No, I was not in trouble.
A friend of mine recently retired from the FBI. I knew him years ago when we both worked for a local city. He wore a badge. I just researched and told people they couldn't do things...and got up in the middle of the night to "risk manage" when there was a police involved shooting or an accident involving city property....*
I have kept up with my friend's career through other friends. That so often seems to happen. Life takes us different directions and we keep in touch, peripherally.
So, I crashed this retirement party...and didn't get arrested. Instead they fed me chicken and cake (Yes, cake!). And those of us who worked together 25+ years ago sat together and caught up a bit. We talked about our kids and jobs. We talked about what those who didn't make the party are doing. We talked about some of those friends we have lost. We exchanged email addresses and phone numbers. We hugged and we laughed and (a few of us) cried.
We honored our friend. We honored our friendships.
One of these old friends called me tonight. We talked for over an hour. The years fell away.
I can only say that I am a very fortunate woman. I am grateful that I have such friends. I am blessed to walk the earth with them.
Yeats said it:**
You that would judge me, do not judge alone
This book or that, come to this hallowed place
Where my friends' portraits hang and look thereon;
Ireland's history in their lineaments trace;
Think where man's glory most begins and ends,
And say my glory was I had such friends.
NOTES:
*Yes, I did have a much more exciting life (depending on how you want to look at it) when I was younger and could handle the stress. DH used to dress me in a bullet proof vest before I left the house on some of these occasions. He did not want to raise three babies alone. I was never in any danger, but couldn't convince him of that.
**from The Municipal Gallery Revisited, William Butler Yeats
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
Monday, August 25, 2014
Beautiful morning*
It was the first day of school.
Like most kids I did not want to get up.
But then I thought, "this is my last first day of the school year."
I laughed as I prepared the melted cheese to wrap around the dogs' medicine. Scruffy takes his like a champ, but Paddy always fights (she can spit out a pill faster than the brattiest 4 year old). I remember my sweet kiddos lining up in the kitchen for their "Pink Panther" medicine or fighting with me as I struggled to drop liquid antibiotic into their blinking pink eyes.**
My mornings have not changed that much over the years. They have not gotten any better organized or complete. I still end up skipping something - the walk, an errand, makeup - before I give the dogs one last treat and head to work. But change is coming.***
All summer I have watched the fields of corn.The plants started as tiny sprouts of green and I wondered what kind of grain had been planted. I am not a farmer (although I come from farmers). Young sorghum and corn plants look the same to me. The surprise rains made the plants shoot up quickly - inches a day. This year the corn was indeed "as high as an elephant's eye."**** Ears formed and filled-out and then everything started to get dry and crispy.*****
I know harvest has started when I find the dry leaves in my yard. We are miles from a cornfield, but the hot summer winds spin and scatter the husks everywhere. We see them on the walk. They are sprinkled through the park.
My drive to work disclosed some fields waiting. Then I passed those which sent the drive leaves floating through the area - almost empty fields with skeletal stalks waiting to be tilled under. Corn-filled trucks waited to be driven to storehouses. One harvester parked nearby as if exhausted by its work. One tractor was fitted with a disc harrow.******
The harvest has been abundant.
It is the end of summer.
Change is coming.
NOTES:
*I know you are reading this because of the drug picture...got you! These are doggy amoxicillin capsules.
** I knew my job was done in some respects - that MC was all (mostly?) grown up - when I saw him at basic training. His eyes were bright red - a raging case of pink eye. I held back - saying nothing when I saw him. Then, as if reading my mind, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small clear plastic dropper bottle. "Yes. I have pink eye, but I am taking my medicine and it is already better," he said.
***Next August I will be walking dogs past kids waiting for the bus...I will not worry about getting breakfast and a shower and DH's lunch made in time to fight traffic and get to work almost on time. I may even sleep late.
****Rodgers and Hammerstein
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oh,_What_a_Beautiful_Mornin%27
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IVbQqtymsTI (nice version by James Taylor)
*****I enjoy eating field corn much more than sweet corn. Every year I think, "I should come out here and lift a few ears. No one will miss them." Of course I always talk myself out of it...but it doesn't prevent the thought returning as the corn ripens.
******Or is it a disk harrow? Or is it something else? [I thought it was called a "disc-er."] It is one of those pieces of farm equipment that seems ominous and powerful, cutting and turning the soil. Then again, I am reminded of the time my sweet baby brother took a disc (or disk) and made a bird feeder for our Dad. Dad would fill it with birdseed and then the thieving squirrels would ride that feeder like the bell merry-go-round in the old park at home (it could be that the feeder provided a clear view for Dad to use his squirrel gun to dispose of some of those rascals).
Like most kids I did not want to get up.
But then I thought, "this is my last first day of the school year."
I laughed as I prepared the melted cheese to wrap around the dogs' medicine. Scruffy takes his like a champ, but Paddy always fights (she can spit out a pill faster than the brattiest 4 year old). I remember my sweet kiddos lining up in the kitchen for their "Pink Panther" medicine or fighting with me as I struggled to drop liquid antibiotic into their blinking pink eyes.**
 | |
| Dogs don't take "Pink Panther" medicine (nasty sticky pink amoxicillin). They take the capsules. |
 |
| I spend more money on meds for the 4-leggers than for me...fortunate...really. |
My mornings have not changed that much over the years. They have not gotten any better organized or complete. I still end up skipping something - the walk, an errand, makeup - before I give the dogs one last treat and head to work. But change is coming.***
All summer I have watched the fields of corn.The plants started as tiny sprouts of green and I wondered what kind of grain had been planted. I am not a farmer (although I come from farmers). Young sorghum and corn plants look the same to me. The surprise rains made the plants shoot up quickly - inches a day. This year the corn was indeed "as high as an elephant's eye."**** Ears formed and filled-out and then everything started to get dry and crispy.*****
 |
| Morning farm rush. |
I know harvest has started when I find the dry leaves in my yard. We are miles from a cornfield, but the hot summer winds spin and scatter the husks everywhere. We see them on the walk. They are sprinkled through the park.
 |
| Sun shines golden on the dry corn stalks. |
My drive to work disclosed some fields waiting. Then I passed those which sent the drive leaves floating through the area - almost empty fields with skeletal stalks waiting to be tilled under. Corn-filled trucks waited to be driven to storehouses. One harvester parked nearby as if exhausted by its work. One tractor was fitted with a disc harrow.******
 |
| Tractor fitted with a disc harrow.****** |
The harvest has been abundant.
It is the end of summer.
Change is coming.
NOTES:
*I know you are reading this because of the drug picture...got you! These are doggy amoxicillin capsules.
** I knew my job was done in some respects - that MC was all (mostly?) grown up - when I saw him at basic training. His eyes were bright red - a raging case of pink eye. I held back - saying nothing when I saw him. Then, as if reading my mind, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small clear plastic dropper bottle. "Yes. I have pink eye, but I am taking my medicine and it is already better," he said.
***Next August I will be walking dogs past kids waiting for the bus...I will not worry about getting breakfast and a shower and DH's lunch made in time to fight traffic and get to work almost on time. I may even sleep late.
****Rodgers and Hammerstein
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oh,_What_a_Beautiful_Mornin%27
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IVbQqtymsTI (nice version by James Taylor)
*****I enjoy eating field corn much more than sweet corn. Every year I think, "I should come out here and lift a few ears. No one will miss them." Of course I always talk myself out of it...but it doesn't prevent the thought returning as the corn ripens.
******Or is it a disk harrow? Or is it something else? [I thought it was called a "disc-er."] It is one of those pieces of farm equipment that seems ominous and powerful, cutting and turning the soil. Then again, I am reminded of the time my sweet baby brother took a disc (or disk) and made a bird feeder for our Dad. Dad would fill it with birdseed and then the thieving squirrels would ride that feeder like the bell merry-go-round in the old park at home (it could be that the feeder provided a clear view for Dad to use his squirrel gun to dispose of some of those rascals).
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Another visit with Melba...
The weather promised today to be hot, hot as the hinges of Hades...or so they said.
DH and I were up early to walk the dogs. Both puppies are "in recovery" so we were careful with them. Paddy's feet were still a little sore. Scruffy had surgery yesterday. We are still waiting on the pathology report from the tumor removed from his face. [And we took the opportunity to get his teeth cleaned. He has a sparkling smile and sweet breath!] It was a fairly uneventful walk. We almost managed to avoid the dogs neighbors let out to roam and terrorize the neighborhood. Only one barker found us. The dogs took revenge on the trip back past the house.
It was already getting warm by the time we got home. We were all glad to stop and rest. The dogs headed for the shade while DH and I went for breakfast.
After breakfast I realized I needed tomatoes.
The farmers markets were already bustling but I went right to the fellow who sold me tiny yellow - almost candy - tomatoes last week. Then I bought a jar of dill pickles from one of my long time farmer friends. She was selling mostly peppers with her granddaughters. They shared stories of helping "Nana" in the garden. I stopped to talk to the woman who used to sell me goat cheese.* Then bought some cheddar from a man whose wife and children I know from work.**
After unpacking the veggies I rested and then talked myself into picking figs before the sun made it impossible. I wanted to give Melba her fig preserves*** before I lost them again. I had been carrying them around for a few days and didn't think I could leave them in the car (With temps so hot now, I was afraid they would unseal. I found the bag and thank you note on my desk at work.). I also wanted to get some cuttings from the trees - the bearing ones and the mythical giant fruited one in the side yard. It hasn't born fruit in some time according to my friends. It froze back and then sprouted out again and is a nuisance now, growing in and around a pile of buckets by the shed.
I took clippers and sampled old and new wood. By the time I finished, my arms gripped two enormous fig leaf bouquets. I kept the cuttings separate. I will be keeping notes on which efforts (if any) succeed in making new fig trees. And I want to be sure I know which are the "common" fig and which are the special ones.
I loaded the few figs picked today and the bags of cuttings into the passenger's seat and then walked around to get behind the wheel. When I opened the door, the smell transported me. I thought about how I would describe this smell... warm, earthy, sweet, green, grassy - but not too much, peppery, sunny and shady. That smell brings back all the memories I have of figs - playing in Grandma's yard, picking from a neighbor's tree, arms and neck itching from scratchy leaves and sticky from the juice oozing out of stems. Smells are so powerful.
And then the smell was gone.
It was a struggle to bag the cuttings once I got them home. I will be trimming them up later. For now there are two big trash bags full of stems and leaves crammed into the top of the frig. I will let them cool off a bit as I prepare the first pots and soil.
Searches of the Internet have provided many options for propagation. I will be trying a couple in the next few weeks (some recommend keeping the cuttings in the refrigerator for a while). I tried to cut enough lengths of branches to give me options. And I am waiting now for the sterilized pots to come out of the dishwasher.
NOTES:
*She retired 3 weeks ago, sold the goats, and was preparing to move to the Ozarks!
** All the samples started to taste the same to me. I figure I can cook with the cheddar - grilled cheese sandwiches or something. (We tried it for lunch. VERY sharp and delicious!)
***Melba asked for lots of lemon in hers so I loaded that batch with more juice and lemon slices than normal. I will find out what she thinks.
Links:
Propagation directions and more...good luck. My favorite gardener is in the first two. He is a riot. We will be trying his method later in the year when it is a little cooler. I think my fig tree friends will be curious to try it too.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d2c3zTPd3EA
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ckwixtXZ86c
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kUcA4NJxngU
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WyXSNzywqvw
http://www.gardeningknowhow.com/edible/fruits/figs/fig-propagation.htm
THE BEST FIG SITE EVER. REALLY. I LOVE THIS ONE: http://figs4fun.com/basics.html
DH and I were up early to walk the dogs. Both puppies are "in recovery" so we were careful with them. Paddy's feet were still a little sore. Scruffy had surgery yesterday. We are still waiting on the pathology report from the tumor removed from his face. [And we took the opportunity to get his teeth cleaned. He has a sparkling smile and sweet breath!] It was a fairly uneventful walk. We almost managed to avoid the dogs neighbors let out to roam and terrorize the neighborhood. Only one barker found us. The dogs took revenge on the trip back past the house.
It was already getting warm by the time we got home. We were all glad to stop and rest. The dogs headed for the shade while DH and I went for breakfast.
After breakfast I realized I needed tomatoes.
 |
| Last week I bought four varieties of tomatoes. This week I only got one kind - the tiny yellow ones. |
The farmers markets were already bustling but I went right to the fellow who sold me tiny yellow - almost candy - tomatoes last week. Then I bought a jar of dill pickles from one of my long time farmer friends. She was selling mostly peppers with her granddaughters. They shared stories of helping "Nana" in the garden. I stopped to talk to the woman who used to sell me goat cheese.* Then bought some cheddar from a man whose wife and children I know from work.**
After unpacking the veggies I rested and then talked myself into picking figs before the sun made it impossible. I wanted to give Melba her fig preserves*** before I lost them again. I had been carrying them around for a few days and didn't think I could leave them in the car (With temps so hot now, I was afraid they would unseal. I found the bag and thank you note on my desk at work.). I also wanted to get some cuttings from the trees - the bearing ones and the mythical giant fruited one in the side yard. It hasn't born fruit in some time according to my friends. It froze back and then sprouted out again and is a nuisance now, growing in and around a pile of buckets by the shed.
I took clippers and sampled old and new wood. By the time I finished, my arms gripped two enormous fig leaf bouquets. I kept the cuttings separate. I will be keeping notes on which efforts (if any) succeed in making new fig trees. And I want to be sure I know which are the "common" fig and which are the special ones.
I loaded the few figs picked today and the bags of cuttings into the passenger's seat and then walked around to get behind the wheel. When I opened the door, the smell transported me. I thought about how I would describe this smell... warm, earthy, sweet, green, grassy - but not too much, peppery, sunny and shady. That smell brings back all the memories I have of figs - playing in Grandma's yard, picking from a neighbor's tree, arms and neck itching from scratchy leaves and sticky from the juice oozing out of stems. Smells are so powerful.
And then the smell was gone.
 |
| Fig tree cuttings fill the passenger seat. |
 |
| What happened to the shift? |
Searches of the Internet have provided many options for propagation. I will be trying a couple in the next few weeks (some recommend keeping the cuttings in the refrigerator for a while). I tried to cut enough lengths of branches to give me options. And I am waiting now for the sterilized pots to come out of the dishwasher.
NOTES:
*She retired 3 weeks ago, sold the goats, and was preparing to move to the Ozarks!
** All the samples started to taste the same to me. I figure I can cook with the cheddar - grilled cheese sandwiches or something. (We tried it for lunch. VERY sharp and delicious!)
***Melba asked for lots of lemon in hers so I loaded that batch with more juice and lemon slices than normal. I will find out what she thinks.
Links:
Propagation directions and more...good luck. My favorite gardener is in the first two. He is a riot. We will be trying his method later in the year when it is a little cooler. I think my fig tree friends will be curious to try it too.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d2c3zTPd3EA
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ckwixtXZ86c
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kUcA4NJxngU
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WyXSNzywqvw
http://www.gardeningknowhow.com/edible/fruits/figs/fig-propagation.htm
THE BEST FIG SITE EVER. REALLY. I LOVE THIS ONE: http://figs4fun.com/basics.html
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Walking one black dog (under a waning gibbous moon)
Paddy "stayed over" at the vet last night...her paws banged up from her great adventure. She was down 4 lbs. and a little dehydrated. Other than that, she checked out OK. Still, I was unprepared to deal with "patient" Paddy and left her there.*
So Scruffy walked solo this morning.
It already seemed a fall morning. The temperature was in the mid-60s. The waning "super" moon was shining over our right shoulders, lighting up the way. Ahead, Orion was bright in the sky, the three suns of his belt in the straight row that helped me identify him when I first learned the stars. And I am guessing Venus was our star shining in the east (Yes, it was Venus. That always seems a good guess.).
Hunting season is upon us in a few weeks. Orion, the hunter, is my reminder. The sounds of fire will remind us in a few weeks. We are surrounded by areas where people hunt (especially dove) and, I suppose, sounds carry well here with little to block the noise.
It was an uneventful walk. We walked towards Venus and Orion and the park. We were early enough to avoid most morning traffic. And we have a week or so before the school buses start to run.
We saw a few cats and heard a few dogs on the way down to the park. Jane had her Jack Russell out in the yard on the way home.** She called him in so that we could pass unmolested...they are territorial little guys.
As we got to the house a small tuxedo cat streaked by the garage and climbed up the tree by the gate. Scruffy was interested in checking her out until DH brought his breakfast.
Paddy will be home this afternoon. We will try a few long walks with Scruff this weekend, but will baby Paddy as her paws heal.
Good morning all.
NOTES:
* We are in the throws of our final craziest of weeks at work. I am frayed. Perhaps I should say MY final craziest of weeks as this time next year I will be doing something else...
**Why is it that so many in the field of psychology (at least in my experience) have Jack Russells? I was thinking about the people I know (or know of) with these hyper little guys and made the connections - Jane, my friend Pam P, and Frazier. I thought my sister's dog was a Jack for a while, and that would have disproved my theory, but that sweet pup only masquerades as a Jack - she (the dog, not my sister) is really a pit-healer mix.
So Scruffy walked solo this morning.
It already seemed a fall morning. The temperature was in the mid-60s. The waning "super" moon was shining over our right shoulders, lighting up the way. Ahead, Orion was bright in the sky, the three suns of his belt in the straight row that helped me identify him when I first learned the stars. And I am guessing Venus was our star shining in the east (Yes, it was Venus. That always seems a good guess.).
Hunting season is upon us in a few weeks. Orion, the hunter, is my reminder. The sounds of fire will remind us in a few weeks. We are surrounded by areas where people hunt (especially dove) and, I suppose, sounds carry well here with little to block the noise.
It was an uneventful walk. We walked towards Venus and Orion and the park. We were early enough to avoid most morning traffic. And we have a week or so before the school buses start to run.
We saw a few cats and heard a few dogs on the way down to the park. Jane had her Jack Russell out in the yard on the way home.** She called him in so that we could pass unmolested...they are territorial little guys.
As we got to the house a small tuxedo cat streaked by the garage and climbed up the tree by the gate. Scruffy was interested in checking her out until DH brought his breakfast.
 |
| Tuxedo cat hiding in the tree - just peeking out under leaves in the middle of the photo. |
Paddy will be home this afternoon. We will try a few long walks with Scruff this weekend, but will baby Paddy as her paws heal.
Good morning all.
NOTES:
* We are in the throws of our final craziest of weeks at work. I am frayed. Perhaps I should say MY final craziest of weeks as this time next year I will be doing something else...
**Why is it that so many in the field of psychology (at least in my experience) have Jack Russells? I was thinking about the people I know (or know of) with these hyper little guys and made the connections - Jane, my friend Pam P, and Frazier. I thought my sister's dog was a Jack for a while, and that would have disproved my theory, but that sweet pup only masquerades as a Jack - she (the dog, not my sister) is really a pit-healer mix.
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Paddy is grounded...until further notice...no one violates curfew in this house and gets away with it.
Just before noon on Monday we had a sudden and unexpected outbreak of thunderstorms. They were pretty extraordinary - lots of wind and lightning and thunder. I had seen the sky getting dark. I hustled to get to a "stopping place" at work where I could leave the office and go home to rescue the two dogs in the yard. [We are in our busiest time of the year. There are long lines. People are cranky. We don't always get a lunch. I.e. It is hard to get away.]
When I arrived at the house, one wet scruffy Scruffy was standing at the gate waiting for me. I asked him where Paddy was as I opened the gate. Usually he will turn back into the yard for her. Today he ran past me to wait at the back door. I knew then that our Houdini dog was out-on-the-world.
I waded through the wet yard and called and whistled. No dog.
So I went back to work - driving slowly through the neighborhood - and called all the usual places - police, vet, pound. I designed "missing dog" fliers for the telephone poles.*
I drove through the neighborhood and called and whistled. I went to the park where we walk. I went through the cemetery where we also walk. Then I did it all again.
Late last evening, dog still missing, I wandered the yard and called and whistled. Early this morning I went out to call and whistle.
She had never stayed out overnight before. This did not look good.
The man who answered the phone at the pound said they had a chocolate lab, but refused to tell me what gender or whether or not it had a collar .** So, I skipped lunch and drove to the pound and looked at all 70 animals, including the MALE chocolate lab. Our Paddy was not there.
I went home and called and whistled. Scruffy was home and met me at the gate for his cookie.
A lizard was waiting on the concrete stone beside the back door.
But there was no Paddy.
I went back to work and was met with the sad, compassionate faces of my coworkers, animal people all. They were worried about the dog and me. A number of them had volunteered to search the park and neighborhood with me this evening.
Then at 4:46 p.m. I received a text message. "She's ba-a-ck!" read the message from DH. Right after he got home from work Paddy walked up to him in the driveway.
After announcing the news to the office staff *** I took a short break and called/sent text messages/emailed all the folks who were on alert for our girl.
I took Paddy some cookies and checked her over. She is covered in "beggar's lice." **** She has an injured paw.***** I have tried to brush the burrs from her coat, but I had little luck. I will have to pick them out one-by-one.
It is going to take some time to get her back to her new normal. Our girl is older. She is starting to decline mentally and physically. She is not the dog she once was. But she is ours and she is back.
Now I can cry.
NOTES:
*I know, it is against the law to post on telephone poles - whatever. I made a lot. Guess I will save them...she is Houdini dog after all.
**Paddy has her name and our phone number on her collar. She also wears tags from the vet. No, she is not "chipped." Don't judge me. Until the last year or so she was not a "runaway."
***Yes, there were cheers. And "Team Paddy" stood down.
****There are some 13 types of Desmodium in Texas and a page full nation-wide listed at the USDA site. http://plants.usda.gov/java/nameSearch - lets you research all kinds of plants.
They are supposed to be a "good" plant, but I consider them a menace in the yard and I try to keep them pulled up. Heaven knows what fields Paddy ran through in her travels.
*****What do you want to bet she got it digging out? [Of course, there will be a vet bill!]
Paddy shamed at my office 8-13-14:
When I arrived at the house, one wet scruffy Scruffy was standing at the gate waiting for me. I asked him where Paddy was as I opened the gate. Usually he will turn back into the yard for her. Today he ran past me to wait at the back door. I knew then that our Houdini dog was out-on-the-world.
I waded through the wet yard and called and whistled. No dog.
So I went back to work - driving slowly through the neighborhood - and called all the usual places - police, vet, pound. I designed "missing dog" fliers for the telephone poles.*
.JPG) |
| This was the best I could do in a hurry. I figured it was good enough for starters. (Phone number deleted for this post, of course) |
I drove through the neighborhood and called and whistled. I went to the park where we walk. I went through the cemetery where we also walk. Then I did it all again.
Late last evening, dog still missing, I wandered the yard and called and whistled. Early this morning I went out to call and whistle.
She had never stayed out overnight before. This did not look good.
The man who answered the phone at the pound said they had a chocolate lab, but refused to tell me what gender or whether or not it had a collar .** So, I skipped lunch and drove to the pound and looked at all 70 animals, including the MALE chocolate lab. Our Paddy was not there.
I went home and called and whistled. Scruffy was home and met me at the gate for his cookie.
A lizard was waiting on the concrete stone beside the back door.
 |
| Larry the lizard comes home on time... |
I went back to work and was met with the sad, compassionate faces of my coworkers, animal people all. They were worried about the dog and me. A number of them had volunteered to search the park and neighborhood with me this evening.
Then at 4:46 p.m. I received a text message. "She's ba-a-ck!" read the message from DH. Right after he got home from work Paddy walked up to him in the driveway.
After announcing the news to the office staff *** I took a short break and called/sent text messages/emailed all the folks who were on alert for our girl.
I took Paddy some cookies and checked her over. She is covered in "beggar's lice." **** She has an injured paw.***** I have tried to brush the burrs from her coat, but I had little luck. I will have to pick them out one-by-one.
It is going to take some time to get her back to her new normal. Our girl is older. She is starting to decline mentally and physically. She is not the dog she once was. But she is ours and she is back.
Now I can cry.
NOTES:
*I know, it is against the law to post on telephone poles - whatever. I made a lot. Guess I will save them...she is Houdini dog after all.
**Paddy has her name and our phone number on her collar. She also wears tags from the vet. No, she is not "chipped." Don't judge me. Until the last year or so she was not a "runaway."
***Yes, there were cheers. And "Team Paddy" stood down.
****There are some 13 types of Desmodium in Texas and a page full nation-wide listed at the USDA site. http://plants.usda.gov/java/nameSearch - lets you research all kinds of plants.
They are supposed to be a "good" plant, but I consider them a menace in the yard and I try to keep them pulled up. Heaven knows what fields Paddy ran through in her travels.
*****What do you want to bet she got it digging out? [Of course, there will be a vet bill!]
Paddy shamed at my office 8-13-14:
 |
| A member of my staff posted this on my door this a.m. |
Saturday, August 9, 2014
What will you be wearing when Jesus knocks on the door?
WARNING: This is mildly sacrilegious. Well, maybe it is pretty sacrilegious. Please go no further if you do not have a sense of humor. [Sorry, I may have told this one before. Whatever. It is a good story.]
Some five or six years ago I was working in the kitchen one Sunday afternoon and heard a knock on the door. When I answered, I saw a small Mexican child. He smiled at me and asked, "Do you want to buy some tortillas?"
"Of course we do," I responded (I am not a girl to turn down homemade flour tortillas).*
I walked into the house with the tortillas and asked DH if he wanted one for breakfast. Of course he did.
This weekend commerce went on long enough for me to feel comfortable asking the boy his name. "Jesus," he said.
I went in and told DH as he ate his warm buttered tortilla. "Well, if his name is Jesus, this must be communion," he commented.
"Please stay one lightning bolt away from me when you talk like that," I replied.
Anyway, for years Jesus would come on Sunday afternoon and we would listen for the knock on the door. Then he stopped coming.
Every now and again I would see the father driving in the neighborhood or run into them at the farmers market. But now they were selling tamales and they weren't making house calls.
Then another youngster arrived at our door one day. "Are you Jesus' brother?" I asked.
And he was.** But he only stopped that one time. We did not see them or hear the knock on the door for months.
NOW, the system has shifted again. On the last two Saturdays a knock has come at the door around 8:30 a.m. Each time it has been a teenaged Jesus bearing tamales (And we are IN!).
But I am not always dressed by 8:30 on Saturday morning. If I am up late the night before I sleep late on Saturday (late for me is 6:30 or 7) and I sit around drinking coffee and watching the news in whatever I wore to bed the night before (I am careless about clothing. I might wear a gown or a t-shirt, whatever I find when I stagger off to bed at midnight or later). Upon hearing the "knock" I must yell to DH to answer the door as I refuse to meet Jesus at my backdoor while wearing my "jammies" (or worse).*** But, now that I may start expecting him, I will be better prepared.
And, because we were to meet a friend for a late breakfast, we only sampled the tamales - and called them good.
NOTES - I am sorry. These notes are longer than the walk...but then you have consented to walk along with me. Skip the footnotes, if you want (I really only planned to share the thought of warm tamales being delivered to your door, but these rabbit trails beckoned).
*From my birth until I was about 4 years old, we lived in a rental house next to the M family. I believe the M's had a child the same age as each of us. My friend was S. We played together every day. And when her mother was about to make tortillas, we hung around the kitchen - waiting. Mrs. M would test the griddle with a drop of water. We could hear the sizzle and see the steam - and know what was coming next.
There is nothing like the sound and smell of homemade tortillas.
S and I would edge closer to the stove and peek (we were little, remember) up over the edge of the range to see the tortilla getting brown on one side, then flipped to the other side.
Mrs. M would always look at that first tortilla and say, "Well, this one is too brown. The first one always is. Do you girls want to share this tortilla?" We would say nothing, but nod our heads "yes." She would then carefully tear the tortilla in half, give one part to each of us, and shoo us out of the kitchen.
I remember once I had just received the warm half-tortilla and my mother called me home for lunch. I crammed the entire thing in my mouth. Trouble was, my mouth was so full that I couldn't chew. I got home and Mom looked at me, "Have you been begging food at the M's house?" I shook my head, "No..." But Mom knew (mothers always know).
**Of course, I have slept since then and cannot remember if it was "James" or "John" or something else.
***The concept of appropriate dress for meeting one's Savior (or his mother) has been raised (with me) before. I was looking for a church while I was "great with child" in 1983. When I say "great with child" I mean it. I gained over 65 lbs. And it was hot that year and I was wearing some variety of maternity tent on most days.
I visited a nearby modern-looking church one Saturday evening only to discover the air conditioning was broken. I should have exited then, but I figured the priest would take the temperature into consideration and move things along. But no, this was an old and cranky priest. His first comment has stayed with me these 30+ years - "If you think YOU are hot, imagine what it is like in these vestments!" (Again, that was my cue to leave, but I missed it and stayed on.) This guy believed in suffering and penance. We were a captive audience and he was going to make us pay.
When we FINALLY got to the sermon it was all about women and their disgraceful attire (like shorts and crop-tops). Now, I (an innocent of scanty attire for most of my life) was almost a puddle in the pew and trying to figure out how to escape when the final comment (for me anyway) was made, "Just what would you do if you were standing there in a bikini and the Blessed Mother appeared before you?"
I started laughing, imagining what I would look like - a hugely pregnant woman in a bikini visiting with Mary. I then took my leave of that priest and that church.
[The child was indeed baptized - at a chapel at the local military installation. The next two children could not be baptized there as we were no longer "active duty." We decided to have them baptized with their cousin in another town. But that is another story...
OK. If you REALLY want to know. We had to get permission of the parish (where we lived, but did not attend) to have them baptized at another parish half-the-state-away. So, after 8 years of Catholic school and 3 years of Catholic university and enough theology classes for a minor (and after baptizing one baby already), I was ordered to baptismal class! The next class was scheduled the weekend after the baptism. So I got written permission to take the class at the same military installation where we couldn't baptize the children (Does this make any sense? Nope. I didn't think so.). Then DH was out of town and the husband HAD to be present for class. So I took a "stand-in" husband. He was a co-worker who agreed to be my "husband-for-a-day." I bought his dinner. Yes, pray for me. It does appear that I need it.]
Some five or six years ago I was working in the kitchen one Sunday afternoon and heard a knock on the door. When I answered, I saw a small Mexican child. He smiled at me and asked, "Do you want to buy some tortillas?"
"Of course we do," I responded (I am not a girl to turn down homemade flour tortillas).*
I walked into the house with the tortillas and asked DH if he wanted one for breakfast. Of course he did.
This weekend commerce went on long enough for me to feel comfortable asking the boy his name. "Jesus," he said.
I went in and told DH as he ate his warm buttered tortilla. "Well, if his name is Jesus, this must be communion," he commented.
"Please stay one lightning bolt away from me when you talk like that," I replied.
Anyway, for years Jesus would come on Sunday afternoon and we would listen for the knock on the door. Then he stopped coming.
Every now and again I would see the father driving in the neighborhood or run into them at the farmers market. But now they were selling tamales and they weren't making house calls.
Then another youngster arrived at our door one day. "Are you Jesus' brother?" I asked.
And he was.** But he only stopped that one time. We did not see them or hear the knock on the door for months.
NOW, the system has shifted again. On the last two Saturdays a knock has come at the door around 8:30 a.m. Each time it has been a teenaged Jesus bearing tamales (And we are IN!).
But I am not always dressed by 8:30 on Saturday morning. If I am up late the night before I sleep late on Saturday (late for me is 6:30 or 7) and I sit around drinking coffee and watching the news in whatever I wore to bed the night before (I am careless about clothing. I might wear a gown or a t-shirt, whatever I find when I stagger off to bed at midnight or later). Upon hearing the "knock" I must yell to DH to answer the door as I refuse to meet Jesus at my backdoor while wearing my "jammies" (or worse).*** But, now that I may start expecting him, I will be better prepared.
 |
| Tamales made fresh today - still warm. |
And, because we were to meet a friend for a late breakfast, we only sampled the tamales - and called them good.
 |
| Saturday morning breakfast "appetizer." The plate is a little messy from removal of the corn husks... |
NOTES - I am sorry. These notes are longer than the walk...but then you have consented to walk along with me. Skip the footnotes, if you want (I really only planned to share the thought of warm tamales being delivered to your door, but these rabbit trails beckoned).
*From my birth until I was about 4 years old, we lived in a rental house next to the M family. I believe the M's had a child the same age as each of us. My friend was S. We played together every day. And when her mother was about to make tortillas, we hung around the kitchen - waiting. Mrs. M would test the griddle with a drop of water. We could hear the sizzle and see the steam - and know what was coming next.
There is nothing like the sound and smell of homemade tortillas.
S and I would edge closer to the stove and peek (we were little, remember) up over the edge of the range to see the tortilla getting brown on one side, then flipped to the other side.
Mrs. M would always look at that first tortilla and say, "Well, this one is too brown. The first one always is. Do you girls want to share this tortilla?" We would say nothing, but nod our heads "yes." She would then carefully tear the tortilla in half, give one part to each of us, and shoo us out of the kitchen.
I remember once I had just received the warm half-tortilla and my mother called me home for lunch. I crammed the entire thing in my mouth. Trouble was, my mouth was so full that I couldn't chew. I got home and Mom looked at me, "Have you been begging food at the M's house?" I shook my head, "No..." But Mom knew (mothers always know).
**Of course, I have slept since then and cannot remember if it was "James" or "John" or something else.
***The concept of appropriate dress for meeting one's Savior (or his mother) has been raised (with me) before. I was looking for a church while I was "great with child" in 1983. When I say "great with child" I mean it. I gained over 65 lbs. And it was hot that year and I was wearing some variety of maternity tent on most days.
I visited a nearby modern-looking church one Saturday evening only to discover the air conditioning was broken. I should have exited then, but I figured the priest would take the temperature into consideration and move things along. But no, this was an old and cranky priest. His first comment has stayed with me these 30+ years - "If you think YOU are hot, imagine what it is like in these vestments!" (Again, that was my cue to leave, but I missed it and stayed on.) This guy believed in suffering and penance. We were a captive audience and he was going to make us pay.
When we FINALLY got to the sermon it was all about women and their disgraceful attire (like shorts and crop-tops). Now, I (an innocent of scanty attire for most of my life) was almost a puddle in the pew and trying to figure out how to escape when the final comment (for me anyway) was made, "Just what would you do if you were standing there in a bikini and the Blessed Mother appeared before you?"
I started laughing, imagining what I would look like - a hugely pregnant woman in a bikini visiting with Mary. I then took my leave of that priest and that church.
[The child was indeed baptized - at a chapel at the local military installation. The next two children could not be baptized there as we were no longer "active duty." We decided to have them baptized with their cousin in another town. But that is another story...
OK. If you REALLY want to know. We had to get permission of the parish (where we lived, but did not attend) to have them baptized at another parish half-the-state-away. So, after 8 years of Catholic school and 3 years of Catholic university and enough theology classes for a minor (and after baptizing one baby already), I was ordered to baptismal class! The next class was scheduled the weekend after the baptism. So I got written permission to take the class at the same military installation where we couldn't baptize the children (Does this make any sense? Nope. I didn't think so.). Then DH was out of town and the husband HAD to be present for class. So I took a "stand-in" husband. He was a co-worker who agreed to be my "husband-for-a-day." I bought his dinner. Yes, pray for me. It does appear that I need it.]
Friday, August 8, 2014
When it rains, it pours...an abundance of figs.
Well, for a while there we had rain every week. We got a little spoiled. It promised rain last week, but lied.
So, I guess you can say we are in the "dog days." We are still cooler than normal (if you can call mid-90s cool), but the heat still takes everything out of us. The dogs are lethargic. I am worn out from my work's "busy time" (some would call it "crazy time"). I don't want to sound like I am complaining. I love my work, but these are hard busy, brain-killing days. By the end of the week, I am spent.
Still, this is fig season.* The fig lady called to arrange a meeting and I gathered the promised five pounds of figs from the drugstore parking lot earlier today. That would be my weekend work.
Then my friend BC (we eat breakfast together most Saturdays at the neighborhood Mexican restaurant) called me at work. It seems that some folks we know from the restaurant where we eat heard us talking about figs. One of them, MK, had been looking for us to see if we wanted to come pick figs off of her tree before the bird got 'em - "I've been by the restaurant three times this week, looking for you" She doesn't like figs and said we would be doing her a favor. So it appears that I have another fig lady.
After work, tired as I was, I put on my old clothes and headed out to the lake with my friend.
We drove around looking for the house. BC said, "We drive past two blocks. Then it is the second house on the right. It is a pink house." Well, the second house on the right was a tan house. We turned around. "OK," she said. "Maybe it is turn right after the second block and it is the second house on the right." [I should say there was a good deal of laughter and joking about memory - and lack thereof - and ability to follow directions and ability to remember names. You cannot call people for directions if you only know their first names!**]
We tried the new directions and there was the pink house.*** MK saw us stopping and came out to help.
It is a different fig from the little brown honey fig, but the preserves are still good. And one should never turn away a source of figs.
But the best thing about this little adventure was what I found when I managed to fight my way past the branches to the backside of the tree. There I was - standing in a cave-like space under the shade of the fig leaves. The ground was clear. It was just enough space for three or four children to play with folding stools and toy dishes and things from the Indian missions. It was cool and dry and smelled, well, it smelled like fresh earth and fig leaves.
VK told us we could come back anytime and pick figs, "whether we are home or not."
I will be back, if only to stand under the trees**** and listen for the quiet echo of giggling children from long ago.
NOTES:
*All this talk about rain is in aid of an explanation of why the figs have been so good and full. The earlier rains helped the crop develop this summer. If we don't see more rain, the last bunch of fruit on the trees may not fill-out or ripen correctly.
**OK. Fig lady #2's first name is Melba. The best I could do was "Melba Toast" and that wasn't it.
I know the last name now because I read it off of the mailbox. Gotta write a "thank you." Fig preserves seem a "southern" thing and I am a southern girl, but I am bad about thank you notes.
***We had been driving up and down those streets long enough that I half expected someone to call the police and report that two women in a truck were "casing" the neighborhood.
**** I discovered there are actually two distinct - and huge - trees.
So, I guess you can say we are in the "dog days." We are still cooler than normal (if you can call mid-90s cool), but the heat still takes everything out of us. The dogs are lethargic. I am worn out from my work's "busy time" (some would call it "crazy time"). I don't want to sound like I am complaining. I love my work, but these are hard busy, brain-killing days. By the end of the week, I am spent.
Still, this is fig season.* The fig lady called to arrange a meeting and I gathered the promised five pounds of figs from the drugstore parking lot earlier today. That would be my weekend work.
Then my friend BC (we eat breakfast together most Saturdays at the neighborhood Mexican restaurant) called me at work. It seems that some folks we know from the restaurant where we eat heard us talking about figs. One of them, MK, had been looking for us to see if we wanted to come pick figs off of her tree before the bird got 'em - "I've been by the restaurant three times this week, looking for you" She doesn't like figs and said we would be doing her a favor. So it appears that I have another fig lady.
After work, tired as I was, I put on my old clothes and headed out to the lake with my friend.
We drove around looking for the house. BC said, "We drive past two blocks. Then it is the second house on the right. It is a pink house." Well, the second house on the right was a tan house. We turned around. "OK," she said. "Maybe it is turn right after the second block and it is the second house on the right." [I should say there was a good deal of laughter and joking about memory - and lack thereof - and ability to follow directions and ability to remember names. You cannot call people for directions if you only know their first names!**]
We tried the new directions and there was the pink house.*** MK saw us stopping and came out to help.
 |
| When you walk through the gate you suddenly see a mass of fig limbs covering a fifth of the yard. |
 |
| A small compost container under the tree. |
 |
| The fig forest is a mass of dead wood, new limbs, leaves and ripening figs...and a few trash trees taking advantage of the fertile soil. |
 |
| The clearing under the branches of the fig trees. |
 |
| It was in the mid-90s when I arrived, but 10 or more degrees cooler in the shade of the figs. |
 |
| Fig trees are often masses of smaller trunks if no one is pruning. This homeowner is hoping the fig trees die (or so she said). |
 |
| The second tree mass. The bottom is about 5 feet in diameter. The trees stand well over 15 feet tall. |
 |
| Large green figs need a few more days and a little more water to ripen. |
It is a different fig from the little brown honey fig, but the preserves are still good. And one should never turn away a source of figs.
 |
| Large figs and little brown ones. I thought you might need to see the difference (I learned the quarter trick from Ebay). |
 |
| Little brown figs - from dime to quarter sized. |
But the best thing about this little adventure was what I found when I managed to fight my way past the branches to the backside of the tree. There I was - standing in a cave-like space under the shade of the fig leaves. The ground was clear. It was just enough space for three or four children to play with folding stools and toy dishes and things from the Indian missions. It was cool and dry and smelled, well, it smelled like fresh earth and fig leaves.
VK told us we could come back anytime and pick figs, "whether we are home or not."
I will be back, if only to stand under the trees**** and listen for the quiet echo of giggling children from long ago.
NOTES:
*All this talk about rain is in aid of an explanation of why the figs have been so good and full. The earlier rains helped the crop develop this summer. If we don't see more rain, the last bunch of fruit on the trees may not fill-out or ripen correctly.
**OK. Fig lady #2's first name is Melba. The best I could do was "Melba Toast" and that wasn't it.
I know the last name now because I read it off of the mailbox. Gotta write a "thank you." Fig preserves seem a "southern" thing and I am a southern girl, but I am bad about thank you notes.
***We had been driving up and down those streets long enough that I half expected someone to call the police and report that two women in a truck were "casing" the neighborhood.
**** I discovered there are actually two distinct - and huge - trees.
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
Surprises of an Amatueur Mountaineer
Our middle child (often referred to here as MC), Jim, is a climber and submitted this, the first guest post here. This is as close as I will get to climbing a mountain. We hope you enjoy it.
 |
| The Mont Blanc above Chamonix, France |
Stuff I Didn’t Expect
I recently took my first tiptoes
into serious mountaineering. I’ve been
reading about mountaineering and alpinism since junior high but I’ve never done
any serious climbing and a lot of things simply don’t translate. I was in for a ton of surprises and they
started from the minute I arrived in Chamonix, France at the base of Mont
Blanc.
The Scale
I’ve never been under a real
mountain before. Jon Krakauer described
the Mont Blanc (4810m) as a mountain
of Himalayan
proportions. He wasn’t lying. The second I saw the massif, caked in thick
snow and taller than anything I’d ever seen, I suddenly had some very real
second thoughts. Nothing had prepared me
for how BIG this world was and now I was surrounded by it. The Chamonix valley is bordered by the Mont Blanc massif on one side and the Aquille Rouge on
the other. The Mont
Blanc sat far back from the ridge and is partially obscured from
the valley floor by the Dome du Gouter, itself a mountain over 4000m tall. Clearly in view is the Bosson glacier, a
massive icefall that sits in an enormous draw on the ridge and serves to scare
the living piss out of novice climbers who are clearly in over their
heads. I had been hungry when I arrived
in Cham; my hunger quickly disappeared and was replaced with some serious
misgivings.
Throughout the trip, I was awestruck
by the scale of everything around us. On
our first day, we learned ice axe and crampon (see below for the explanation of
the hilariously named “Crampon”) techniques…on a moving river of ice known as
the Mer de Glace. In a week of firsts, I
got to check “Walk on a glacier” off my bucket list. The Mer de Glace flows around some truly
impressive Alpine mountains written into the lore of mountaineering. Laying eyes on the Grande Jorasses and the
Dru was worth the price of admission.
But everything was so big and I suddenly realized I was using an
impossibly large ruler against which to measure my tolerance for doing stupid
things. Just kidding, my tolerance for
doing stupid things is unlimited.
Seeing these mountains that I’d been
reading about and had known only in pictures reminded me oddly of
childhood. You know how when you’re a
kid and something is unpleasant or scary you look on it with such fear that it
literally becomes a monster? It could be
a teacher or the dentist or green beans (another story for another day). Then you grow up and you realize they aren’t
really big, bad monsters. Well, see, I’d
grown up only to realize the mountains in my mind weren’t the monsters I
thought they were. They were a hell of a
lot bigger and scarier than I’d ever imagined.
Somehow that made the trip better.
I needed the fear because without a healthy amount of fear I wouldn’t
have respected the mountains and if I didn’t respect the undertaking it would
become just another faded memory that would soon leave me. Unexpectedly, I had stumbled into a formative
experience, which was emphasized on day one by the scale of the problem in
front of me. I look at pictures now and
they don’t do justice to the terrain.
But here’s one picture just to illustrate how I felt the first time I
saw the Mont Blanc.
The Gear
I LOVE GEAR!!! Going to an REI is like going to a candy
store, which I also love. Why do I need
an ice axe? Why wouldn’t I need
one!?! This trip was a thinly-veiled reason
to buy a bunch of coats and bags and boots and stuff to climb mountains with
and nothing else.
All joking aside (I wasn’t joking; I
really love gear), learning skills I needed to become a mountaineer for a few
days was daunting. I’ve read a lot of
books (now I’m just bragging) that describe technique but until you strap on
your crampons and kick them into the snow and ice you don’t get it. Which brings me to crampons. Crampons are a series of 12 spikes that strap
to the bottom of your boots and give you purchase on ice, deep snow, and even
mixed terrain. Crampon skills are a must
for alpine-style climbing. They’re
actually pretty cool; like strapping 24 short knives to your feet. But the first time I wore them was like the
first time I tried on high heels. Please
don’t ask me how I know to make the comparison.
Crampons grip ice and snow best when
your toes are pointed downhill, which means they’re most effective when you’re
walking downhill. Occasionally
mountaineering requires you to climb up.
So on steep ice slopes you side step slowly upwards. When you plant your feet you point your toes
downhill even as you side step upwards.
Also, try not to snag these little daggers on your pants as you cross
your legs and crab your way up a mountain.
If this sounds like awkwardly dancing with your grade school crush then
you’re starting to pick up on the concept except instead of stepping on her
toes, you’ll catch your pants and go careening down into the cold abyss of
inevitable failure. So only moderately
more embarrassing.
We learned crampon techniques, ice
axe techniques, scrambling up steep and often loose rocks, and even how to do
all this while roped to three other men.
We were drinking from the fire hose and the snow defeated two of our
teammates before we even started up for our summit bid. It took me a while to learn and I can’t claim
to have mastered any of these skills, but the steep learning curve was a real
shock. Still, there was nothing like
learning to crampon and self-arrest with an ice axe under the Dent du Geant,
another mythic mountain, on the Vallee Blanche, another amazing glacier.
Mountaineering is dangerous. I’ll wait for you all to finish saying “No
shit!” Everyone done? Good. This year especially showed the dangers as
sixteen Sherpa were killed in an avalanche in Everest’s Khumbu Ice Fall. In another unheard of event, six clients and
guides from Alpine Ascents International died on the Liberty Ridge of Mount
Rainier. The climbs they were making
were quite a bit more dangerous than climbing the Mont
Blanc but danger always exists.
I don’t typically feel a fear of
heights but I quickly got uncomfortable up high. The second day, we had the option of hiking
down a steep and exposed snow slope.
Looking back, I wished I’d sucked it up and done it, but at the time I
didn’t feel confident in my crampon abilities to safely execute the ridge. It was narrow, barely two feet across, and on
the left you could look down over 3000m to Chamonix
below. We opted to take another
route. On the Vallee Blanche, I was
roped to guide Jonathan when he stopped and told us all to skirt around him to
the right because “…there’s a pretty big crevasse to the left.” I read Touching the Void many years
ago and the idea of sliding into a crevasse doesn’t appeal, even if my rope
team would simply end up plucking me out.
Probably one of the scariest
experiences was on the hike to the Tete Rouse Hut where we would start our
summit bid. The mountain was heavy with
snowfall and the snow line was far lower than expected. On a neighboring mountain, the Bionnassay, we
could see large seracs or ice cliffs, the size of suburban houses and
hotels. Suddenly, one came off sending
tons of ice down the Bionnassay to the glacier below. This was my first avalanche and it did not
disappoint. I tried to snap a few photos
but I didn’t get it in time. The
rumbling that sounded like thunder, the massive cloud of snow and ice kicked
up, the clatter that blocks of ice made when they made contact with the
glacier; scary doesn’t even begin to describe it despite the fact that there
was literally no danger to us from anything on the other mountain. It pushed home the idea that what we were
doing had very, very real consequences for failure.
The day before summit day I was
feeling bad. I wasn’t feeling weak, but
I had a headache, an upset stomach, and I couldn’t get my breathing right. I became dizzy and slowed down even more. Guide Jonathan decided to tie me to him with
a rope just to make sure I didn’t slide off the narrow trail. At the hut, I did everything I could to try
and remedy the issue. I drank two VERY
expensive Gatorades, I ate a sandwich and drank a Sprite, I even did a bunch of
push-ups. Nothing helped. Jonathan sat me down and explained the danger
of pushing forward if I felt badly. But
I hadn’t come all this way to quit at the hut.
The next morning we left at
0400. I wasn’t feeling well and barely
got all my coffee and a piece of bread down.
Out of the gate, I knew I hadn’t gotten better over night. Roped to my own guide, Mike, we were the
second rope team of the AAI group on the trail that morning. It was still dark and I could only see the
trail in my headlamp and Mike ahead of me.
The first bit is an easy climb that leads to a difficult traverse of a section called “The
Grand Couloir.” The Grand Couloir is
basically a vertical trench that channels rock fall. The Alps are
an old mountain range and the rock is loose and deteriorating. Snow and ice work into the gaps between the
rocks and freezes, pushing loose rock out.
But this means whenever the ice melts sections of the mountain like the
Grand Couloir experience severe rockfall, normally every afternoon. By going in the morning we had reduced this
risk. After the Grand Couloir, you ascend
a rock face of steep, loose rock. Once
you cross the GC you are committing to the mountain.
Forty-five minutes out of the hut I
stopped and started throwing up my coffee.
I couldn’t stop, almost as if I’d just run a six-minute mile. I slowly got back up and we pushed on to the
entrance of the GC. Mike wasn’t going to
turn me around and I probably could have gotten to the next hut fine. But I abruptly realized I was being affected
by the altitude and going higher would only make things worse. Not wanting to suddenly lose my strength
somewhere I couldn’t get out of, I made the decision to turn around. It was my decision; no one made it for me,
and if I had to make it 100 more times, I’d make the same call. Turning around was the right call. But I hated it. I hated slowly slipping back to the hut and
pulling off my crampons. I hated lying
down and having the Hut people bring me tea to make me feel better and settle
my stomach. I hated turning around.
But that’s not the point. A younger me would have pushed through it and
I might have ended up taking a ride to Chamonix
in a helicopter. Maybe it was the danger
or the scale mentioned above that made me understand that I wasn’t playing in
my own sand box. I don’t know. Whatever it was, I realized that the day was
not mine. It wasn’t anyone else’s day
either. My teammates were defeated by
high winds just 400m from the summit. I
believe I made the right call for myself, for my body, and for my rope-mate.
Pictures don’t do it justice. Words cannot describe Chamonix and Mont Blanc. My
sister sent me poetry written by Shelley describing his feeling on seeing the Mont Blanc. It
didn’t even come close. In the French
Alps exists a beauty that must be experienced.
I look at the pictures even now and only feel a desire to go back, climb
high, and see it all again.
I don’t cry at movies and it’s rare
I’m so moved by emotion to let a tear out.
It’s never happened looking at a painting, sculpture, or even great
architecture. I’ve rarely read a book
that tugged at my heartstrings. I can
pretty easily divorce myself from deep emotions when dealing with art because
often I just don’t get it.
But up high, standing on a narrow
ledge, sipping water and eating a granola bar, I breathed in deeply of the
thinning air and as I let it out slowly I noticed tears rolling out from behind
my glacier glasses. This was
surprising. I wasn’t thinking about
anything in particular. I was just
looking out and seeing white mountains below us. I was roped to a climbing team, kicking my
crampons into ice and snow, and burying my ice axe to give me leverage towards
an elusive and, ultimately, unattainable goal.
I couldn’t read about this feeling, I couldn’t have someone explain it
to me. I was suddenly here where I’d
wanted to be for so long and the beauty of the surroundings, the situation, the
reality struck me in a way I never expected.
It happened again on the
Brevant. We were climbing top-roped
behind a guide on an exposed route that was literally the coolest and probably
easiest climbing I’ve ever done. But
after ten seconds of looking around I was moved to tears again. I love being in the mountains, novice though
I am. All the surprises combined to make
me realize that I’m not a great climber, probably never will be, but I want to
go climb anyway.
Not being a writer and being fairly
incapable of complex or lyric thought I feel the allure of climbing is best
described by the Dean of American climbing authors, David Roberts, in his book The
Mountain of my Fear. Roberts, on
reaching the summit of Mount
Huntington, describes the
experience:
There was no one to tell about
it. There was, perhaps, nothing to
tell.
All the world we could see lay motionless in the muted splendor of
sunrise. Nothing stirred, only we lived; even the wind had forgotten
us. Had we been able to hear a bird calling from some pine tree, or
sheep bleating in some valley, the summit stillness would have been
familiar; now it was different, perfect. It was as if the world had held
its breath for us...We photographed each other and the views, trying
even as we took the pictures to impress the sight on our memories
more indelibly than the cameras could on the film. If only this
moment could last, I thought, if no longer than we do. But I knew
even then that we would forget, that someday all I should remember
would be the memories themselves, rehearsed like an archaic dance;
that I should stare at the pictures and try to get back inside them,
reaching out for something that had slipped out of my hands and spilled
in the darkness of the past. And that someday I might be so old that all
that might pierce my senility would be the vague heartpang of
something lost and inexplicably sacred, maybe not even the name
Huntington meaning anything to me, nor the names of three friends, but
only the precious sweetness leaving its faint taste mingled with the bitter
one of dying.
All the world we could see lay motionless in the muted splendor of
sunrise. Nothing stirred, only we lived; even the wind had forgotten
us. Had we been able to hear a bird calling from some pine tree, or
sheep bleating in some valley, the summit stillness would have been
familiar; now it was different, perfect. It was as if the world had held
its breath for us...We photographed each other and the views, trying
even as we took the pictures to impress the sight on our memories
more indelibly than the cameras could on the film. If only this
moment could last, I thought, if no longer than we do. But I knew
even then that we would forget, that someday all I should remember
would be the memories themselves, rehearsed like an archaic dance;
that I should stare at the pictures and try to get back inside them,
reaching out for something that had slipped out of my hands and spilled
in the darkness of the past. And that someday I might be so old that all
that might pierce my senility would be the vague heartpang of
something lost and inexplicably sacred, maybe not even the name
Huntington meaning anything to me, nor the names of three friends, but
only the precious sweetness leaving its faint taste mingled with the bitter
one of dying.
So someday soon I’ll be squaring up
with the Mont Blanc for a rematch and maybe
some other mountains too. Who
knows? I know there will be tons of
surprises to come and I honestly wouldn’t have it any other way.
NOTES:
1. For more on Chamonix and the Mont Blanc and an audio post during the attempt:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chamonix
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mont_Blanc
http://alpineascentsmontblanc.files.wordpress.com/2014/07/audio-post-2014-07-01-14-11-05.mp3
2. There can be rockfalls and avalanches on the mountain. Here is a Youtube video example:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gROp65zZXsI
 |
| Jim Finn, guest writer training prior to climb |
 |
| Bossons Glacier, Chamonix |
 |
| Mer de Glace with the Grand Jorasses behind |
 |
| The Grand Couloir |
 |
| Massif is prone to afternoon storms |
 |
| Tete Rouse hut above the Bionnassay glacier |
 |
| Night before the climb |
 |
| Seracs on the Bionnassay |
 |
| My high point below the Grand Couloir |
 |
| "Feeling better" selfie |
 |
| Climbing days later in Chamonix |
NOTES:
1. For more on Chamonix and the Mont Blanc and an audio post during the attempt:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chamonix
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mont_Blanc
http://alpineascentsmontblanc.files.wordpress.com/2014/07/audio-post-2014-07-01-14-11-05.mp3
2. There can be rockfalls and avalanches on the mountain. Here is a Youtube video example:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gROp65zZXsI
Saturday, August 2, 2014
Fifteen pounds of figs - second picking
The fig lady called and we negotiated a meeting on Friday afternoon. She brought fifteen pounds of beautiful, firm, brown, sweet, almost perfect figs. I almost laughed when I saw them. And I knew that I would be in the kitchen for at least a day, maybe more.
I started by checking my shelf (I found two jars leftover from 2012. They are too old - probably still OK to eat - but not a quality product.). I also found a large jar with "2013 - FIRST FIGS" written on the label. That may have meant something to me last summer, but I have no clear idea what it means today. I suspect that, because the first picking can be "hit or miss," this was a warning to keep these for me and not give them away.
I will admit the first picking this year was inconsistent. Perhaps it was because the fig lady didn't realize the figs were getting ripe (the tree is not at her home, but some distance away on their farm). Perhaps our delayed communication (I was out of town for a couple of weeks and missed her calls) caused the figs to waste. Whatever the cause, I did not can many of the first picking.
Whatever, those first fig 2014 turned out to be perfectly thick light brown (honey colored) preserves. They are tasty (there is often little bit that won't fit in the last jar that is sampled by the cook.). The jars all sealed perfectly. I only wrote "2014" on the lids and set them out-of-the-way on the shelf to clear the counter for the next round of canning.
And this weekend I am tackling the second picking - and these figs are beautiful. If the preserves aren't "right" it is all me.
During fig season I can reach a point where my fingers are raw, my back and feet hurt, and I start to wonder if this job will ever end. I am not there yet this season, but as I removed stems and sorted figs the pile never seemed to diminish. It was a never-ending box of figs mocking me for a few hours.
Now there are four batches of figs (of different sizes) sugared and waiting for the canning equipment to come out of the sterilizing run of the dishwasher. A handful of figs were selected for a friend who always says, "Just give me four figs." I saved a few out for me too, but I will have to wait until tomorrow. I have already eaten enough figs today.
And that is new for me. I have never really liked plain figs very much. I like preserves (of course - sweet-on-sweet). But these perfect figs as much as challenged me, "Go ahead. Eat me." The skins were so tender that I decided to try canning most of this second picking with skin on - just stemming and cutting them in half.
I have filled (or dirtied) every glass bowl in the kitchen. I have filled the refrigerator with glass bowls full of figs-in-sugar. There are a few pounds of figs left (mocking me) in the last clean bowl, waiting for me.
But I needed to sit down, rest my back, and plan the assault of the canning jar.
I also realized I needed to add - figs are not just my connection with Mom and Grandma - they are a connection with many southern women - mostly Texas women. I was reminded about my Aunt C who brought me fig preserves the last time I saw her.* "I know your mother always made these and thought you might like to have them," she said. And I was reminded of Mrs. R, our neighbor, who was a true southern lady (she came to "call" when we first moved here) and who appreciated a jar or two of fig preserves each year. There are others. They will come. I have hours more ahead of me in the kitchen - thinking of nothing and everything as I watch the figs boil.
Ah, I hear the silence that means the dishwasher is done. It is time to return to the kitchen and finish up the second figs.
And I must confess, I told the fig lady that I would take more figs should she have them and have no one else in line for them. It is, after all, a good year for figs.** And you never know what next summer will bring.
NOTES:
* What a dear and wonderful woman! The family was all together for the funeral of my uncle/her brother-in-law/my father's baby brother. [It is a shame that we only seem to see each other at funerals.] I brought small bags of peaches for my aunts and cousins. And then Aunt C brought out two big jars of figs, one for me and one for my sister. She had stayed up the night before to make them for us.
**I have had a few "new" people disclose that they like figs. I may need to make a few more jars.
I started by checking my shelf (I found two jars leftover from 2012. They are too old - probably still OK to eat - but not a quality product.). I also found a large jar with "2013 - FIRST FIGS" written on the label. That may have meant something to me last summer, but I have no clear idea what it means today. I suspect that, because the first picking can be "hit or miss," this was a warning to keep these for me and not give them away.
I will admit the first picking this year was inconsistent. Perhaps it was because the fig lady didn't realize the figs were getting ripe (the tree is not at her home, but some distance away on their farm). Perhaps our delayed communication (I was out of town for a couple of weeks and missed her calls) caused the figs to waste. Whatever the cause, I did not can many of the first picking.
Whatever, those first fig 2014 turned out to be perfectly thick light brown (honey colored) preserves. They are tasty (there is often little bit that won't fit in the last jar that is sampled by the cook.). The jars all sealed perfectly. I only wrote "2014" on the lids and set them out-of-the-way on the shelf to clear the counter for the next round of canning.
And this weekend I am tackling the second picking - and these figs are beautiful. If the preserves aren't "right" it is all me.
During fig season I can reach a point where my fingers are raw, my back and feet hurt, and I start to wonder if this job will ever end. I am not there yet this season, but as I removed stems and sorted figs the pile never seemed to diminish. It was a never-ending box of figs mocking me for a few hours.
Now there are four batches of figs (of different sizes) sugared and waiting for the canning equipment to come out of the sterilizing run of the dishwasher. A handful of figs were selected for a friend who always says, "Just give me four figs." I saved a few out for me too, but I will have to wait until tomorrow. I have already eaten enough figs today.
And that is new for me. I have never really liked plain figs very much. I like preserves (of course - sweet-on-sweet). But these perfect figs as much as challenged me, "Go ahead. Eat me." The skins were so tender that I decided to try canning most of this second picking with skin on - just stemming and cutting them in half.
I have filled (or dirtied) every glass bowl in the kitchen. I have filled the refrigerator with glass bowls full of figs-in-sugar. There are a few pounds of figs left (mocking me) in the last clean bowl, waiting for me.
But I needed to sit down, rest my back, and plan the assault of the canning jar.
I also realized I needed to add - figs are not just my connection with Mom and Grandma - they are a connection with many southern women - mostly Texas women. I was reminded about my Aunt C who brought me fig preserves the last time I saw her.* "I know your mother always made these and thought you might like to have them," she said. And I was reminded of Mrs. R, our neighbor, who was a true southern lady (she came to "call" when we first moved here) and who appreciated a jar or two of fig preserves each year. There are others. They will come. I have hours more ahead of me in the kitchen - thinking of nothing and everything as I watch the figs boil.
Ah, I hear the silence that means the dishwasher is done. It is time to return to the kitchen and finish up the second figs.
And I must confess, I told the fig lady that I would take more figs should she have them and have no one else in line for them. It is, after all, a good year for figs.** And you never know what next summer will bring.
NOTES:
* What a dear and wonderful woman! The family was all together for the funeral of my uncle/her brother-in-law/my father's baby brother. [It is a shame that we only seem to see each other at funerals.] I brought small bags of peaches for my aunts and cousins. And then Aunt C brought out two big jars of figs, one for me and one for my sister. She had stayed up the night before to make them for us.
**I have had a few "new" people disclose that they like figs. I may need to make a few more jars.
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