading the few that mattered.
  • Spent some quality time with a heating pad on my stiff and sore back.
  • Scaled the peak of Mount Washmore and began the descent. That is, finished the majority of the washing and drying and began folding and stashing the clean clothes.
  • Reclaimed the kitchen table. No easy task, this one: it was covered with canning supplies from making salsa last night, a crate of leftover tomatoes, papers from my school and Amigo’s school, bases for two crockpots (the crocks were in the dishwasher and sink), professional membership applications awaiting my checkbook, cloth bags from yesterday’s farmers’ market, and more.
  • Filled and ran the dishwasher.
  • Took out and emptied full compost container.
  • Made breakfast, started coffee, dealt with the daily meds (including claritin and tylenol for the seasonal sinus headache).
  • Charged my cell phone.
  • Labeled and stored salsa made last night.
  • Handled two tedious but important school tasks (cut out felt pieces for white-board erasers, placed computer username/ password stickers on colored index cards) while watching The Muppets Take Manhattan. “Because you share a love so big, I now pronounce you frog and pig.” Priceless.
  • Reclaimed recliner in bedroom, relieving it of its temporary status as repository for clean jeans and t-shirts.
“Okay, Daisy,” says the show’s producer, “So what? A lot of working moms multi-task on weekend mornings. What’s so big about this list?”
“Well, darling,” replies Daisy, “Did you see what’s missing? All of this was accomplished in my pajamas.”
I can’t wait to see what happens on the Labor Day episode.

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>Mosquitoes, begone!

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>Following a long car ride (2 1/2 hours each way), I stretched my legs and my aching back by watering the garden. Filled the watering can from the rain barrel, poured it over tomatoes, filled it again, slapped at mosquitoes, poured the water over the peppers, filled up again, slapped at more mosquitoes, dumped water quickly over roots of zucchini plants, started speeding up the process by using a second bucket because I COULDN’T STAND THE MOSQUITOES ANY MORE.

Is there a vampire variety of mosquito? Those in my backyard are certainly bloodthirsty. Chuck suggested that the FAA is issuing tail numbers for mosquitoes now because they’re getting so big. I’m afraid for the neighborhood bunnies or the little dog next door; the mosquitoes might carry them away!
Meanwhile, I noticed beans, finally, beans! I didn’t see any zucchini, just the potential for a few squash. But I didn’t even pick the yellow pear tomatoes, the little ones that seem to ripen daily. I could not, would not, stay in the torture chamber any longer and expose myself to the vicious bloodsucking flying insects that continued dive bombing me everywhere I went.
Somehow, I got the rhubarb and the herbs watered.
Somehow, I rinsed the bunnies’ litter boxes and left them out to dry overnight.
Somehow, I made it in the deck door without letting any little bugs follow along.
Somehow, I washed with soap and water to get the dirt off, but didn’t scratch any of the bite marks.
Somehow, I found the Benadryl gel quickly and spread it on all the bites I could reach – and a few that were rather awkward. How does a mosquito climb in my t-shirt sleeve, for example?
After all that, I had to wash my hands yet again so I could take out my contacts without pain and agony.
It’s a no-win situation. With heat and no rain, I’ll have to water every day, exposing myself to the winged elements. If we get rain, we’ll get more larva that turn into these evil winged critters. The neighborhood bats aren’t eating enough. Ideas? Maybe ketchup?

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>My Garden keeps me humble.

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>Every year I start with plans – big plans. This year the big change was the new tomato plot. We planned ahead, set it up as a large triangle with layers of cardboard and newspaper covered with compost in the style of a lasagna garden. When spring came, we braced the three sides with boards donated by a generous neighbor and then covered the area with about 4 inches of soil trucked in from a local nursery. Then I planted: tomatoes, peppers, and broccoli, with a few wildflower seeds scattered across the back. Fleet Farm had the tomato supports I wanted, and we were set.

Then I got sick. The bathroom/bedroom/laundry remodel ran overtime. And the weather? Heat, humidity, rain, heat, humidity, rain. The tomatoes loved it. So did the weeds. So did the neighborhood wild bunnies, when they found out that Chuck hadn’t had time to fence it in. The small furry creatures hid in the tomatoes and ate the broccoli. All of it.
Eventually, I had surgery. Recovery was quick, but the weeds were still growing. I finally had a chance to weed, pulling some odd invasive plants that must have come in with the soil, as they only turned up in the triangle. One of the storms came complete with hail and bent several tomato vines, so I pruned and tied them up as best I could. One cherry tomato plant had spread its wings, er, branches so far that it put the banana pepper in its shade. I put in a second support, tied it up with t-shirt strips from Chuck’s old Survivor t-shirt (the irony was not lost on me), and then let the pepper plant grow. Again. It’s doing fine now.
Nature does humble a person. No matter how much research I do, online or in books, no matter how many experts I ask, the weather will take its own course. No matter how healthy I am or vice versa, the plants and weeds will keep on growing. They’ll fall over before the wind, and I’ll pick up what I can, but the storms will arrive when they will. When it’s super hot, I’ll drain the rain barrels to water the plants. When it’s rainy, I’ll squash mosquitoes. If I’m lucky, we’ll get just enough rain to refill the barrels and all will be well with the backyard gardening world.
Then harvest time arrived. Peas didn’t do well. Beans didn’t do well. Something feathered or furry ate the spinach. Zucchini came late, but seems to be okay. The tomatoes, at long last, were (and still are) my pride and joy. Flushed with excitement from my jam-making success, it was time to can tomatoes. I gathered supplies, pulled together my jars and lids and water-bath canner, examined the recipe, stepped back to look it over with pride and excitement, and then weighed and measured the tomatoes.
I didn’t have enough. I’d gathered slightly less than half what I needed, not counting the plum size that were generous, but still small enough to be a hassle to peel. Heaving a deep sigh, I bought several pounds of large tomatoes from the midweek farmers’ market. Despite my new plot, composted soil, lots of rain and sun, the backyard-grown tomatoes had to be supplemented with those purchased from someone else. A farmer, yes, not a store, but they weren’t mine, and I felt disappointed – and humble.
The stewed tomatoes, mine & the farmer’s, cooked up nicely, but not without drama. I found out that my water-bath canner isn’t big enough for quart size jars. It can handle half-pints (as my jams showed) and pints (barely – the water nearly overflowed). The pot and the rack are both too small for quarts. This discovery was also, you guessed it, humbling. Beginning canner and food preserver that I am, I have a dozen wide-mouth quart jars in the basement and no way to heat them – if I had enough tomatoes. Sigh.
Finally, last but not least, the clear jars with their heat-sealed lids humbled me one more time. The stewed tomatoes finished up with a case of Fruit Float; the tomatoes floated on top of an almost-clear liquid. I went to my sources again (Twitter and Plurk and my best canning books) and found out that as long as the seal is complete, this is not a problem. There are ways to avoid it, which I might try next time, but it doesn’t indicate trouble or predict spoilage.
Maybe next summer will be the one when I fully take control of the garden – or not. For now, I’m grateful that my garden is a hobby, albeit a productive one. I’m glad I still have the farmers’ market and the grocery store as resources. Maybe next year will be the year I humbly join a CSA.

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>Tools of the Trade – not what you might think

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>I followed Chuck as he moved a vehicle from one office to another, putting in the right location so he’d have a ride back to his car after covering the latest, greatest sporting event in our are. Good thing he had his tools with him. What’s that? It’s a snow brush. In Wisconsin, we keep those in our cars year round.

On this warm, sunny day in August, he used it to knock a wasp nest out of the utility van before he drove it. Snow brushes are handy for that kind of task.
I followed him to the next town over in case his engine failed. It worked. Maybe the wasps were the problem? Never mind. He parked it in the lot between a dumpster and an unused satellite dish, under a powerful outdoor light. Can you see the light? Nope, neither could he. Good thing he had another tool handy in the trunk of the car.
Good thing this big chopper was in the trunk. Good thing the van, an old live truck, still had a platform on top and a ladder to climb. Chuck lopped off as many branches as he could, then hopped down again.
Then we went home. Now I know why he keeps so many tools in the trunk – logical or not.

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>Road Trip Sound Track

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>First, whistle the theme to “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly.”

It should have been an easy trip home. Drive north, pick up La Petite at her summer “home,” drive north again until home. Somewhere in the first leg of the journey, grab lunch.
First: I got dressed in the morning and realized I hadn’t packed any shirts for myself. I packed an extra t-shirt for Amigo, so I borrowed it. Sigh. I’m not a fashionable mom, by any means. The teen looks much better in it.
Next: packed to leave, realized that the minivan front seats were not damp, but soaked. I’d left them open a crack – only a crack! – and the wild and woolly storms had made my ride home, well, a wet one. Sister-in-law loaned us thick towels and plastic bags to spread on the seats. My side, as luck would have it, was wettest. Sound track song? “Rain, rain, go away.”
On the road! Public Radio on, grabbed a McDonald’s drive-through lunch and onward! Note to self: never buy a quarter pounder with cheese again. At least, dear self, never try to eat a quarter pounder with cheese while driving. Self, that lousy excuse for ‘food’ isn’t good for you to begin with, but even more so, it’s sloppy. You guessed it, readers: ketchup and mustard on the borrowed shirt. The song to this sound track: “Pound sign, question mark, star, exclamation point.” Yes, #?*! was about my speed at the moment.
Speaking of speed, the route was fairly direct – on paper. As we entered one of the lovely towns on the way, the police directed traffic off the main road. I didn’t know the town at all, which made finding an alternate route tough, to say the least. At Amigo’s advice, we turned on the navigator on my phone. It led us in what felt like the correct direction, but into bumper to bumper traffic. A traffic jam on Saturday afternoon? This was not a Chicago commuter drive. Sound track song: James Taylor’s “Traffic Jam!”
Since we were stopped, hardly moving, I pulled out my Tide to Go pen to fix the stain on my borrowed t-shirt. Song: “(Kiss him) Goodbye” by the Nylons. Remember the commercial with Kelly Ripa? Great thinking, but no follow through: the stain remover was empty. I was stuck. Stuck in traffic, stuck in a stained, borrowed t-shirt. Song: Once again, Kevin Fowler’s “#?*!” If you haven’t heard this one yet, you need to. It’s bound to become a classic.
Amigo doesn’t handle situations like this well. He put in a folk song CD and we sang along to keep ourselves relatively calm. Theme song at this point? “Puff the Magic Dragon” – oh, how we wished for a flying dragon to lift us above the jam and onto the highway!

Finally (and I do mean finally; we lost close to an hour detouring and waiting to get back on Highway 31) We headed north. Song: Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again!” We took a quick bathroom break, I changed into the shirt I’d worn the day before (a little less dirty), and we hit the road again. I considered making a quick stop for a tacky tourist t-shirt from the mini-mart or one from the thrift store down the road, but Amigo was moody and it just wasn’t worth taking the chance of another delay.

Finally! We crossed the border (it’s okay, we’re legal Wisconsinites) and enjoyed driving along highways surrounded by corn “…as high as an elephant’s eye!” Yes, our sound track at this point was “Oh, what a beautiful morning!” from Oklahoma! Wisconsin farmland is really gorgeous in July.

We made it to La Petite’s temporary home away from home, picked her up, packed the van, and hit the road. I changed into a dry pair of denim capri pants; despite the towel, I was still soaking up the overnight rain and I was close to adding a few new verses to “#?*!” as the trip went on.
At last! The home stretch. I could almost quote from Over the River and Through the Woods; my “horse” knew the way to carry the sleigh, or at least the way to turn the minivan wheels. Homeward bound! (Wait, that’s another song. Maybe another trip.)

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