Worlds collide

They're repaving our road, so I came the loong way home. Cunningly, I chose a road that was blocked by housing construction, and had to detour through the new streets surrounding piles of dirt and weeds. When the huge belly dumper and roller got out of the way, I was just about to pull back onto the main road. But a little flurry caught my eye just ahead.

A mother duck was walking her brood of six chicks from the construction site, down across the road to the creek. What she didn't see was that a red-tailed hawk was stooping on her/them. What the red-tail didn't see was that two blackbirds were dive-bombing him/her. What the blackbirds didn't see was the car coming from the opposite direction.

I flashed my lights. The car stopped. One of the blackbirds whacked the hawk. The hawk flew off. The blackbirds went on about their business. The duck family continued waddling across the road and disappeared into the grass. The people in the other car stopped when they came abreast of me and said, "What do you think of that?"

I think it was good luck they were paving our road. Well, not for the hawk.

Close call

In fits of spring fever, we've gorged on new plants, and are tucking them into their new beds as fast as we can, and not without problems. There were a pair of salvia I bought impulsively, thinking they'd bring late summer color to the edge of a bed. The tag wasn't alarming, but yesterday - after I'd planted them - I looked them up on a lark. They grow up to six feet tall! Not so much of a foreground plant, after all - but easily moved still.

I'm always doing that - I pick out something that seems like a good idea when I'm at the nursery, and then wander around (sometimes for weeks) wondering why I thought I'd want another four cistus when they already seem to be in every spot one could conceivably grow.

Or, worse, I finally find the one plant I've been after for years, and find that all the spots it could go are filled with the pale imitations I bought in a moment of despair over ever finding the one perfect one. So do I euthenize perfectly good plants? Try to fob them off on unsuspecting friends? Move them somewhere less high-profile?

And, at the Saturday Market where I'm trying to decide whether four types of basil are enough, and he says, "Did you want chard?",Chard Bright Lights

I don't hesitate. I'm a goner as soon as he hands me the tray of seedlings. Are six plants too many? Sure they are, but I know I'll find room for them somehow, because they will dazzle both in the vegetable bed and on the dinner plate, never mind what they'll do at the cellular level.

The real reason people have babies

Because they do funny things like this when they're sleepy.

I think it will take more than 12 steps

I'm restless, distracted, moody... I reach for the phone every 10 minutes. If I don't get help I'll soon be dressing the cats.

Do I miss my grandson and want to be around him all the time? You bet I do. But he's being mothered and fathered most tenderly. Although it conjures unfortunate strains of "McArthur Park", we grandparents can only be the icing on a grandchild's cake - delightful in modest amounts.

No, it's the mothering I'm missing - taking care of the new mother and father as they find their way to being a family. They will certainly be fine without me around; it's my need I'm speaking of, not theirs.

This is what I'm talking about...

Calum R. MacAdam

He said, "Hi, Grandma!"

... and I knew that Calum Robert MacAdam was born! Did my dear son-in-law sound just a little smug? Deservedly so, because it's a stunning achievement. Never mind how many billions of organisms reproduce on any given day - birth is a bona fide miracle; I am filled with joy and awe.

You can have your basketball, your football, your marathons; they pale in comparison to nine months of pregnancy culminating in labor and delivery! Maybe if Peyton Manning blew that football out his ass, I'd pay more attention.

For the statisticians and genealogists:
Born on 4/12/07 at 11:44 PM, weighing 7# 15 oz. Mother, father and baby doing well, thanks.

Funny old brain

I've never kept a job that was truly aggravating, and I was often flip to the point of insubordination. But at my volunteer gigs, I just don't get aggravated - things that would make me crazy if they were paying me just roll right off. I don't give a rip about all the dopey little things other people do or don't do, which makes me realize what a hell of a lot of time I've wasted stewing about work.

I'm not talking about glorious, foaming-at-the-mouth rants; they're great recreation and some (like Emily's) of considerable literary merit. I mean my bleak, turgid, dismal thoughts that swirled and eddied about, gumming up my mind and frizzling everything they touched. It's when I began to believe that people were idiots that I got in trouble. Maybe they were idiots, but it worked out best to give them the benefit of the doubt when I had to work with them.

And now, magically, most of the time, I can let go of that shit and just think, "Hunh! That sounds stupid. Whatever." And not feel compelled to endlessly analyze the idiocy, and crusade to eradicate it.

Except when someone loads the dishwasher wrong. I'm mellowing, not going completely dim!

Ode to John Denver

OK, I know "Country Road" is sappy, but after 27 hours in airports, jets and departure lounges, I was humming it under my breath as we turned off the highway at 4:30AM into the dark stillness of Greenwood Road. (Note to self: flying in February ... a bit fraught.) I'll spare you the details except to say that when a block of seats finally opened up in Miami, there were cheers each time a name was called. From a high of 93, the standby list was finally shrinking!

We brought two pilgrims home - Jemma and Dana still needed to get to their luggage and car in Eugene, and then home to Roseburg, but needed sleep even more. Bill, who is a saint, had been making hotel reservations along our flight path (and then canceling them) and brought us home to a lovely fire and freshly-made beds. After we slept a few hours and had breakfast, we picked up all our luggage at the Eugene airport, had a lovely Thai lunch (thanks, Jemma & Dana!) and dropped J&D off at their car. We were home "for good" by 5:30. Fire up the grill and I'll pour the wine!

If you're wondering, gentle reader, if it was worth it, look at the pictures and then decide: Guatemala album. I've sipped neon-pink wine high on a tower above a piss-elegant composting toilet at Candice's enchanted organic acreage by Santiago Atitlan, hiked four hours up hill (I mistyped it "hell"!) and down dale birding with Josue at Tarrales Reserve, walked my ass off looking at ruins all over Antigua with Debby, was bitten by a gorgeous macaw in Honduras, near Copan Ruinas, and was conked on the head by a little boy with an eggshell full of confetti. Luis made me speak Spanish for over two hours, and I found out I could!

At the elementary school where Luis teaches, we delivered our supplies to each teacher and spent a happy hour in L's class. The kids tried out their English and we tried out our Spanish (the kids did better than we did). I showed them a finger game and Morocco juggled a soccer ball and two rolls of toilet paper (use what you've got!). Soon they'll be raising brine shrimp (sea monkeys to you) to watch with their new microscope.

And I met the weavers, Johanna and her mother, whose work left me drunk and stumbling. This little piece is meant to be sewn together at the blue ends and then have the top edge gathered together for a baby cap. Don't worry! It's not for young master MacAdam! The ones I found for him won't get him beaten up on any playground!

Everywhere we went, we met Americans, but no ordinary tourists. A few were in language schools, but most were in Guatemala to serve. We met doctors, nurses, Habitat for Humanity teams, and masons. These last are installing simple, high-efficiency low-emission stoves,like this oneto replace the open fires inside many homes. This stove uses 1/4 the wood of an open fire, too, which may relieve some of the pressure on native forests while making less work for the family. At Candice's we had a gourmet meal for 16 cooked on one of these, including banana cream pie!

So, maybe it's windy and cold and wet back here at home, but I've got triple-tasty memories, a bunch of new friends, and - best of all - I'm back in my sweet baby's arms!

Now I´m the one far from home

This post is from Antigua, Guatemala, where I´m typing while watching the Cody Banks movie dubbed into Spanish and eating pupusas or appetizers - Salvadoran cornmeal pancakes filled with cheese, pork, mushrooms, chorizo, etc., and a cabbage salad that kicks ass.

When I´m done here, there´s music in the town square and I expect to find the other 11 crazy women who thought this would be a good way to spend February. They were soooo right!

This morning we had breakfast in the ruins of a convent (Santa Domingo) built by the Spanish in the sixteenth century. Beautiful young Mayan women drift about in garments that make nuns habits look like high fashion. The gardens glow against the massive stone walls and there are breathtaking art exhibits around several corners.

Of the women, I only know my cousin, and we haven´t spent more than two days together at a time since we were children. A week ago, my new best friends were strangers to me, but now I know details of their lives that would have taken years to learn in the real world. I have to say I was verrry apprehensive about subsuming myself to an estrogen borg, but I needn´t have bothered my pretty little head. If we have a fault, it´s that we bend over backward to accomodate one another. Weird, hunh?

Sorry I can´t upload any pictures. I´ve taken hundreds, but didn´t bring the cable. Later for that. And now I really have to go. I can hear the music over the TV and I hear there´s dancing in the streets.

My final note: these are the sweetest, most gentle people I´ve ever seen - the beggars, the street vendors, everyone one the street - with no exceptions. EVERYONE greets EVERYONE with a face-splitting smile, and now they are greeting us with hugs! It´s crazy and I love it.

Hasta luego, amigos . . .

The End is (Not) Near

It's the end of January, and you'd think we'd be done messing about with trees from the December storm. But we had the arborists out Friday to make four big new messes - two of them where we'd already spent hours cleaning up!


Oh, be very careful, tiny man!
That can't feel very safe
Sure it's less stately, but the house is safe

Since then we've spent three days picking up sticks and making firewood around three of the trees, and I need to take some time off before doing any more. We've got the area around the house looking tidy (after our fashion), but plenty of work lurks a little way away.

The only property damage from all this was the barn across the road, so we don't see devastation every time we look out a window or step outside any more. But it's amazing how wearying it is to have all this to deal with. I know it pales in comparison to - oh, say, Katrina, or Baghdad, or even our Columbus Day storm. Why doesn't that make me feel better than it does?

It's true that when we're out there in the sunshine, warmed up and working together in that companionable way, I feel great. It's just that when I get tired and sticky with pitch, and there's still another hour's work before it gets dark, I have trouble with my inner two-year-old. And like spoiling a bad child, we went to a movie Saturday and Sunday night! A little popcorn shut her right up, the little hoyden...

Heat Wave

We woke up early this morning because, for once, the sky didn't just go from black through infinite shades of grey, but was clear and blue with perky clouds in Martha Stewart shades that harmonized nicely. For a moment, I wanted to slip into a peignoir and fluffy mules so I could trip downstairs and whip up some beignets. Then, I snorted derisively, pulled a sweatshirt over my tshirt and found a pair of not-too-gross jeans in a heap on the floor so I could make it to newspaper box and get a bowl of cereal. (OK, I did have a huge cafe au lait after, and the milk was steamed just right.)

Because I live with a genius, we made progress on two projects at the same time today. He made racks for the pickup so we could clean out the top of the broken barn, and we dumped four loads of the straw in a row where we'll plant the grapes we started last year. If it kills some of the grass and weeds, that's great. If it just rots into the soil, that's great, too. I can just hear the worms now: "Hey, Frank! Get a crew together. There's a bunch of stuff up there we gotta get to work on!" Go, little buddies, go . . .

And it seemed really warm, too. I guess it was only 44 or so, but with a long-sleeved shirt (and a job to do) it felt lovely.

Tag, hunh?

It's been a while since I played tag, but here goes:

I was tagged by snarkapuss.
The game is to list six ways in which I'm weird and then tag six other bloggers who each are to write the six weird things about themselves and then go to six other blogs, leave a comment saying "You are tagged", and tell each to read the tagger's blog for details. It's a chain letter, see, only without the warnings of dire consequences for not passing the challenge along. That's a good thing, because I would have to pick bloggers at random, since I don't actually read six other blogs. Hey! What a good idea!

Here are the six I've tagged:
Banana Theory
Ameliorable Logorrhea
Teck on the Web
Crimes & Corruption of the New World Order News
Reset
string theory

Yes, nearly random . . . There was one, I admit, that scared me, so I just "accidentally" clicked "Next Blog" and hummed a little tune. And I stuck to blogs in English, on the off chance that any of them take up the challenge. I'd like to be able to read their responses (I think).

And how, you ask, Ms Snarkapuss, am I weird? Heck, I should let you guest this post - you could point out a few that I hadn't noticed (or had my face rubbed in) yet. Let's see:

1. When I have a conversation of more than a minute with anyone who has an accent or speech pattern much different from mine, I end up talking like them. They probably think I'm mocking, but really, I don't even notice I'm doing it. And there's a hangover. I'm still getting over spending five days with a woman from Min-a-SEW-da.

2. I count things. Lots of things. Useless things. I don't have to count; often I don't even notice I'm doing it until something interrupts me and I stop. And I almost never remember how many telephone poles there are between here and the highway or the number of steps from the front door of the State Library to the Reference Room. I just count them.

3. I can't look at birds on the ground or sitting in a tree without seeing their "arms" folded behind their backs. It was crows at first. They look like men in dark suits walking bent over, pondering deep stuff. Now all birds look like that, except most of them dress more casually. And a lot of them walk funny, too.

4. I can bend the tips of my first three fingers without bending the second joint - on both hands.

5. Although I don't even look at the price of the coffee beans and have been known to tell the shoe clerk to just bring me something comfortable, I will not pay someone to cut my hair. (I can just hear you saying, "Ohhhhhh! That explains it!") The first four items only seem weird to other people; this one seems weird even to me.

6. I keep a pretty light grip on reality. It's not that I believe in fairies or chi or God or anything; in fact, I don't really believe in much at all. It's nice just to let reality rest on the palm of my hand so it has room to flex a bit from time to time.

That was fun.

Lemonade

Our exercise program is back in gear. Bill's chain saw has a shiny new part, and we can get back to cutting oak. Well, he can cut; I can drag limbs and pile brush.

We've been trying to decide whether to make it all into firewood and sell it ourselves, or just sell the logs and let someone else do the commerce. A third option seemed appealing but had about 47 questions to research, not the least of which was cost.

Then, Monday, it all fell into place. We have a trucker, a miller and a moulder, who will take our logs and, Presto!, instead of firewood, we'll have oak flooring! How sweet is that? Instead of going up someone's stovepipe (and adding to global warming), the trees can come inside and play.

Drive, drive! Go, go!

We're in the first throes of buying a new car, and for once I'm not looking forward to the dickering part. It's a shame, because we've had such a good time playing with car salesmen over the years. Bill usually gets to play Mr. Nice Guy and I get to be the bitch (typecasting) and we've made some fine deals. But I just don't have the stomach for it this time.

The web has spoiled me rotten. I like surfing for as long as it takes to get the features and price I want and then watching the product wend its way to us. Before Christmas we were visited by UPS, DHL, FedEx, and USPS package handlers all in the same day! After service like that, going to a car dealer seems like something out of the 19th century.

I have a couple of disturbing dreams that I torment myself with from time to time. One is that I'm secretly a couple of credits short and have to go back to high school. The horror is that I've forgotten my locker combination, can't find my gym shorts, etc. The other one is that I find myself with a lit cigarette and an ashtray full of butts - proof that for twenty years I've lied about quitting. That one makes me wake up with tears in my eyes.

But worse than either of those would be to dream I'm selling cars.

Cardamom

Disclaimer: This post has nothing to do with spices; I just like the word.

I think I'm getting the hang of this retirement thing at last. I'm starting to flash back to how life was when Bill was off farming and I was around the home place or just working part-time. It's like rummaging through the closet for a more comfortable pair of shoes and coming across that pair I loved twenty years ago - still comfy and just right for today.

I am a little disappointed, though, that when I reach for a real pair of jeans my choices ares still those soft ones (with a few stains), the thick warm ones (all ragged at the cuff and a dingy grey), or the one pair I swore I'd only wear for good (definitely pale at the knees). Why do I still not have a decent pair of pants?

Oh, yeah . . . I still hate to shop. Doesn't look like that's going to change anytime soon. Sigh.

Oh, what a relief it is!!!!

e-NOUGH!!

Have we paid our weather dues yet? Surely we've finally gone through the final indignity, and get some respite. Here's the latest: winds over 65 mph Thursday night. The cedar tree shed most of its top across (just missing) the front of the house. One-third of the horse chestnut fell across the driveway - the third that held one of the yard lights. The cedar Bill raised from a seedling was uprooted - again across the drive. The last of the ancestral fruit trees was felled. An oak limb fell exactly across the area we've been planting to Japanese maples. Another blocks the drive into the woodlot. A third one landed in the neighboring orchard.

Have I forgotten anything? Oh, yeah, there aren't even words for this one:

So rich, so moist, so tender

Given that we had about 12 inches of rain in November, it might surprise you to hear this was a great week in the garden. All that rain left our soil the consistency of gingerbread - moist, crumbly, and smelling a lot like heaven. Those rooted cuttings we tucked into the nursery bed back in March survived the hottest, driest summer we've ever seen, and we planted 55 lavishly-rooted native trees and shrubs this weekend.

All the posts for the vinyard are cut and curing in the shed, too! They came from the black locusts Bill planted 30 years ago - posts on demand and reproducing faster than we're cutting! There were adventures involving most of our vehicles and lots of cable, but no one got hurt, no equipment was smashed, and all the trees in the orchard are still standing. You say it would have been easier to just buy posts? Sure, but where's the fun in that?

It was that tricky kind of weather all weekend - freezing overnight, and the house got cold in all the corners. But when we were outside in the sun, working, it felt balmy. OK, it would have seemed warm inside if we'd been cleaning house or something, but that's not the kind of dirt we like! And I secretly don't mind the shorter days when it starts getting dark just about beer o'clock. Seems about right.

Read the *&%$# label!

. . . or, How I Nearly Killed the Kitten

So, Bungee, the elastic kitten, has an eye infection that's responding s l o o o w w l y to treatment. The vet thought an antihistamine might bring down the swelling and itching (and give me more practice pilling a whirling dervish).

Yesterday was a busy day, but there was a moment in the early evening when Bungee was calm (asleep) and there was an extra pair of hands available to pinion him for me. This is not an excuse; it's just what happened. I didn't read the label carefullly. It said, "GIVE 1 / 4 TAB . . ." and I gave him a whole one.

For some reason, I looked at the label again (too late) and saw my mistake. While Bill googled "chlorpheniramine dosing in cats" I paged the vet. We watched our dinner plates cool to unpalatability while waiting for the call back, and I imagined horrible outcomes, several of which were patently impossible.

Long story short: Bad or life-threatening reactions were only possible during the first few hours, and all he did was act sleepy and a little out-of-sorts. He'd get stuck in really impossible positions - all stretched and twisted - and apparently too stoned to adjust. You know how cats tuck their tails when they're frightened or miserable? Bungee's was stuck in a lovely spiral against his flank until about 10:30 when he joined the warmups for the 11PM heat of the cat olympics.

It was great to come downstairs this morning and find him right there with the other two at the foot of the stairs, tail up and purring, this morning.

Sleepy thought on the way to the bathroom at 2AM looking at those long tails waving about with handy curls at the end: isn't it nice cats have handles?

The Hirsute Henchmen

As you will recall from yesterday, we are monitoring, with increasing alarm, the activities of a race of pink-skinned aliens whom we believe to be bent on our destruction. They, however, are the least of the problem. It is the belief of the scientific community that without their overlords, they would be no more of a threat than dust-mice or the pubic hair in the sink.

The real threat comes from a second type, distinguished by their furry appearance*.

*While scientists debate whether this is fur as we know it or iron filings, such questions can only be answered when we are fortunate - or unfortunate - enough to examine one closely. Note: until we have more details, the exterior will be described as "furry".

There are two forms of these larger, darker creatures. One looks like a cross between a raccoon and a bear, with dark "fur" and large, rather morose, yellow eyes. Several of our field staff have witnessed it roughing up MoleRats and Tripods, and even stalking Bulge. These attempts have been rebuffed by the frantic efforts of the apparently lower-ranking MoleRats and Tripods. Such attacks have led us to label the attackers "Guidos".

Late-breaking news: One of these Guidos has been captured, affording our research team an invaluable opportunity for close study. To our surprise, this individual, which was caught while bitch-slapping a pair of Tripods, was quite docile when held - see illustration, below.

Unfortunately it escaped just after this picture was taken, but we were able to definitely determine that it is not covered in iron (or any other metal) filings. Lab results on the "hairs" left behind may give us valuable information about this bully from scientific-inquiry-wants to-know-where. Clearly its passivity was a ploy to lull its captor into inattention, thus enabling its escape.

Speculation is that it has rejoined its brethren or gone back to report to the creature we feel certain is directing all Guidos. This most monstrous being seems to be covered in similar "fur", but has none of the dull stupidity of the Guidos. On the contrary, the one which has been sighted by our field staff is uniformly described as eerily malevolent and menacing. All indications are that it is worshipped by Guidos, Tripods, MoleRats and the Bulge alike. That this adulation is based in fear and oppression cannot be questioned. We feel it our duty as persons of conscience to warn humanity and mobilize the necessary force to crush this threat to all we hold dear.

If the evidence thus far reported does not suffice, consider the single extant photo, and experience the dark aura of . . . Zygadenus!