tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64199503761255280572024-03-06T13:59:31.569-06:00On the Doorstep...a new life in an old home...Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.comBlogger380125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-7967889872274344142023-07-27T20:10:00.000-05:002023-07-27T20:10:15.892-05:00A Howl in the Darkness: Sinéad O'Connor<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidwiVnVzYxRJQTiEyTTc4-wY3kL3Z5fte1BxckRgnzaBObjD547hOiqGdERCexAisdoqO266lFbZtuSL9fauioKtOltsTnSlFR3o2X-KmBBHOnrV1uZdyAT5YrKX50Bxar55X-rhIRNp7zxufcFo5jCgb9lZv4pZiFhFoSYlMei34B9vEwZFjE1BKstus/s750/O'Connor%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="750" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidwiVnVzYxRJQTiEyTTc4-wY3kL3Z5fte1BxckRgnzaBObjD547hOiqGdERCexAisdoqO266lFbZtuSL9fauioKtOltsTnSlFR3o2X-KmBBHOnrV1uZdyAT5YrKX50Bxar55X-rhIRNp7zxufcFo5jCgb9lZv4pZiFhFoSYlMei34B9vEwZFjE1BKstus/s16000/O'Connor%20(1).jpg" /></a></p><p></p><p>© Bryan Ledgard by <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/legalcode">Creative Commons license</a></p>Sinéad O'Connor understood the concept of tone policing long before we had a recognized term for what was happening to women in that era (and this one, too). She had the audacity not to care what people thought about her honesty, and she gave zero fucks about the discomfort people (mostly white, male) had with her rage. She raged against the patriarchy and the Catholic Church (which are pretty much one and the same) and it turns out she was right about them all along. For women my age (Gen X) she was such a scorching figure—one of righteous indignation and incandescent passion—that she burned our eyes. She validated us at a time when people were still raising their daughters to be silent. We weren't ready for her, and in many ways we still are not. I know she was traumatized, an abuse survivor, struggling with mental health issues throughout her life, and that her voice was a howl in the darkness. I'm so glad we were given the gift of hearing it.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-82743076394294812482023-07-26T13:18:00.000-05:002023-07-26T13:18:04.723-05:00Making a Deck More Porch-Like<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbJ4cKtIUvt0khXSgcW2GiSoscH9_Fqcmixsj7l3tEwuGsDc6XuvYJjmxaNv7sZHRcT0YDVUcpBI7_udzf43yaURGFwe52AzhkCE-jkdv2rLIoy_IHLWvMNVUxBAOQ_URlDlIkI0lP-cnz0tgWJMv52twbBXGqrp6absfz6uiuTlqVYRWLzQsbxZ2iZrA/s700/deckproject6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="700" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbJ4cKtIUvt0khXSgcW2GiSoscH9_Fqcmixsj7l3tEwuGsDc6XuvYJjmxaNv7sZHRcT0YDVUcpBI7_udzf43yaURGFwe52AzhkCE-jkdv2rLIoy_IHLWvMNVUxBAOQ_URlDlIkI0lP-cnz0tgWJMv52twbBXGqrp6absfz6uiuTlqVYRWLzQsbxZ2iZrA/s16000/deckproject6.jpg" /></a></div><br />Many people use the terms deck, porch, and patio interchangeably, though if you have talked to me for more than fifteen minutes, you'll know that I have a tendency to hairsplit definitions. To me, a deck is an uncovered, more casual, recreational space for family use at the back of the house. A porch is a covered space that is on the front entrance of the house. There are of course, variations on this. You can have a porch on the side or back of a house, and Victorian era homes are a like a love letter to porches--stick 'em wherever you like-- have a front porch, a side porch, a kitchen porch, even a sleeping porch. A porch is a more traditional feature of an older home, while decks seem to look more fitting on a house with modern lines. <p></p><p>Which is why, for more than a decade, I have loathed (I checked, and that is not too strong of a word), the deck on the front of my 1930s-era colonial. Not only do decks not belong on the fronts of houses, any houses (in my admittedly strong opinion), they also don't belong on this age of home. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDGLETe5zayPInsZJhXMRIlQ1-NPaYJ62EbAR6-HmTPAEIgVL93xftJei-9-V9eMdGURGQIK1YrynrUD5m093MO0lY1vvJjw3Ehv2aa2sAoGOseFXa2vyUx_7aOXPnOspNwmIcpEiW1crHDWHgM7BEZPTnetUwFkLxWe79Ad6YDejydYpvd4jyohrPHdg/s700/deckbefore1%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="507" data-original-width="700" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDGLETe5zayPInsZJhXMRIlQ1-NPaYJ62EbAR6-HmTPAEIgVL93xftJei-9-V9eMdGURGQIK1YrynrUD5m093MO0lY1vvJjw3Ehv2aa2sAoGOseFXa2vyUx_7aOXPnOspNwmIcpEiW1crHDWHgM7BEZPTnetUwFkLxWe79Ad6YDejydYpvd4jyohrPHdg/s16000/deckbefore1%20(1).jpg" /></a></div><p>I disliked it from the moment I moved in, but the image above is a "before" photo from a few summers ago. What can't be seen from this image is the rickety railing, the warped wood, and the gaps and warps between deck boards that were beginning trip people up. This awful looking thing replaced a proper brick stoop, as you can see in this historical photo from 1942, below, and an even larger version with wrought iron railing that was added later, but not photographed. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdPmpfDwpjktOaB4wfU12ihhz3CXwS5LYqbXQtWaXxFddf6rqdgLOMIC2iypO4nHcHb8FJ0jyzOiPea-wVnVcuTbh1_2zojODmSotwTWMBN75vnEQWjsb8UiwphCF6Ic_f2-ksKRB4In1UNdj_zT5r9SUotIrkA0u4knqVMJSKoJK6fpMjV7absJWjbfY/s575/snowy%20house%202a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="388" data-original-width="575" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdPmpfDwpjktOaB4wfU12ihhz3CXwS5LYqbXQtWaXxFddf6rqdgLOMIC2iypO4nHcHb8FJ0jyzOiPea-wVnVcuTbh1_2zojODmSotwTWMBN75vnEQWjsb8UiwphCF6Ic_f2-ksKRB4In1UNdj_zT5r9SUotIrkA0u4knqVMJSKoJK6fpMjV7absJWjbfY/s16000/snowy%20house%202a.jpg" /></a></div><p>Below is a more recent photo, when we took a stop-gap approach to a stair issue that had become a hazard for our elderly parents. Now we were at the point where the deck was not only ass ugly, it was a potential danger to family members. It was the final motivation to get going on the renovation project, which we began last spring. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqfDP_tDlMuvYCZ2MD0Ikd4cafBY9kUWUloE5SOKva0AoS81AE-pnk-NUcz6dh4Mr_z7xu8rebLZ5dzeYiH920en3wpDAbo7G6HpdTCtxpVWPMzzizSXksW69LnFq-5V2BWwoLtgXylLFUPAuEYA3sEDMuHxwUXyHCezcTX3NsGqZ4gbF4YcqPLFl-RDg/s700/Deckbefore2%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="700" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqfDP_tDlMuvYCZ2MD0Ikd4cafBY9kUWUloE5SOKva0AoS81AE-pnk-NUcz6dh4Mr_z7xu8rebLZ5dzeYiH920en3wpDAbo7G6HpdTCtxpVWPMzzizSXksW69LnFq-5V2BWwoLtgXylLFUPAuEYA3sEDMuHxwUXyHCezcTX3NsGqZ4gbF4YcqPLFl-RDg/s16000/Deckbefore2%20(1).jpg" /></a></div><p>While we did not have the budget or the skills to put up a true covered porch (we likely would have hired an architect and a building contractor for a project of that scale), our goal was to porchify our deck. That's a new word in the DIY lexicon: porchify. You heard it here first. We submitted our plans to our local municipal authority for a building permit. The design itself was pretty simple, traditional, but with certain elements beefed up to give that porch-like feel, and of course chosen to meet the safety requirements of local building codes. We married the elements of several designs we found online into something we felt matched the personality and era of the house. </p><p>In the spring of 2022, Tom started demolition. And as the kids like to say, I was there for it. Nothing better than to see a particularly hated part of your house getting replaced for something better. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5q15q7Qr1hCkBccWrL1GeUX7_PH3bAJ7IlffVGcaxrmKOIMEqJKfCwixyTcqMPGZdbafoIoCf9kYDMKpnNKq-b_RasdYzygI-zHazVvgDIzutqchlVET7h0gwx3DFRPfMSkydAf5L5xx5lq-NUNriSS7giWdlDxI6XuXDC2MOuG2_wP6sT-FNg9qz6Y/s700/Deckdemo1%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="700" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI5q15q7Qr1hCkBccWrL1GeUX7_PH3bAJ7IlffVGcaxrmKOIMEqJKfCwixyTcqMPGZdbafoIoCf9kYDMKpnNKq-b_RasdYzygI-zHazVvgDIzutqchlVET7h0gwx3DFRPfMSkydAf5L5xx5lq-NUNriSS7giWdlDxI6XuXDC2MOuG2_wP6sT-FNg9qz6Y/s16000/Deckdemo1%20(1).jpg" /></a></div><br />Despite the sad state of the decking and railing, we found that the footings, posts, and joists were in great shape, and well constructed (almost to the point I wondered if they were done at separate times by different people? Hard to say.) Given the price of lumber during the pandemic, we decided to keep these in order to shave a little off the total expense. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4igHm-CM51UQQ5xoxpSAbMAPLmsKBW0V_DBrAnEXyP8xyRcQ7oMB6yPHthYG3QsZeaBeWbGdrKm5uXbd8ElgDt_t_U-H4PUATmxVK9MBUnBEyqSgYuSTdyzd363l0gsf4E3To7wZ8Ik6IpdxrjnsBIO_Er5qHn95k8KUNwPVNMW2b6LTxN_XZE48acJw/s700/deckdemo2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="700" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4igHm-CM51UQQ5xoxpSAbMAPLmsKBW0V_DBrAnEXyP8xyRcQ7oMB6yPHthYG3QsZeaBeWbGdrKm5uXbd8ElgDt_t_U-H4PUATmxVK9MBUnBEyqSgYuSTdyzd363l0gsf4E3To7wZ8Ik6IpdxrjnsBIO_Er5qHn95k8KUNwPVNMW2b6LTxN_XZE48acJw/s16000/deckdemo2.jpg" /></a></div><p>Because we aren't home improvement television personalities or social media influencers, I'm not going to pretend this project took a weekend, or two, or even three. Tom was the driving force and mastermind behind this project, but he was not about to give up his summer kayaking or bicycling trips. And then we also had elder parent care, and visits from grandchildren, and yard work and jobs. When he was able to carve out time to work on the project, our front yard looked like this: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxB3mEbHmZ2jM4rjRCbg5rWaSf5P6Z7lykPoRfFTtx1B9qnCbTPs5LlvXJSlmuKzs4YgfYsea1kUvTVx3u01NN-vvMwTKS2nAVncqgqWZ1nSh0LHY2Hx_RW2hnDPITaGqKPKAlUY90me0Hin_Px_V9bxmvWMBPfFeJN_-2pJAp-XQxwzX6UB77IY1UQEw/s735/deckproject2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="551" data-original-width="735" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxB3mEbHmZ2jM4rjRCbg5rWaSf5P6Z7lykPoRfFTtx1B9qnCbTPs5LlvXJSlmuKzs4YgfYsea1kUvTVx3u01NN-vvMwTKS2nAVncqgqWZ1nSh0LHY2Hx_RW2hnDPITaGqKPKAlUY90me0Hin_Px_V9bxmvWMBPfFeJN_-2pJAp-XQxwzX6UB77IY1UQEw/s16000/deckproject2.jpg" /></a></div><p>He worked hard to get the stairs and decking in place, so that people could use our front door safely. Then the posts and railing went in as time allowed. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPqqYu73mIWN0kR0ChvcduJoWxf-K849cCj6kHX7y4DwBBndDTnhoXM5MkVLx3QbHNGCSvRXFDU03CWO9UZrZCSfuQ12IPguEBIiK1Qb0HaO3aUEb94gh9yBDe5ZcINhm8nNi5bHj_pPhNGwKc5nh6z5ELDrXZW1FHclXzkNgb7Mvg7HBd56mZ_-hv5XM/s700/deckproject4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="700" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPqqYu73mIWN0kR0ChvcduJoWxf-K849cCj6kHX7y4DwBBndDTnhoXM5MkVLx3QbHNGCSvRXFDU03CWO9UZrZCSfuQ12IPguEBIiK1Qb0HaO3aUEb94gh9yBDe5ZcINhm8nNi5bHj_pPhNGwKc5nh6z5ELDrXZW1FHclXzkNgb7Mvg7HBd56mZ_-hv5XM/s16000/deckproject4.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuWau1xdWT7b8smYvw8IKjMjHGaz0iPy1jakKIv042XEBcNnGoWuC87y4ncP9rVrjsEh4e8ljGTEb752ud26LOJt8TZ7dovukbOq2TgiYmYOFKLQerEXrv3dowVD8QNL6dh2gIy3r_WVIY6bqNrrmcHbSH_oOYLIvMyLBbvbhWJi2AvUF6OnTJ5QnrEaM/s533/deckfinish7%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="400" height="532" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuWau1xdWT7b8smYvw8IKjMjHGaz0iPy1jakKIv042XEBcNnGoWuC87y4ncP9rVrjsEh4e8ljGTEb752ud26LOJt8TZ7dovukbOq2TgiYmYOFKLQerEXrv3dowVD8QNL6dh2gIy3r_WVIY6bqNrrmcHbSH_oOYLIvMyLBbvbhWJi2AvUF6OnTJ5QnrEaM/w399-h532/deckfinish7%20(1).jpg" width="399" /></a></div>One thing we did a little differently is that we kept the footprint of the existing deck, but routed the railing around the front window, so that it didn't obstruct it. That created a little ledge off the deck railing that is under the window, which you can sort of see in the photo on the right. Right now our potted trees are there. We might build some sort of planter box or feature in the future, but for now it's just a quirk of building around existing features. The photo is from this summer. <p></p><p>Construction continued into the fall months because, well, life. It felt a little strange. In our Midwestern "work hard and get it done" culture, spreading projects out incrementally over months seems almost wrong. And while we did want to get it done, our priorities were all over the place last summer, so our efforts were too. It was not a straight line. We had to be okay with that. I think for the most part we were. <br /></p><p>One of the other accomplishments of this project was redesigning the stairs so that there were more of them, with shallower rises, so that our elderly parents could more easily navigate them. Stairs are particularly difficult to get right, and when you don't get it right, even by a hair's breadth, people stumble on them. It's really a credit to his patience and determination that these are well constructed, solid, and easier on old knees. Below is a picture from last September, when we were beginning to get close to the railing finish line. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwvoxBLZ2I2xyWq6a3No-fRiKTYNcy8V7pHgPKLSdgGzNyyn--ESCcC22F0mV3WDVviidzCUZvcUEFDSYF1Ho3DEbJpEUcGMIkNnxugsWt4mRa6rI3fGy48UIziaF0qkMv5O5aW5cSJIsf_YVHWordWPQYYgkjSZpmeB4gxR5XNkudHbeb5qNpFYG0m0Y/s700/Deckproject5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="700" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwvoxBLZ2I2xyWq6a3No-fRiKTYNcy8V7pHgPKLSdgGzNyyn--ESCcC22F0mV3WDVviidzCUZvcUEFDSYF1Ho3DEbJpEUcGMIkNnxugsWt4mRa6rI3fGy48UIziaF0qkMv5O5aW5cSJIsf_YVHWordWPQYYgkjSZpmeB4gxR5XNkudHbeb5qNpFYG0m0Y/w640-h480/Deckproject5.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>By October, Tom had finished the railing, the trim, filling and paint touch-ups that seem never-ending on projects like these. It has been downright glorious to pull up the curb of our home and see the big difference it has made in how our house presents itself to the neighborhood. (Ignoring the fact that we need to mow, and finish painting scraped window trim on the upper story window. Chores are never done!)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVg0sw3Dp2ZAEdBo7H1Qb_YrM9WLKHI-Gdgd5dyj3kKewf1-c1oPIWG1cr7RTA5s3Qxla_YjZCbEzK2Gnlyy3Nv0rPFePI6vSGC-PRxRmodfbXcmgLcA4Sv2UE6BMuWJD1OgBORrn6qgogQc7v6tc96Tqy7Ih33q2PdIU9Es7BVmnyDXCCx8DzmPXxwrI/s3007/PXL_20230716_182706465%20(2)%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2436" data-original-width="3007" height="518" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVg0sw3Dp2ZAEdBo7H1Qb_YrM9WLKHI-Gdgd5dyj3kKewf1-c1oPIWG1cr7RTA5s3Qxla_YjZCbEzK2Gnlyy3Nv0rPFePI6vSGC-PRxRmodfbXcmgLcA4Sv2UE6BMuWJD1OgBORrn6qgogQc7v6tc96Tqy7Ih33q2PdIU9Es7BVmnyDXCCx8DzmPXxwrI/w640-h518/PXL_20230716_182706465%20(2)%20(1).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Even now, in the summer of 2023, we have one last task to do to finish our porchified front entrance, and that is staining the decking. Pressure treated wood needs to cure a good long time before staining, and we're hoping to get that job done this fall, so we can finally call the project complete. We also have a few other small projects that "accessorize" this one, like the replacement of a shabby and leaning old lamp post. But this was a big, big item to get checked off our list, and we feel really good about it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSTcZLWklqinyY5z27bOSpphkgPYwSdW9X9kAoUc64PE7uTPh5PSrUTwl2toowAJji_76PA8G0lLyiTc1G6BCnIA6Q-rAvmN_5UMMDhjR4ciGAxeW7fB2w2QP_4kBUmiHS_DGauDkY7KfzcolHCy56S-mW8pDwuvTESbKcIzsPxXxT1PmvqrlvQAwzEWQ/s700/deckfinish2%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="525" data-original-width="700" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSTcZLWklqinyY5z27bOSpphkgPYwSdW9X9kAoUc64PE7uTPh5PSrUTwl2toowAJji_76PA8G0lLyiTc1G6BCnIA6Q-rAvmN_5UMMDhjR4ciGAxeW7fB2w2QP_4kBUmiHS_DGauDkY7KfzcolHCy56S-mW8pDwuvTESbKcIzsPxXxT1PmvqrlvQAwzEWQ/s16000/deckfinish2%20(1).jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The next steps in the front of the house exterior mostlly have to do with updating parts of the front perennial and landscaping beds, which after a few years need a little tweaking and reviving. That's more in my wheelhouse, and I've already gotten a bit of a start with weeding and moving some plants around. More to come on that, soon. </div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-67425458137993474342022-11-13T14:50:00.000-06:002022-11-13T14:50:39.790-06:00Origin Stories<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1bNtrlNfLFsVzoaz0Ph2biinLxBE8BaL5Rc102J_4KU9DptP8kxgBzIETQQWAPgDhcbyYw5F93yyeacmANMKWTF_lh1cfDeOpiN75ETl45Nuicbs7XLQoNR71uX6tJs35u9WzY4XB9Ps5ec1j3M4_io88NWXHbvTuPi_a5g7xXEBXn_4b71u1a2a/s800/comics.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN1bNtrlNfLFsVzoaz0Ph2biinLxBE8BaL5Rc102J_4KU9DptP8kxgBzIETQQWAPgDhcbyYw5F93yyeacmANMKWTF_lh1cfDeOpiN75ETl45Nuicbs7XLQoNR71uX6tJs35u9WzY4XB9Ps5ec1j3M4_io88NWXHbvTuPi_a5g7xXEBXn_4b71u1a2a/s16000/comics.jpg" /></a></p><div><br /></div>When my son Joe went off to college, I shut the door on his bedroom. Not just for a few days or weeks, but months. As teen boy bedrooms do, it needed some cleaning in there. Some decluttering. Maybe a bit of paint.<br /><br />But I didn’t touch it. It would be easiest to say that work got busy, that I don’t like housework all that much, that I was respecting his space. Which are all true, but in ways that obscure another, more difficult truth– that really, I was hurt.<br /><br />Joe was so eager to go to college and begin his adult independence that he spent the majority of his senior year and the summer after graduation firmly brushing off parental assistance and guidance. Not even brushing– at times he positively bristled with ferocity– that he alone would make the decisions, figure things out, do it his way. It was a long year of trying to stay out of his way when I could, and negotiating compromises when I could not.<br /><br />By the time we pulled up to the curb in front of the dormitory in August, two hours from home, we were thoroughly irritated with each other. I managed a thin version of the cheerful enthusiasm expected of new college parents. It was mainly for show, for those volunteer students in school colors helping all the wandering freshmen move their stuff up flights of stairs. I trailed behind with an armload of blankets and frustration. <br /><br />I explained to him, standing with the boxes stacked around us, that I wanted to help him NOT because I wanted to baby him, not because I thought he was incapable, but because this milestone was different for me than it was for him. It would be the only time that I brought him to college for the first time. When he next came home, he would be a different person. I wanted this last time to take care of my son. I wanted this time to say goodbye. Not just to the Joe he was right now, but to the mother I had been to him all this time.<br /><br />He still said no to much help. I made his bed, popping new pillows out of plastic bagging. He sulked. I was angry and tried not to be. We walked across campus to get his student ID. Being out of the dorms helped, like it was part of our problem, or maybe just the stage for it. But lunch was over, his college program was beginning an afternoon of welcome to campus activities, and I needed to get back on the road.<br /><br />“It’s time for you to go now Mom. Don’t call me.” I had to ask for a hug. He gave me one, but it was grudging. <br /><br />This last week, finally, I opened the door to his room and began putting things in order. I opened the window and let in fresh air. I washed the bed-sheets, blankets, mattress pad, pillows. I sorted his clothes, finding plenty of outgrown jeans and shirts. Soon there were bags for donating lined up in the hallway. I discovered the curtains that had hung in his window since he was a grade-school boy were so sun-damaged, they were barely holding together. I carried them downstairs and stuffed them in the garbage can. For some reason, trashing them felt good. <br /><br />I hesitated at his desk, not wanting to intrude on his privacy, but eventually deciding to at least dust and organize the jumble of electronics and gaming paraphernalia on the desktop, the stacks of books and other papers. <br /><br />It was there that I found them. Yellowing and fragile comic books from my own childhood, mixed in with his own collection. I’d been a fan of the Fantastic Four, and there they were–Mr. Fantastic, The Invisible Woman, The Human Torch, and Thing. I showed my old comics to him once when he was in his tweens, hoping to make some kind of connection with him. At the time he seemed disinterested. I had understood– at twelve, it is hardly comprehensible that your mom could have ever been twelve once too. But, it seems, he kept them. It was good to see my old friends there, in among his own.<br /><br />If you were an English literature college student in the 1980s, as I was, you didn’t get a diploma without a solid bit of Joseph Campbell and comparative mythology. For years, his book “The Hero with a Thousand Faces” held sway in collegiate lectures about fiction, folklore, and myth. Dr. Campbell told us that we humans, across time and cultures and distances, tell each other lots of stories. But in many ways, these stories are all the same. They’re all the same because we are all the same– we all want to be the hero of our own story. <br /><br />Joe wants to be the hero of his own story. I’ve known this for a long time about him, when his autism made every day at school a struggle, not just with academics. He struggled to contain himself in a world completely engineered for the success of normies, and not at all for a little boy whose intelligence was like light shining through heavy branches–sparkling blindly at times, and then wind blowing, shifting in direction, shape, and intensity, sometimes shrouded completely. Or for a little boy whose expressions of frustration with a world who couldn’t understand him were often monstrous, heartbreaking, frightening to us and to him. Every day was like being presented with the same child, but under a new secret identity– new to us, and sometimes even to him. <br /><br />As his mom, I saw him as his own superhero, Joe the Brave, who endured long years of struggling to succeed– and then succeeding– in an educational system that wasn’t designed for his brain or his behavior or his way of interacting with the world. Who never once said he hated school, or didn’t want to go. He was often far tougher as an autistic kid than I was as an autistic kid’s mom. And while that often meant that I felt like he was dragging me down the road as I struggled to keep my supposedly adult feet under me, it also meant knowing that if he could show up for himself, the least I could do was show up for him too, even if I wasn’t sure at times how best to help him. <br /><br />In early grade school, Joe’s first favorite superhero was Batman, a superhero with no actual superpowers, a man with a tragic past who has to exist in the DC Universe as a flat-footed mortal, and make up for that lack using only his intelligence, his gadgetry, and his fighting skills. Later on, Joe’s favorite was Spiderman, who was an awkward, bullied, and outcast teenage Peter Parker before receiving the radioactive spider bite that superhumanized him. These days, he’s a fan of Venom, the symbiote anti-hero who may (eventually) use his alien superpowers for good, but only on his own terms. As Joe’s mom, I recognize pieces of his boyhood in his personal pantheon– feeling powerless, but making yourself strong anyway; being ridiculed without anyone knowing who you really are; having rebellious parts of you that you are not sure you actually want to control. <br /><br />In the world of superheroes, everyone has an origin story. That fits with Campbell’s arc of the hero’s journey– they have to come from somewhere, before they go…out there. They have an ordinary, known world they have to shed and leave behind before they can become the kind of hero they need to be. <br /><br />That is right where Joe is right now in his story. He’s crossing the threshold between his ordinary, known world, and answering the call to adventure. Heroes-to-be eventually realize that their origin story is not a complete one and that is why they go– they need to discover more about themselves and their real power. <br /><br />What origin stories don’t always say, though, is how the people who live in the hero’s ordinary world feel about that call to adventure, that momentous departure. I thought about that a lot as I smoothed clean sheets and vacuumed floors in his empty room. This is the part of the story I can’t write; it belongs to him now. He will want, and need, other mentors that are not me. He will have trials and quests and triumphs that I can’t help him with, because he needs to know that he can do it on his own. <br /><br />I’m proud of my part in this hero’s origin. I am in the process of learning to trust that he has the powers necessary to write the rest of his own legend. And I will patiently await the hero’s triumphant return. I know it’s gonna be a great story. <br /><br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-17162218439836387522022-10-04T20:37:00.000-05:002022-10-04T20:37:56.218-05:00Waiting Out Empty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixgFxSj1quHrCHRExPmBjk5CYnuJ9Yksb4_zDokKcDQGYzK9kEeLW5l4ZuvYlLVEWmkQaG5FM9yCh7XcidRMJOIKEeIkcLGBbbIzjc2JOzyCkpRwlD_clOwVVDMt0EziBe4FL4OSaXtKn4q1MpuMAv5E3nGxz_iK9o47-QOJLtv_-G9P0pAZFN9AnN/s750/celosiabee_web.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="582" data-original-width="750" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixgFxSj1quHrCHRExPmBjk5CYnuJ9Yksb4_zDokKcDQGYzK9kEeLW5l4ZuvYlLVEWmkQaG5FM9yCh7XcidRMJOIKEeIkcLGBbbIzjc2JOzyCkpRwlD_clOwVVDMt0EziBe4FL4OSaXtKn4q1MpuMAv5E3nGxz_iK9o47-QOJLtv_-G9P0pAZFN9AnN/s16000/celosiabee_web.jpg" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>September is a soft and warm word for a soft warm month, and it was a good season to be empty. </p><p>Just...empty. Not running on empty, or as in drained dry, or as in devoid of emotion. None of those things. </p><p>More like empty as in absence of fullness. Absence of people that I love. Absence of happenings. Absence of thinking that I know things. </p><p>Because I knew a lot of things about myself before I sent my two youngest sons off to college. </p><p>I knew I spent years sharing custody with my children's father, giving me over a decade of intermittent training in having them out of my house, out of my view, out of my attention. </p><p>I knew I never wanted to be that dreaded of all creatures, the "helicopter parent," who helps with freshman homework, emails college professors, and desperately clings to tasks that rightfully belong to their now nearly adult children. </p><p>I knew I wanted a next chapter, one that perhaps belonged a little bit more to me than to my children. But it always seemed to me, year after year, that there were thousands of leaves to turn before we reached that particular page, that new direction in the storyline-- so I kept reading. Until now. I'm finding that I can't read any further. The aptness of my metaphor and my knowledge about myself have faded, running out like too little ink on dry paper. </p><p>All of that knowing wasn't enough to prepare me for the large quiet space that opened up in my life when they began college, one at the "other" public university on the other side of the state, and another at a community college 45 minutes away. At first, that quiet space loomed like an entire undiscovered universe, especially in stark contrast to the short, noisy, and tightly wound days of packing and unpacking, driving loaded trucks, navigating two crowded campuses just days apart, and the rapid fire artillery of problem solving. Where do you get a bus pass? How do we get your window blinds fixed? How in the world did we forget toilet paper? </p><p>The next chapter is here, now. There are no words on the page for me to read. At least, none that I can see clearly. Yet. It's an unsettling feeling. I have ideas, but they're struggling to form themselves into something coherent. That too, seems like part of the blankness I'm confronting. </p><p>I spent the month of September letting myself be empty-- allowing it, and even sometimes insisting to myself that I sit with that nothingness for a period of time. Sometimes I failed, and attempted to fill it (poorly) with anxiety, insomnia, NYT crossword puzzles, crap food, and too much social media. Many other times, though, I found myself fully absorbed in the details of a simple action, pruning a houseplant, brushing my hair, scrubbing a saucepan, without my mind racing on some other unrelated concern. I realized how novel and uncluttered and undiluted those actions felt, compared to other times when my life was anything but empty. </p><p>Now it's October, and I'm waiting out the empty. I know it won't be like this forever. I imagine there will be a time in the not too distant future where I'm able to put some words to the empty-- words like grief, change, transition, aging, self-realization, reflection, and respite. I realize I'm not ready to do that just yet, and that's okay. </p><p>In the meantime, we've begun my favorite month of the year. We've danced our way through a family wedding, and are about to embark on a new adventure-- joy is a welcome vantage point to come to terms with, and begin to fill, emptiness. Eventually the words of the next chapter will become clearer. When that happens, I will write them down. Just like I have all the times before. </p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-2702058617531079382022-07-08T18:47:00.001-05:002022-07-08T18:56:39.351-05:00The Work of Love Bends Little by Little<p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhieSnZqWxAGRjisZxoAdJBVHfXhI1x05j1nqhj3hBMXNxQfMDscJz1RXqZM84ZzHxJJH-cChIZM35DF1F3cGwORrALvNr5_2RH-4HrbfFERwHBvKrmWyePevuSSw6oz5ID5KtDIyAbpVqO-cX9Xh76laJgJECFbsjZ5zxhY-NntU0FG4YfQOeAcCyX/s604/19562_1322219023934_4265658_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="453" data-original-width="604" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhieSnZqWxAGRjisZxoAdJBVHfXhI1x05j1nqhj3hBMXNxQfMDscJz1RXqZM84ZzHxJJH-cChIZM35DF1F3cGwORrALvNr5_2RH-4HrbfFERwHBvKrmWyePevuSSw6oz5ID5KtDIyAbpVqO-cX9Xh76laJgJECFbsjZ5zxhY-NntU0FG4YfQOeAcCyX/s16000/19562_1322219023934_4265658_n.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br />When I was the mom of four young boys, I would not have believed that a more stressful stage of my life was possible. Then, my first husband and I had knee-jerk moved into a suburban tract house, one that needed cleaning and paint and repairs, just in time to have the extra room for twins. We were living in Michigan, far away from the support of family in Iowa and Minnesota. We scrambled like mad until I ended up on bed rest to prevent pre-term labor. I languished on a sofa in the middle of a living room stacked with unpacked boxes, reading picture books to my four-year-old, who felt as un-moored as I did. The sofa was our little boat in uncertain seas--me, unborn babies, and preschooler, paddling along as well as we could with I Spy, Dr. Suess, and fitful naps.</p><p>I was a stay-at-home mother. "Tired" as a word, as an adjective, as a feeling, did not even begin to touch the reality of what I experienced after the twins were born. True, there was a profound lack of sleep as I navigated the world with two babies, then two toddlers, and somehow also got the older boys fed, hugged, and sent to school. I remember lying on my back every morning, looking at the ceiling and hearing the babies stir in their cribs. Knowing that in a few minutes I would clutch tiny toes still warm from their footed sleepers, a thing that gave me much joy every morning. Yet I was also taking deep breaths, wondering if there was enough. Enough energy. Enough patience. Enough time. Enough me. It was a time when the work of love seemed too big to even contemplate, let alone show up for every day. </p><p>I have always remembered those deep breaths, those ceiling stares, those feelings of love and inadequacy, joy and worry, dedication and weariness, as a state of mind distinct to that period of my life. So it caught me by surprise to find myself as a woman of 54, contemplating another, different ceiling in a very familiar way. Taking those same deep breaths. </p><p>I did not recognize the similarity until I took a week off work, and really a week off pretty much everything. The first few days of my vacation I woke up early, checked chores off my list in the garden, and went hard into my wealth of free time, sunshine, and dirt under my fingernails. While I enjoyed those days, they also weren't quite right. I'd just transferred my workplace tension to the garden, that feeling of being utterly behind and trying to "catch up." That feeling of having let things fall out of order because I am only one person. By day four I was back aboard my sofa-ship, this time minus the picture books, but still with the naps. It took that many days for my mind to surrender to some much needed nothingness, and to connect that time of my life with this. </p><p>Eighteen years ago my babies were literally lifted from my womb. Now, we're doing it again, just metaphorically this time, though the labor pains seem about the same. Ben has acquired a dented old Subaru and my heart is somewhere up around my tonsils every time he pulls away from the curb in front of our house. Joe has chosen a college on the other side of the state and he was ready to go yesterday, while I make a pile of his future life in the corner of the guest bedroom-- bedsheets, shampoo, microwave popcorn. There's another pile for Ben, who'll be just half an hour away, and a third pile for older brother Noah, who's moving into his own apartment without roommates for the first time. And while we work to amass the goods needed for all these big life changes, the questions in my heart are also stacking up-- are they ready? What did I forget to tell them, teach them, show them? How much help is too much? How much is too little? Do they know how much I love them? How did 18 years disappear in an instant?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijRePcTqyHHSzlelJsaTFkbCO1r0e5ZN9PyRVSZfTijnNIXB60gOrYpSEqTXyxL5FFqnoXHNIyAZZ_S1rzmiyhTzUFv6am4bgnR2OYNIw-I5Kmomx-9cZnVmRMr8L-IGXqcAHgd39jruv4oPhCTHbrxdLVBc3xBlUL8yrPX9WlPC8LaZVauVC-3Wl0/s750/collegestuff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="750" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijRePcTqyHHSzlelJsaTFkbCO1r0e5ZN9PyRVSZfTijnNIXB60gOrYpSEqTXyxL5FFqnoXHNIyAZZ_S1rzmiyhTzUFv6am4bgnR2OYNIw-I5Kmomx-9cZnVmRMr8L-IGXqcAHgd39jruv4oPhCTHbrxdLVBc3xBlUL8yrPX9WlPC8LaZVauVC-3Wl0/s16000/collegestuff.jpg" /></a></div><p>At the same time, I've been caring for an aging parent. You think your parent is aging gracefully (enough, anyway) until suddenly they are not. My relationship with my mother has always been fraught, a sum of her upbringing and mine, a sum that added up to disappointment on her part, and resignation on mine. But now the Irresponsible Daughter, the Rebellious Daughter, the Scatterbrained Daughter, is needed. Can she phone this doctor? Can she drive her mother to this appointment? Explain this lab result? Take out the trash? It turns out that I can, that I am capable in ways my Mother never saw in me. My sister comes all the way from Georgia to visit, to pitch some much needed relief. We exhange looks over our mother's head as she talks. Were those the words of someone just not feeling well today, or of someone on the threshhold of dementia? Is her refusal to do things the doctors ask of her going to be the hill she dies on, possibly in the realest of senses? We both know our mother is more vulnerable than she herself realizes. She still believes that she is our mother. My sister and I both know she is taking her first steps toward being our child, our dependent. None of us, I suspect, know what we're truly in for-- only that we are in for it, because it happens to us all. </p><p>It's not just the morning ceiling meditation, the deep breaths that draw my current life into parallel with young motherhood. I too often leap from one mundane decision to another, from office email to pharmacy errands to dormitory registration forms to what to cook for dinner, every five minutes all day long until I simply don't care. one. damn. bit. About anything. I too often have short patience for small mishaps, firing off more curses than necessary for a dropped book, a lost set of keys, a slow traffic light. And oh-my-God, I miss my husband. He's right here, as always, helping with my Mom's yard work and teaching Ben how to change a car battery and remodeling our decrepit front porch. But we've had lots of missed opportunities to go on regular dates, to talk in the evening without the kids around, to even just go to the hardware store together. Right now we feel a million miles apart-- nobody's fault, only circumstances.</p><p>When I was younger I didn't, or at least couldn't, foresee an end to circumstances. Lost in my anxieties, a part of my brain tricked me into thinking I'd always be washing tiny t-shirts at midnight, taking wadded papers out of little backpacks, shrugging wearily as I vacuumed up Lego pieces. I didn't realize that the work of love bends, sometimes little by little, so that we barely notice it happening. Other times it bends sharply, and we are swung out of orbit, struggling to form ourselves to new ways of showing up for the people we love. Babies become college students. Tiny t-shirts become rugby jerseys. Stay-at-home mom becomes career mom. The daughter that disappoints decides to show up anyway. </p><p>It's in the bendy places that we stress, we hurt, we grieve, we struggle, we fear the lurking unknown. I am sitting right there now, in the bendiest of curves in that work of love. I still don't know if I have enough energy, patience, or time. I still don't know if there's enough of me. I'll still continue to take deep breaths. But this time I'll consider that there's new ways of loving beyond this bend and the next one and the next. I hope I learn that new work well. </p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-6805668246742994832022-04-10T11:23:00.002-05:002022-04-10T11:25:39.014-05:00(Dis)lodging in Arizona<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid0cM_u0sSJObW4srvhJBPUOnEClWGYZiwyhvgVfZCpb3LjZSyAgJ5WqfNmRERcVaI3t6iMxViAB0UyzSMvnRaVBNgiU4FppT_f322dycFgOtl50g_FL6acbRr-FSpaAWACnMRtybl_Ozuh4eUWD8Q7hHG3g7DqWX1EZ--XK8K0gsBQYmIiqPbDu_O/s800/desert%20skyline.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid0cM_u0sSJObW4srvhJBPUOnEClWGYZiwyhvgVfZCpb3LjZSyAgJ5WqfNmRERcVaI3t6iMxViAB0UyzSMvnRaVBNgiU4FppT_f322dycFgOtl50g_FL6acbRr-FSpaAWACnMRtybl_Ozuh4eUWD8Q7hHG3g7DqWX1EZ--XK8K0gsBQYmIiqPbDu_O/s16000/desert%20skyline.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Sometimes, the only thing left is strong, sharp yank in another direction. Upend the norm, find the opposite, find thoughts so different from your own that it glues your feet to the ground while your brain tries to grow those first, shaky, tendrils of neurons around something....else. Not you, but you in a different place. </p><p>That was Arizona in March. </p><p>The trip started as something else entirely. It was a Christmas present to my Chicago Cubs fan husband; we planned to fly out for a fast weekend at a spring training game-- eat a few hot dogs, drink a few beers, sunburn our pasty Midwestern flesh, and run back home to routine and some more winter. </p><p>Major League Baseball had other plans. The players strike canceled the game. But instead of scrapping the trip altogether, we ended up stretching it out on either end, packing hiking shoes, renting a car, and heading out in multiple directions from our hotel room in Mesa. </p><p>When you spend much of your childhood and adult life in the Midwest, it's difficult to comprehend land that has value apart from the economy of agriculture. Row upon row upon row of corn and soybeans tends to brainwash your mind into thinking that if land can't grow anything you can sell, it isn't worth much. "You can't eat the view," an old farmer once told me, about wasting land on flowers and trees. </p><p>It's a little breathtaking, then, to have your fields of monoculture, your soil-factory sameness, stripped away just by taking a few hours and a plane ride into the desert, a place so different from the plains that it might as well be another planet-- agave and prickly pear instead of corn and soy, saguaro and cholla instead of trees. </p><p>I had needed that planetary travel sensation, that strong sharp yank away from everything I knew at home, knew with a tiresome and fretful familiarity lately. Too much time handcuffed to a laptop for a job that is taking too much out of me. Too much time in my corner of the sofa. Too much time walking from bedroom to kitchen to mailbox to kitchen again, looking at my own walls and floors. I needed something to interrupt the sameness of the days. </p><p>In Arizona the sky is sharp, and clear, and the sun will have its way with you. The first couple of days Tom and I both drank water to the point it seemed to take up all our time, even though the weather itself was not warm. We acclimated. We had drinks (not just the water kind) on warm patios. We didn't miss the baseball all that much.</p><p>I re-learned important stuff. I remembered that talking with my husband is one of my favorite things to do. I remembered that I get carsick and panicky on mountain highways. We discovered the <a href="https://americasnationalparks.org/passport-to-your-national-parks/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">passport stamp book for the U.S. National Park System</span></a>, and I was in eight-year-old sticker book heaven, filling it up with all our visits to the state's parks and monuments. </p><p>I learned what a fresh flour tortilla tastes like, made by a woman who quietly rolled and cooked them, one at a time, outside the Mission at Tumacácori National Historical Park. I had never had one that had not come out of a plastic bag at a grocery store. </p><p>I learned that history has weight. At Casa Grande National Monument, there are the remains of a house made by Sonoran people in the 1200s, mysteriously constructed with openings to align with the solstice and the equinoxes. These people populated the Gila River Valley for milennia, and then abandoned their villages and farms for reasons archeologists do not know. There was heavy energy there, made up of grief, and a kind of long waiting. A raven circled high up above the whole. I learned later that O'Odham and Hopi tribes consider the builders of Casa Grande ancestors, and the site sacred. I believe them. </p><p><b>Things I have been doing:</b></p><p>Reconsidering what work setting is meaningful, healthy, and productive while reading this <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2022/03/10/business/remote-work-office-life.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">New York Times article</span></a>. </p><p>Buying gladiolus bulbs, the much maligned "grandma flower" of the past. I love them BECAUSE they are a "grandma flower," and remind me of my own, who grew them in her garden. They're in bins near the front door of every hardware store everywhere right now, and each new variety has me buying just a few more. </p><p>Reading The <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/310603.The_Victory_Garden_Cookbook"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">Victory Garden Cookbook</span></a>, an out of print collection of recipes based on the PBS television show. It's out of print, and I recently scored a replacement copy of one that got lost. It's a combination how-to-grow, how-to-cook book of vegetables, and it's been a real nostalgia trip for me to read and re-discover. </p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-67193605064430610862022-01-17T17:15:00.003-06:002022-01-17T21:08:11.521-06:00Crafting a Craft Room Out of a Basement Corner<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZiwHyBsW_9u7SSSHZA_UTo0-DL_cnQjTx9gU2l-ViPfApImnBYMg7X555je7uchL2iOVN75Qy9QW3RlFsAMz_K2Z2CfpOJTMdWs4hiPm0LL-sFpjKgNaFEQQew7_Ku4TYoLc3aqvDDJVdc-dTboZBmDfBKrf92zankN28Rs4DxVEeABBPBPLiPMpL=s800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhZiwHyBsW_9u7SSSHZA_UTo0-DL_cnQjTx9gU2l-ViPfApImnBYMg7X555je7uchL2iOVN75Qy9QW3RlFsAMz_K2Z2CfpOJTMdWs4hiPm0LL-sFpjKgNaFEQQew7_Ku4TYoLc3aqvDDJVdc-dTboZBmDfBKrf92zankN28Rs4DxVEeABBPBPLiPMpL=s16000" /></a></div> <p></p><p>In the past couple of years I've blogged more about thoughts and issues than home improvement, and part of that was intentional. I decided I was not really a home improvement or decor blogger, for a bunch of reasons. Mostly because I can't tap into fads, nor do I want to (white shiplap? So stupid, and banal. There I said it.) Mostly because as a normal, average person, I can't sustain "doing stuff" to the level that is necessary to have regular and worthwhile content for a strictly home improvement blog. I moved away from home improvement blogging because I had other things to say about my home and my life, things that didn't include paint chips and power tools.</p><p>That said, we have actually been "doing stuff" this past year, and I'm back around to the idea that maybe I could post more about that "stuff." Why? If I put out my normal, average person content, it's a voice that is different than those glossy fifty-shades of beige magazines, blogs, and TV shows. It's definitely real life, real budgets. I mean, does that picture up above get any more real life? </p><p>My house was built in 1939 on a cinder block basement foundation. It does not have support posts. Instead it has interior cinder block walls that not only serve that support function, they carve the whole basement into six smaller rooms. We have a laundry room, a shop room, a furnace/utilities room, an area that we use as a second family room, an area we pile up crap in (let's be honest here), and a room</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiyg5YF2uzil5kG0WNXXlZW6maU3enoYL0Z8KeA1LdKlEWSN9aULyIaC18SX2k8vmy9HOdCg5hQp8teu4AW1SNsLx7PR30jgdnepsZfLNetwpWoPr3Kuo9IfVEs5sKd_DDKCLc-cAWkd15bKmo-T1CvWNGGJxM8bRKl9wvKohGmwMasMKuJiW4eXSrz=s500" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiyg5YF2uzil5kG0WNXXlZW6maU3enoYL0Z8KeA1LdKlEWSN9aULyIaC18SX2k8vmy9HOdCg5hQp8teu4AW1SNsLx7PR30jgdnepsZfLNetwpWoPr3Kuo9IfVEs5sKd_DDKCLc-cAWkd15bKmo-T1CvWNGGJxM8bRKl9wvKohGmwMasMKuJiW4eXSrz=w400-h266" width="400" /></a></div><br /> that used to be used as a darkroom by a previous owner. Which we also used to pile up crap in (more painful honesty).<p></p><p>I've blogged about that darkroom space before, <a href="https://doorstephome.blogspot.com/2013/07/darkroom-mystery.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">here</span></a>. At that time I schemed to get an additional bathroom in there, but have since realized that plan would involve jackhammering up the basement floor to add adequate sewer, plus other expensive work I am not in the mood to do, especially when our main, everyday-use bathrooms need money invested in them too. </p><p>Instead, we decided that I, as a somewhat crafty person who also sews now and then, needed a craft/sewing room. Now if I get out a sewing project, it ends up being set up in the dining room. Inevitably I get pulled away to other responsibilities, then something comes up where I need the dining room for its intended purpose, or we have company over, and I have to clean up the project. It's a situation that is not great for getting said projects done, or managing clutter, or marital bliss, or for the creative process. </p><p>The darkroom space was not an inspiring one; in fact, it was sort of murder-basementy-- windowless, dark, spidery, damp, dirty, rust stains on the floor, and with a sink that looked like it had been used to clean up after unspeakable crimes. At the basic level, we wanted the room to be clean, well-lit, and functional for crafting and sewing. It would be a bonus if we could rescue the sink, which was super vintage cool under all the grime. Here's another shot of it below in June, after we'd emptied our crap out of it, and before we started stripping out the random things left from the darkroom configuration. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMhyyFe2pTTxM-IxJVXDjL2vqHwWTZEuS5Ap9nd7951NCzf8K8mPLH3-NFW4T62YTZmFyOs0w9Jj2437mMGBbKL5R-NO1Wd3dy9AIhtuw9v02eKGjOdPOe_qASWbKayKkFuehVvp4rs05jR-7OQQdr_JRwcsiyW4y8r3XPGgeRxNXUju5mFa02uega=s800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgMhyyFe2pTTxM-IxJVXDjL2vqHwWTZEuS5Ap9nd7951NCzf8K8mPLH3-NFW4T62YTZmFyOs0w9Jj2437mMGBbKL5R-NO1Wd3dy9AIhtuw9v02eKGjOdPOe_qASWbKayKkFuehVvp4rs05jR-7OQQdr_JRwcsiyW4y8r3XPGgeRxNXUju5mFa02uega=s16000" /></a></div><p>After emptying, we cleaned. That included a first run on cleaning the sink, to see if it was even salvageable. We were worried that darkroom chemicals had been dumped down this drain so much, that the enamel had been eaten away beyond the point of rescue. But the first attempt was promising, so we decided it was worth refitting. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghvw8scUjjdZzpDkOvhlM1NI5TEwcrFVyH8EJM0GGhM5BsrPXawlYauHW7oc3KtTR45QsUc2DzJUfvsvrFtKaFptUirSxAZwRd_ViLiwc69j5VD0-spN6TxTlsSlE0cNq3YKEYg8Yo4wW4Kyjea8vWKpnrRhyMg5NXa835VkPoST5TBzaF3tLGWN7I=s800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEghvw8scUjjdZzpDkOvhlM1NI5TEwcrFVyH8EJM0GGhM5BsrPXawlYauHW7oc3KtTR45QsUc2DzJUfvsvrFtKaFptUirSxAZwRd_ViLiwc69j5VD0-spN6TxTlsSlE0cNq3YKEYg8Yo4wW4Kyjea8vWKpnrRhyMg5NXa835VkPoST5TBzaF3tLGWN7I=s16000" /></a></div><p>We also decided that we wouldn't be finishing this room with drywall and flooring; we didn't want to spend huge amounts of our home improvement dollars here, and we didn't want to make a small room even smaller by studding out the walls and building framed boxes around the exposed utilites. </p><p>Instead, we spent the bulk of our time and money on lots of lighting, and lots of white paint to bounce that light around, to compensate for the lack of a window. That involved installing new lighting where none existed before, lots of wall prep, and gallons of masonry waterproofing (we used Drylok, linked <a href="https://www.drylok.com/products/drylok-original-masonry-waterproofer"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">here</span></a>. This is not a sponsored post or a product endorsement). We used Sherwin Williams Emerald Designer Edition paint (again, not a sponsored post) in a flat warm white that would make wall imperfections (and it being a basement cinder wall, there were a ton of those) recede, and reduce glare from all the lighting. We also painted utility pipes and ducting so that they would disappear visually as much as possible. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgjcrPVnnv2JP1YEEakWyM7x8_lfIe8JRsV5mfKGbrAAT-02vOd6QxG33_FTe1mT36dBab2cqd3-3KUoATTUoY2FGIPIPYMrK_YBo-bjxf0KlvbT-PIj2wbDPlU3N0mRkNOSuILcBD6yeViKG6RvaoIhi9OnrLGPbcrJL7e_GXwcHNl3hF1PM-IVhjK=s600" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgjcrPVnnv2JP1YEEakWyM7x8_lfIe8JRsV5mfKGbrAAT-02vOd6QxG33_FTe1mT36dBab2cqd3-3KUoATTUoY2FGIPIPYMrK_YBo-bjxf0KlvbT-PIj2wbDPlU3N0mRkNOSuILcBD6yeViKG6RvaoIhi9OnrLGPbcrJL7e_GXwcHNl3hF1PM-IVhjK=s16000" /></a></div><p>The sink got removed, then repositioned back where it started, but on a new sink base that Tom designed, built, painted, and slightly distressed. I removed another several layers of paint, grime, and staining from the sink enamel, using multiple products and more patience than I thought I had. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7Uuvv7ytIogCRyC8IXD91pfirLIzV3t03sYca-hBz-3ttXC4fsRpBZk1hRWcgzUaXE6PCJomf1FnJkjCB4P9km9u0aW5-Mf6rSYAQ-SzHyUNd3IAvaI7qQl9Dl92JfOY0kWrKp_5yXB3lyFY6HpZFDSTwRS5xnR5IQAPTVkg2dtTGDK5ZTrxUd7m-=s800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7Uuvv7ytIogCRyC8IXD91pfirLIzV3t03sYca-hBz-3ttXC4fsRpBZk1hRWcgzUaXE6PCJomf1FnJkjCB4P9km9u0aW5-Mf6rSYAQ-SzHyUNd3IAvaI7qQl9Dl92JfOY0kWrKp_5yXB3lyFY6HpZFDSTwRS5xnR5IQAPTVkg2dtTGDK5ZTrxUd7m-=s16000" /></a></div><p>The next project in this room rehab was the floor. I cleaned the rust stains up as much as I could, waterproofed, primed, and painted. I used floor paint in a taupe color that I hope will hide dirt, but will also be easily scrubbable. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBtJ03w4XEOrLLpThcbFSl8Pp1DlstHLl9Pm4QUmJskbwhob6z6rFkF782Xd97ufRnaqGeDYt1fQnW9wS58Z_Ta9U7E6yx5bH2BRsmml_5H2vmfq55D4eZbZMKZHbzzw8W4M_MnSrb4MDNugLR8AMlHInyg__5tb4PDKcD_Ji7UcchfzZzK9cehbC0=s800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiBtJ03w4XEOrLLpThcbFSl8Pp1DlstHLl9Pm4QUmJskbwhob6z6rFkF782Xd97ufRnaqGeDYt1fQnW9wS58Z_Ta9U7E6yx5bH2BRsmml_5H2vmfq55D4eZbZMKZHbzzw8W4M_MnSrb4MDNugLR8AMlHInyg__5tb4PDKcD_Ji7UcchfzZzK9cehbC0=s16000" /></a></div><p>All of that work happened more or less during June, July and August. More recently, Tom has been working on the ceiling, so that less light escapes into the dark recesses of the unfinished floor joists. We're using a painted wood tongue-and-groove style product that's easier in some ways to jigsaw puzzle around all the odd surfaces and pipes, but also has to go up a strip at a time. We're not sure if this part has been easier than drywall, but at least it goes up finished; we won't have to tape, plaster, and paint like we would with drywall. We're not done yet with this part, but we're close. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8lgHTA8ZndL6nbtbidJmldI7mttKIWGco3qCvCRGr6OYKCd9_HtGqYK5F-WT0k-YBDhsijhbih6G3W4f0wLQ-kt7_50QgzoUwEqxrSlGdIPsUGslWkN-oN72CvHXZwBjpMdLNRajUxf8f6P4eHOEqJ5yU7FBheT6j5F1jFOpNOOKGIP_9M8jX9045=s600" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="600" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh8lgHTA8ZndL6nbtbidJmldI7mttKIWGco3qCvCRGr6OYKCd9_HtGqYK5F-WT0k-YBDhsijhbih6G3W4f0wLQ-kt7_50QgzoUwEqxrSlGdIPsUGslWkN-oN72CvHXZwBjpMdLNRajUxf8f6P4eHOEqJ5yU7FBheT6j5F1jFOpNOOKGIP_9M8jX9045=s16000" /></a></div><p>Remaining on our to-do list is installing a door, and cleaning up our construction debris and tools. </p><p>For a person that dislikes all-white anything in decor, this room sure has a lot of it. But it was necessary to banish the darkness. I'm appreciating the somewhat industrial/utilitarian vibe we've created, but I'll also be bringing in furnishings, a rug, and some art that have lots of color to offset it, and I'm excited to get to that point. I want a warm, bright, interesting place to sew and craft, and I think we've built the perfect backdrop for it. I'm ready to move in! </p><p><b>Things I have been doing: </b></p><p>Reading <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2021/12/how-care-less-about-work/620902/?fbclid=IwAR1V2UR41FxvH8Odhq0ChW8CGjYvhTx_qWG3jb2zsr04wTNHFOSKL2SMvss"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">this article</span></a> from the Atlantic, about work/life balance. </p><p>Making this <a href="https://smittenkitchen.com/2018/03/luxe-butterscotch-pudding/"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">butterscotch pudding</span></a>, from Smitten Kitchen. Oh my goodness, perfect comfort food and several steps above the boxed powdered stuff. </p><p>Planning my garden. My two current favorites for ordering plants for spring are <a href="https://www.bluestoneperennials.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">Bluestone Perennials</span></a> and <a href="https://www.selectseeds.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">Select Seeds</span></a>. </p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-548085405835912922021-11-25T16:04:00.001-06:002021-11-25T16:04:48.438-06:00Accidental Pumpkins<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0wIcr0CngC8jVZC61axG3X3CtRAADLm9LWOdQdd8Pa8IzV-uoJ_5GwjdqB2nLISQmjcprB6XChIu3huJoP0TjlbvF3AcqEVcAySVNQln6VtkRLrLxTbwPiVEMiA4e5uvKtiOHt-JO3Gs/s800/webpumpkin.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0wIcr0CngC8jVZC61axG3X3CtRAADLm9LWOdQdd8Pa8IzV-uoJ_5GwjdqB2nLISQmjcprB6XChIu3huJoP0TjlbvF3AcqEVcAySVNQln6VtkRLrLxTbwPiVEMiA4e5uvKtiOHt-JO3Gs/s16000/webpumpkin.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p>Life can be improbable at times. </p><p>Our family has had a lot going this fall, from a couple of medical scares (we are fine, thankfully) to a prolonged bout with COVID, pneumonia, and some other viral crud (also, we are fine, but geez). Piled on top of the last year and a half, after the last five years, where we've collectively seen so many things that we never thought we'd see-- politically, culturally, environmentally-- you name it, October and November have seemed like a lot for me. Unfair, even. Nothing seemed especially easy. </p><p>I'd originally started this post some time ago, when I took these pumpking photos that appear in it, but I had to walk away from it, and I'm in such a completely different place from when I snapped these images, I had to backspace-delete entire paragraphs, until the page was blank again. Except for the pictures. I'm keeping those. I persist in feeling there's a metaphor for the pumpkins (like I found for the zucchini in my previous post) that I'm not quite seeing yet and maybe I'll find it if I keep writing. Then again, maybe not, but it's a damn fine story, so I'm determined to tell it, even if I can't hook it into a broader meaning. Maybe that itself is the point. Maybe it's just the story. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQiCohYDzweV6qFjGJUn-I3mKoe5dqK2GZePwnmL8i3PL1qpUkF-7xd4iEmIx7uIyy9EqesS6GQGiO3euTKqOiDbVpOd2__UpIX-as1eH5kob72NGm7cr6nQoERssWjWkT1Gd8_TgEp-M/s426/asparagus.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="400" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQiCohYDzweV6qFjGJUn-I3mKoe5dqK2GZePwnmL8i3PL1qpUkF-7xd4iEmIx7uIyy9EqesS6GQGiO3euTKqOiDbVpOd2__UpIX-as1eH5kob72NGm7cr6nQoERssWjWkT1Gd8_TgEp-M/w235-h250/asparagus.jpg" width="235" /></a></div>We have an asparagus patch that I would describe as beginner's grade. Asparagus is one of the rare vegetables that are perennial in our northern midwestern geography, and because it needs a permanent place and lots more sun that our backyard provides, we plunked our first crowns in the dirt in our front yard foundation beds. Then for two years, rabbits sawed what little plant growth we achieved completely down to the ground. It led to a lot of cursing before we finally admitted defeat and threw up a wire fence. This year we got a few handfuls of asparagus. It was divine and worth persevering through the bunnies to have. Then, as asparagus does, they grew out their tall feathery tops, and spring moved on to summer, and we also moved on, to carrots and cauliflower and other veg. <br /><p></p><p>While I was busy ignoring the asparagus patch, we realized that a long delayed project, replacing the aging main water line from the house to the municipal water supply, was now imperative. While we were at it, a chipped and cracked and uneven front sidewalk might as well be replaced. The first thing necessitated trenching up a big chunk of our front yard, and the second thing required uprooting the hardscaping around our our front perennial border. The new water main was done in May, and we waited until the very last minute before cold weather for the new sidewalk. While I'm glad they're both finally done, my front yard has never been such a mess. It was hard to regain my enthusiasm for imposing order while waiting to finish up the infrastructure projects. I mentally and literally walked away. </p><p>Somewhere during the midsummer months of trying to ignore the unholy mess our front yard had become, I discovered a volunteer vine growing in our asparagus patch. I was able to identify it as a member of the curcubita genus-- the plants that give us summer squash, pumpkins, and gourds-- but since I didn't plant it, it was impossible to know what exactly. Probably spread by birds or animals. I usually weed these things out. This time, I shrugged. I don't even know why. Maybe because I'd already written off the front yard for the year. Maybe because I didn't want to climb into asparagus fence to reach it. Maybe because I wanted to to see what it might be. </p><p>The vine grew, and grew, and grew, and started sprawling out into the yard, weaving itself into the uncut grass we were trying to nurture over the trenching scars in the lawn. While it looked robustly healthy, it didn't seem inclined to bloom, and what few buds I found on it seemed to shrivel before opening. Sometimes the offspring of hybrid vegetables are sterile, I reasoned, and this must be the case here. I still shrugged at pulling it out, though. I wasn't exactly embracing the chaos that was our front yard this summer, but I wasn't fighting back, either. I was exceedingly neutral about that vine. </p><p>Then Tom came in from yard work one day and said "Did you know we have pumpkins?" </p><p>What?</p><p>The vine that hadn't managed a single blossom all summer (I thought), now had pumpkins growing. And not just small ones. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcwJ8GuDxysvNPKDFiFsqdHE62A-q-MwA1OKgRXoSnXTXB3en9zRUDwPLldaL3wsW50r58oDAwl91xm7CJ6RWa933cXt6IJ2EISBPZVQN4LD0qNZuU64YuSGkx1FBLWUWGAQvtJGlXDEs/s800/webpumpkin2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcwJ8GuDxysvNPKDFiFsqdHE62A-q-MwA1OKgRXoSnXTXB3en9zRUDwPLldaL3wsW50r58oDAwl91xm7CJ6RWa933cXt6IJ2EISBPZVQN4LD0qNZuU64YuSGkx1FBLWUWGAQvtJGlXDEs/s16000/webpumpkin2.jpg" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Accidental pumpkins. It's the horticultural equivalent of not knowing you're pregnant. <div><br /></div><div>Perhaps I'd been in training for this all summer, with the zucchini I kept missing until they were gigantic. It's been that kind of year. The thing I love most, my garden, had to run on a certain amount of benign neglect. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm always surprised when neglect (benign or otherwise) gives you good surprises, like these fat orange (and green)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEyA6qkYcpo5LVhdSarb50ARxtmNTSkW0VATkUA2vCI67VG5qEh_hPpNDxk3siNwUnChoOKKA-rR1Px7D_OV3Gt7lpNFbQ7_1g7fGYslrD84KiYdJcCNxHHTHSezYIu9KxrkR2wVzXMrs/s2048/webpumpkin3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEyA6qkYcpo5LVhdSarb50ARxtmNTSkW0VATkUA2vCI67VG5qEh_hPpNDxk3siNwUnChoOKKA-rR1Px7D_OV3Gt7lpNFbQ7_1g7fGYslrD84KiYdJcCNxHHTHSezYIu9KxrkR2wVzXMrs/w480-h640/webpumpkin3.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>pumpkins. It always feels like luck. Or perhaps serendipity is the better word. Either way, these were the best accident I've had in a long time. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am a person who leans hard into fall festivities, and only reluctantly gives them up for Christmas decorations. Accidental pumpkins are just perfect for this, and here, on Thanksgiving Day, they're still hanginout out on the front porch. They'll probably continue to hang out there until next weekend, because I don't usually start getting my Christmas on until early December, or even later. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe I'll bring the fully ripe ones in and decide if I can stew them. Maybe I won't and they'll just hit the compost heap. </div><div><br /></div><div>Today, we're having Thanksgiving dinner for only the nuclear family, since one family member is just now emerged from COVID isolation and the rest of us are starting to feel better from all our various sneezes, coughs, and ailments. It's a pretty simple meal with just the classic Thanksgiving basics-- turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, dressing, a vegetable, and pie. It seems like a real effort, given that we're still a bit tired from being sick. It's nice, though, to sit down at the sturdy table that serves up our meals every day, and eat something that isn't dry toast and tea. It's nice that we are trending back toward healthy. It's nice we have nowhere to go for a long five-day weekend. It's nice that even in the midst of all our recent chaos, the universe still saw fit to send us pumpkins, when we didn't even ask for them. </div><div><br /></div><div>Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. </div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-26133000999371709322021-08-29T16:14:00.004-05:002021-08-29T21:00:39.848-05:00My Life In the Season of Big Zucchini<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDoikW7mruhgiLya1P49gNmTCI7UV8HEyQKKPd4OTj2f6J1lvaioqaq5WmUSoxrxY25m5gWRZ9mipwiHItZYOQNpTXY5yFzks6VopaacA-yBXBkL1eg1edmGEG-dOcvYUbGlLd6dYMI1Y/s800/zucchini.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="558" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDoikW7mruhgiLya1P49gNmTCI7UV8HEyQKKPd4OTj2f6J1lvaioqaq5WmUSoxrxY25m5gWRZ9mipwiHItZYOQNpTXY5yFzks6VopaacA-yBXBkL1eg1edmGEG-dOcvYUbGlLd6dYMI1Y/s16000/zucchini.jpg" /></a></p><p>It's been a big zucchini summer here at this household. Not big as in numerous zucchini, big as in BIG zucchini. The big fat green zeppelins that happen when you don't pick your vegetable patch on the regular, so that all the squash get seedy, tough, and outrageously over-sized. </p><p>I like summer squash. I like the advantage of growing it in your own garden, so you can pick them when they are small, young, and tender. Sauteed in butter and herbs, they are a fast, easy, tasty side dish to all the grilling going on during the season. I like them on the grill too, and as a substitute for noodles in lasagna. </p><p>But these giant squash? Yech. Don't tell me to shred and put them in cake or sweet bread, because zucchini is a savory food only for this girl. Desserts with green vegetables in them? No, thank you. Yes, I have tried them, and I think y'all have gone straight crazy. </p><p>Up until this summer, I've considered it a sign of failure, a sign of even (Lutherans all gasp in judgement) <i>laziness</i>, that I keep missing, and then picking, these big green brutes instead of the tender little lovelies that we prefer to eat. I dutifully go out into the yard with my wire basket, peek under the giant umbrella leaves, and -- "Dang it. Again?!"</p><p>At the beginning of the summer I took all of this zucchini-picking failure quite seriously. If I'm going to go to the trouble and expense of gardening, I want to do it well. There is a small window (just shy of three months) where I can supply most of my family's fresh produce needs; I want to optimize that. Coming from a family that has experienced poverty, I hate wasting food. Large zucchini seemed to represent a lot of things to me: poor resource management, inattention, waste, and even ingratitude to the processes of Nature which provide for us. </p><p>But zucchini is a distinct season of the summer. We watch it come along in expectation in early May, when the earth finally warms up enough in Iowa to germinate squash seeds, and in June, while the plants spread out their giant leaves and start to bloom. Come July and August, there are pyramids of squash crowding kitchen counters. The reason for all the jokes about summer squash stuffed in mailboxes, left on neighbors' doorsteps, piled on break-room tables at work is because we know that they are prolific. Sometimes too prolific. We balance our gratitude for all that plenty with the relentlessness of it. So, so much. And while we are grateful, we are also tasked with it. Peeling it, slicing it, sauteeing it, roasting it, pickling it, tossing it into omelettes, soups, quiches, pasta-- even if we love summer squash, we know it takes up space in our lives, requires work, and sometimes, is just too, too much. </p><p>This summer, big zucchini do not represent laziness, or ingratitude, or even inept gardening. They do, however, still represent overabundance-- a distinct season in our lives. In the last several months our household has seen multiple major appliance failures, major house repair, a car vs. deer accident (property damage only, thank God), and storm damage. We've done several home improvement projects, and have several more that are needed or that we are considering. We have a grandchild we are over the moon for, and love to help care for him and nurture him. We have aging parents who sometimes need support. We are gone multiple weekends in a row, honoring milestones like a son's entrance into pharmacy school, or another son's move into his first home. We have welcomed home a son-in-law who was deployed in the National Guard. We have visited a sister in Georgia, paddled the Boundary Waters with a blended family of menfolk, gone fishing. We survived a school year complicated by the pandemic and are about to embark on a senior year of high school that is looking much the same. We are navigating menopause. We lost an extended family member unexpectedly. We're looking ahead at college enrollments, helping autism spectrum children find their way in the adult world, and empty nesting.</p><p>All of these things are piled up on our metaphorical kitchen counter, and we need to process all of it. Slice and dice, cut out the bad parts where we can, create our own recipe out of these ingredients we've been handed, simmer, chew, swallow, and digest. All that growing, celebrating, repairing, nurturing, grieving, planning, sharing of time with people we love, closing one chapter, opening others. A great deal of it is joyous work, and for that we are grateful. A great deal of it is work-work. Labor and grief and frustration and exhaustion and loss and expense and time. So, we balance our gratitude for all that plenty with the relentlessness of it. It is also so, so much. </p><p>We are in a season of life where things are coming at us fast and thick, both the gifts and the trials. Big zucchini aren't our ideal, but can be expected when we'd rather take care of a grandbaby, or help an adult kid move boxes. They can be expected while we sort through trenching a new water main to our house. They can be expected when we neglect garden work in favor of ceremonies, milestones, funerals, jobs, and much needed rest. </p><p>For that reason, I will make of big zucchini what I can. Some days, that will mean preparing, seasoning, and cooking those parts we like, and enjoying the results. Some times it will mean sharing our overabundance with others that can make better use of big squash than we can in the moment. Some days, it means I will send that big ol' squash sailing over the compost fence and into the pile, so that it can feed some vegetable garden of the future, in another season, where life will assuredly be different than it is now. </p><p><b>Things I have been doing:</b> </p><p>Enjoying <a href="https://damndelicious.net/2015/04/18/baked-zucchini-fries/">this</a>, <a href="https://smittenkitchen.com/2021/06/zucchini-butter-spaghetti/">this</a>, and <a href="https://www.themediterraneandish.com/pesto-chicken-recipe/">this</a> recipe as a way to use up those big zucchini. When I don't, you know, compost them out of sheer lack of time to do anything with them. </p><p>Not reading. But looking at <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/40946227-the-book-of-taliesin-poems-of-warfare-and-praise-in-an-enchanted-britai">The Book of Taliesin: Poems of Warfare and Praise in an Enchanted Britain</a> sitting on my end table, and deciding it's a better book for cooler and cozier fall nights. </p><p>Painting buckets of primer and paint on the walls of a basement craft room that we are working on. I'm looking forward to having a permanent home for my sewing machine. </p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-77152015862715071782021-08-02T20:41:00.002-05:002021-08-22T12:02:50.431-05:00This Dip: It's Kind of a Big Dill<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhitV6l4HAiOmUp3M8MBtd0xw-OCZ45d3QdFa0pn8pzYLcIPLRY2xSivrGKf5JHYcQnKRKLYMDkf0uB62QWsqYb1EXgwrEv_NNfkQsNwU-o1jWLymLViw4CtGz8iIrseV575tNOF9wmsTg/s800/dill+in+garden.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhitV6l4HAiOmUp3M8MBtd0xw-OCZ45d3QdFa0pn8pzYLcIPLRY2xSivrGKf5JHYcQnKRKLYMDkf0uB62QWsqYb1EXgwrEv_NNfkQsNwU-o1jWLymLViw4CtGz8iIrseV575tNOF9wmsTg/s16000/dill+in+garden.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p>I've got a lot of dill in the garden this year. Like, a LOT. Mind you, it is totally my fault that we have this predicament. When I first started vegetable and herb gardening many seasons ago, I started some dill from seed inside, and transplanted the little herblets out when the weather got warm. Now, every season, the dill grows tall everywhere, with lots of full feathery fronds and giant seed heads. I let it come and go as it pleases, for the most part. </p><p>This year it's been a little, dare I say, out of control. Even for a person who likes dill. It's shown up in places I don't really care for it to be, like driveway cracks and perennial beds, and I've even had to pull up some of the plants so that they don't shade out other things, like my peppers, which need their fair share of the sun too. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH9u7WhW3WKkoZemMAIpDtDz6nRF70vuNVkqYu8_zcrg0QgIc2kXQLq80nnQn5OTeFkyn0cMh6JYCh7tZg5KflNY-H0MPWQOwiqYp_PuJunVd9z47-OqyfT2i_REp0pzNbKxnPN_Kqukg/s533/dill+vase.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH9u7WhW3WKkoZemMAIpDtDz6nRF70vuNVkqYu8_zcrg0QgIc2kXQLq80nnQn5OTeFkyn0cMh6JYCh7tZg5KflNY-H0MPWQOwiqYp_PuJunVd9z47-OqyfT2i_REp0pzNbKxnPN_Kqukg/w300-h400/dill+vase.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>It's hard to hate the situation, though, because I love the smell so much. Along with cucumbers and greenbeans, it's the smell of high summer in the vegetable patch. I like adding it to flower bouquets, and sometimes I like big bunches of it as a stand alone; it makes the kitchen smell great, even if I'm not making pickles. I'm a refrigerator pickle person. My canned pickles are straight up terrible, and I don't seem to have a knack for heat canning them. <p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">It's a shame, because if there were a year I could be hitting the dill hard for pickles, it would be this one. I've got plenty of material to work with. And I have stuffed plenty of dill into the few jars of refrigerator pickles I've made so far. But there are only so many refrigerator pickles I can make, and then I'm looking at my dill-weedy garden and wondering why I was so confident, years ago, that setting this plant loose in my garden was such a good idea. </span></p><p>Another thing I've been trying to do is reduce the number of additives and preservatives in my food. I've discovered that I am sensitive to a few of them, some of them make my eczema worse, and not all of them are great from a healthy diet perspective either. And since one of the worst offenders in this area is salad dressings and dips, I've been experimenting for awhile with homemade ones. I've made a few really tasty and relatively healthy dips (I say relatively, because we're talking mayonnaise here, and there's only so much I can lie to myself), and because of that ongoing kitchen exploration, it seemed like a natural place to use all these bunches of dill. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHrqMeQS-w4_PPHmlz4Cc4Y3fY9jhydGuB9pyPRzLG7XE6hj6MNddliT51fbCZWLvXYldR-HZ-j174fJkRqGnhvVK8qiKV4ItJAZ3acAmG-9HM4FempIODG7HZMQk4qes_PJwk0tUwlv0/s533/dillandchives.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHrqMeQS-w4_PPHmlz4Cc4Y3fY9jhydGuB9pyPRzLG7XE6hj6MNddliT51fbCZWLvXYldR-HZ-j174fJkRqGnhvVK8qiKV4ItJAZ3acAmG-9HM4FempIODG7HZMQk4qes_PJwk0tUwlv0/w300-h400/dillandchives.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>And I do mean bunches. I'm not a measurer of things, which gets me into trouble. If I make a terrific and tasty version of something, and didn't measure any of the ingredients while putting it together, I can't replicate it. If someone likes it and asks for a recipe, I have to say I don't have one, which makes me sound like I don't want to share. But I do want to share, and after several rounds in the kitchen with a notepad and paper to jot down what I'm doing, I have a recipe that is worth sharing. <div><br /></div><div>The only not-a-measurement measurement I will make for this recipe is for the dill itself. <b>You need a big handful of fresh dill, like you see at left. </b>How much is that? No idea. About a 1/3 cup to 1/2 cup chopped, loosely packed? Probably. You can wing this a little. I trust you. <p>So, a big handful of mostly dill, but <b>also stuff some chives in there too, also as shown.</b> I'd say this amounts to about 1/4 to 1/3 cup chopped and loosely packed. I know "big handful" is relative: I have rather small hands, and so my big handful will be different than your big handful. But it won't matter, because this is a dip recipe, and it is flexible enough to cope with this inconsistency. </p><p>Strip the feathery leaves off the dill stalks and roughly chop the dill leaves with the chives. Don't go crazy, because the food processor is going to do most of the work. Throw the herbs in the food processor with:</p><p><b>1 cup plain greek yogurt.</b> I am picky about greek yogurt. I use Fage brand 2% fat, and I really recommend it for it's thick texture and mild but tangy taste). For a full fat version, you can use sour cream.</p><p><b>1/2 cup mayonnaise.</b> I'm also picky about mayonnaise and want to eliminate some of the fat calories, so I usually make mine with Hellman's Low Fat Mayo or Hellman's Olive Oil Mayo. You can also use full fat mayo if you like. I will still recommend Hellman's/Best Foods, or Duke's. </p><p><b>Juice of 1/2 lemon.</b> Or if you don't have a lemon around (it happens), use a tablespoon or two of apple cider vinegar. </p><p><b>1 T. minced garlic.</b> That seems like a lot. It is. Trust me. </p><p><b>1 T. dijon mustard.</b> I prefer coarse ground. </p><p><b>1/2 tsp. kosher salt</b></p><p><b>1/2 tsp. ground black pepper</b></p><p><b>a pinch of sugar</b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8SEyqDKZpcS1qqI0Lb6FXWHj2ik48pf5epkZ0g2YXHrdOwQKl2iTmIy8En05vrVS7C5xUjV0MnCCgv09bupfz4yyGuCnGjVk5V1xjVAg3CMcNnWFMS_E5WN9jyKFcYjhiDUJeyTxoRjc/s800/dilldipblender.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8SEyqDKZpcS1qqI0Lb6FXWHj2ik48pf5epkZ0g2YXHrdOwQKl2iTmIy8En05vrVS7C5xUjV0MnCCgv09bupfz4yyGuCnGjVk5V1xjVAg3CMcNnWFMS_E5WN9jyKFcYjhiDUJeyTxoRjc/s16000/dilldipblender.jpg" /></a></div><p>You need to pulse this only a few seconds in the food processor until it is thoroughly blended. Seriously, you will spend more time rummaging around in your condiment rack and scooping stuff out of tubs and jars than you will processing this up. Most of the time I make this, it is a thick pour out of the processor, and it sets up a bit once it's had a chance to meld flavors in the fridge for a few hours. Other times it's very thick and a tablespoon of milk will help get it to the right consistency if you'd rather use this as salad dressing, which you can totally do. It makes just shy of 1 3/4 cups of dip, and you can double the recipe if you've got a crowd coming, or if your people are just total dip hogs (we know who we are). </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdwbDsWhyphenhyphenpEEzIayOEUcwT8b8eCDX64xYJXRAKZf2aplA2Ll1wv9be-Ds1F_Cz0dwCRY7j4YP-iHxz3O9SxIfWb-n1ca-6Rydez1HQ6yY-UMqHa8-_IKPPzgo0yOzs3Nni9MkHff9udI/s800/dilldip.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdwbDsWhyphenhyphenpEEzIayOEUcwT8b8eCDX64xYJXRAKZf2aplA2Ll1wv9be-Ds1F_Cz0dwCRY7j4YP-iHxz3O9SxIfWb-n1ca-6Rydez1HQ6yY-UMqHa8-_IKPPzgo0yOzs3Nni9MkHff9udI/s16000/dilldip.jpg" /></a></p><p>This dip is great with raw veggies and crackers or chips as a dip. It is fantastic on the side of fried green tomatoes. Toss a few tablespoons of capers in it and serve it with grilled salmon. Throw in some grated, drained cucumber and a drizzle of olive oil and it becomes tzatziki sauce for Mediterranean food. Put it on a buttered baked potato. It's great on salad greens and tomatoes. I'm also thinking (though I haven't tried it yet) that it would be good as the dressing for pea salad, or maybe egg salad too. As long as my dill patch holds out, we will have plenty of chances to experiment. </p></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-88650072530484943802021-07-01T20:13:00.002-05:002021-07-01T20:23:23.374-05:00What is my seed starting mix?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0YNKaaa0cBpZBdlSBtgC8yIlinfMMSOVYjPdRTGoaJpLhLTPV08utpglolMWubiiTKmEg4cAf1XhbNqjEjWSyZ7JVr2Tvg1IgG-9y1g26G2Zm_1Lr-dKJ_pTmnCRFmm8wlOlPR1ltsOY/s800/seed+starting+mix.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0YNKaaa0cBpZBdlSBtgC8yIlinfMMSOVYjPdRTGoaJpLhLTPV08utpglolMWubiiTKmEg4cAf1XhbNqjEjWSyZ7JVr2Tvg1IgG-9y1g26G2Zm_1Lr-dKJ_pTmnCRFmm8wlOlPR1ltsOY/s16000/seed+starting+mix.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Living in a small Midwestern city like I do, I'm grateful that our community has a locally owned greenhouse and nursery. I don't just try to support it, I pilgrimage there as soon as they open their doors (usually late January-early February) for the season. I breathe in the smells of dirt and liquid fertilizer, which in late winter in Iowa is basically the smell of Hope with a capital H, for those of us that struggle with dark winter days. </p><p>I am a particular fan of their seed starting mix, a special blend that is light, fluffy, moist, and just right for germinating all the things I like to grow in my garden-- annual flowers like zinnia, marigold, calendula, sunflowers, and amaranth; and vegetables like tomatoes, peppers, zucchini and cucumbers.</p><p>This year I wasn't as successful starting seed as I usually am, though I'm not blaming my local nursery's bags of soil-- they are only one factor in the complex and tiny miracle of unfolding new plant life. So many things I did wrong this year-- I tried to use up older packages of seed that wouldn't germinate; I started some seeds too late, and others too early. I tried to grow some seeds that I have yet to conquer successfully (Bells of Ireland, Nigella) when I was too distracted by work stress; I failed to grow some stupidly easy plants because of the same distractions; I discovered too far into the game that my lighting timer wasn't working properly, denying them the light my veggies and flowers needed to truly thrive. </p><p>It's weird to be writing about seed starting right now, as we are well past the seed starting stage, well past spring and into high summer. But this year has been weird. We've had March days in the 90s (Fahrenheit) and June frosts. The plants and I have had multiple trips out to the patio, back into the screen porch. We've had weeks of nothing but rain, but are now verging on drought in Iowa. Up and down. Back and forth. Forward and backward. Start and stop and give up for this week, try again next week. Even now, that hot weather seems here to stay for awhile, the garden is upside down. The chrysanthemums are too early. The cucumbers, running late. </p><p>It's been that way emerging from the pandemic, as well. Vaccines have been very much progress. My strong reaction to them (hives) was not. I have been eager to get out, see people, do things. I often come home from these first-in-a-long-time activities a sweet and sour pickle of attitude-- delighted to be out of the house, full of vinegar about the how exhausting humans (including myself) can be sometimes. I thought I had missed them. I return from their company not so sure.</p><p>So I put the mask back on and flew to Georgia to see my sister. We hiked the Appalachian Trail to Preacher's Rock on Big Cedar Mountain. It was beautiful but I was out of shape and clumsy, skinning my knee falling on the steeper switchbacks. It was embarrassing and yet how could it be any other way, after more than a year of eating and drinking my feelings, and trying to get a grip on a new managerial position from the sofa? </p><p>We ate lunch out and had midday margaritas. We went for walks. We shopped for anything and nothing. We talked. We talked a lot. The topics weren't necessarily important-- we talked about kitchen cupboards and plants and running shoes and dogs. But the talking is the medicine. It is a way to be with our ancestors. It is a way to straighten our girl crowns. It is a part of my seed-starting mix. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyjm5Lp166y2XeuesmG894zCIhUMiHi00kDIK21r7INFmtH0wh2Av4H4aBIVm7oLnuMV18xvXj4RRi2BzjpcX2fTIXPj8YWMrZd2T8LTStjf3e1RLkPdoCs96D50Zsk0GBF5tCJdwY1ac/s800/preacher+rock.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyjm5Lp166y2XeuesmG894zCIhUMiHi00kDIK21r7INFmtH0wh2Av4H4aBIVm7oLnuMV18xvXj4RRi2BzjpcX2fTIXPj8YWMrZd2T8LTStjf3e1RLkPdoCs96D50Zsk0GBF5tCJdwY1ac/s16000/preacher+rock.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p>Since coming back from that trip I've been able to distinguish a few maddeningly conflicting truths about seed-starting. I know that the same seeds that failed to grow carefully planted in the shelter of my house in March are springing up in random places in June from seeds that were accidentally strewn last fall while cleaning up the garden. While my carrot seeds were too old this year, I know scientists have resurrected a <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/17/science/17obseed.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">date palm seed from Biblical times</span></a>, and I myself have grown hollyhock seeds that were at least a decade old. While March is long gone and it is too late to start peas and spinach, there is still time for planting sunflower seeds and another crop of basil or dill. We are always simultaneously out of time, just in time, too early, too late. We grow amazing things with planning and care and also by marvelous accident and benign neglect. It's how the beautiful weeds wind their way through through our carefully planted rows, both pushing stem and leaf upwards toward the sunlight. </p><p>Things I have been doing: </p><p>Binge-watching <span style="color: #6aa84f;"><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/17/science/17obseed.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">Home Town</span></a>.</span> I fell back in love with the fantasy of reviving an old house in an hour. </p><p>Making <a href="https://www.tasteofhome.com/recipes/sam-s-chocolate-sandwich-cookies/"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">whoopie pies</span></a>. They are good straight from the fridge with a glass of milk. </p><p>Planning to carve out a small craft room in our basement. Lighting and waterproofing come first!</p><p>Cleaning the <span style="color: #6aa84f;"><a href="https://www.unfuckyourhabitat.com/challenge-the-bathroom-underworld/?pagenum=1&tag=bathroom" target="_blank"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">bathroom supply closet</span></a>. </span></p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-86963027722050782392021-02-21T14:07:00.001-06:002021-02-21T17:10:02.453-06:00Capable of Enchantment<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8GJjMNbR_0JME-BLjfj0FXQLM6Y1nMB7E_7WmHjP4c-5V2wFrbcC1yxZc8xFkrOgyh4iLN2QlIAtXHK01wrPSQil7k180fHRpaAD73tXEK1LY3Y8xzUO8bXrkRjLXjYk9mhLgsZjuhe4/s800/backyard+snow.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8GJjMNbR_0JME-BLjfj0FXQLM6Y1nMB7E_7WmHjP4c-5V2wFrbcC1yxZc8xFkrOgyh4iLN2QlIAtXHK01wrPSQil7k180fHRpaAD73tXEK1LY3Y8xzUO8bXrkRjLXjYk9mhLgsZjuhe4/s16000/backyard+snow.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunday snow in the backyard</td></tr></tbody></table><p>This week I attended a memorial service for Mike, the younger brother of my best friend in high school. He fought a battle with cancer he could not win. </p><p>When I was thirteen, I was friends with his sister, and their life on the other side of town seemed a lot more like a family should be. I lived in a tiny duplex apartment with a divorced, frequently worn-out working mom; all the wounds of our family's detonation were freshly bandaged but still sore. They lived in a house just a short block from the cemetery and easy walking distance to our junior high school. While they were also a family who had divorced and remarried, they seemed to have all the representative parts-- mom, dad, house, yard, dog-- that constituted "normal" in those days, and to me their house seemed like a reprieve from all the not-normal that my own life contained, with its hand-me-down clothing from older cousins and a diet that often relied heavily on 10lb bags of potatoes. </p><p>While my friendship was with his sister, Mike was the tag-along little brother to our new-to-teenhood adventures. He was Norwegian blonde with ruddy cheeks and a bit of the devil in his blues eyes. His sister and I would walk through the cemetery after dusk, to have a private, quiet place to talk about the seriousness of our thoughts about boys, our mothers, our plans for life. Mike would follow, lurking behind headstones, leaping out to to scare the living bejabbers out of us, running away laughing. We would make rice krispie bars in the kitchen after school; Mike would be in and out, snitching marshmallows out of the bag, later making off with large slabs of the finished product. We would go ice skating down at the park, and Mike would be there, making many expert, speeding loops around the ice to my wobbly beginner one, coming to a dramatic hockey stop again and again, spraying ice chips everywhere. </p><p>Now that I'm past middle-age, the friendship with his sister is no longer, over years ago because of hurts we couldn't work through. While I'd been in touch with Mike now and then over the past decade, it was mostly to share that he too, was estranged from her. She did not attend the memorial service for her brother. That "normal" that I had seen and so coveted when I was a kid was just an angle, a trick of light in the form of ice skates and rice krispy bars. They had their struggles too, as all families do. The details aren't my story to tell. But it took the perspective of the fully adult me to realize it, and to deeply feel the gratitude I have for the family that gave me those memories, despite whatever troubles were housed within their walls. </p><p>Today is Sunday, and it is snowing. It is an enchanting snow, but it is February. I am no longer as capable of enchantment as I was in, say, December. But I live in Iowa, and complaining about the weather is futile. This is what February in Iowa looks like. The fifty-three-year-old me is also not capable of enchantment with "normal" as I was at thirteen, and indeed I wonder why I even wanted it, now. But that is the way of growing older. This is what 53 looks like. What remains are the gestures of half-grown children from long ago. Mike still skates smoothly away under a street lamp in the park, snow falling from dark skies on his impossibly beautiful blonde lashes. He smiles, and pants out bursts of frosty breath. </p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-51101790644925042832021-01-31T12:09:00.000-06:002021-01-31T12:09:43.708-06:00I am not an empath, and other ways I am (not) coping<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmEh5_6eJ38oHSFnpQG2kIWO2czasFdRmiCkfKXPZzORfDCGSetF4NKk44KM8AK6eA8Z20WcHVzOAeyGcnikRwuhxAJV8Udkbz2xqyz1NpXYyswbdC1gYAh9MPAdcgGH3QnZvJqjNYnK0/s749/139607735_4279736615375545_2091968882842365173_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="453" data-original-width="749" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmEh5_6eJ38oHSFnpQG2kIWO2czasFdRmiCkfKXPZzORfDCGSetF4NKk44KM8AK6eA8Z20WcHVzOAeyGcnikRwuhxAJV8Udkbz2xqyz1NpXYyswbdC1gYAh9MPAdcgGH3QnZvJqjNYnK0/w640-h388/139607735_4279736615375545_2091968882842365173_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />Over my lifetime, I've flogged myself and prided myself over my hyper-sensitivity, in equal measure. I hate that it often makes me the odd one out. Hate that it at times has makes me literally physically ill. Hate that it necessitates a list of coping strategies that don't even occur to many. Hate that whatever is neurologically different about me, I can't seem to put it down or choose my way out of it. <div><br /></div><div>Still, I admit taking a kind of grim satisfaction in being a so-called empath, able to intuit the emotional states and intents of other people, often so correctly it seems like clairvoyance. I may not always like what my emotional antennae are reporting back to my highly anxious cerebral cortex, but it's a kind of darkly beneficial superpower, isn't it? Isn't it?<div><div><br /></div><div>On Inauguration Day, I was watching the 46th President of the United States take his oath of office. I had live coverage streaming from my personal laptop most of the day, while I sat at my work laptop and attempted to act as though it was a normal day. It wasn't. It already wasn't, like so much of the past year wasn't, like so much of the past four years weren't. I was working from home, on the sofa, with a quilt in my lap, pandemic style. Guarded from harm. </div><div><br /></div><div>The Inaugural proceedings were not normal either. The president and vice president took their oaths of office in a capitol on high alert, full of national guards, before a nearly empty venue, with masks and distancing. Guarded from harm. </div><div><br /></div><div>On that day, I was a peculiar combination of lighthearted and wildly anxious. I let myself enjoy the assembly of past and present presidents and first ladies. I took in the perfection that was <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wz4YuEvJ3y4" target="_blank"><span style="color: #38761d;">Amanda Gorman's poetry, hair, and vivid gold suit. </span></a> I, too, laughed at Bernie's mittens. I noted the symbolism of all that purple (red + blue = purple). I counted how many times Joe said "unity." I considered that this sunny hopeful moment came the day after a memorial service to 400,000+ dead of a pandemic our country has failed to contain. I stood watch for violence that (thankfully) never came. It was a stew of outward hope and relief and inward fear and grief that boiled up into the emotional equivalent of carsickness after a long trip-- I'm glad we're finally here after that long awful ride, but now I need to go throw up. </div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't actually "throw up," until the next day. I was again at my work laptop, at the kitchen table, drinking my morning coffee and reading my e-mail, which included some information about the policies and plans of the new Biden-Harris administration. Policies and plans that were common sense. Practical. Inclusive. Humane. Optimistic. Responsible. I don't really remember starting to cry. Just that there were big fat blobby teardrops falling on my forearms, the table, the keyboard. Breath went out of me like stale air exits a house from an opening door. I could feel the muscles that run up my back, neck, and shoulders sag downward, suddenly all out of tension.</div><div><br /></div><div>Somewhere between the day of fat blobby tears and last weekend, this meme popped up in one of my feeds-- "Babe you're not an empath, you have PTSD from an unstable household, and are sensitive to emotional changes as a defense mechanism." Ouch. </div><div><br /></div><div>I grew up where the expectations were that I would be good. Really good and clean and tidy and polite. And quiet. And not cause trouble. Or talk back. Talk, even. In many ways, the relative peace of the household depended on my ability to disappear-- verbally, physically, emotionally. What did that train me for? Withdrawing. I am a special forces-in-camouflage level withdrawer, able to sense impending danger, gather my feelings up tight around me, sink below the radar of community, colleagues, friends, and family, out of their depth and unavailable, sometimes even to myself, for long stretches at a time. Guarded from harm. </div><div><br /></div><div>Until I bumped into that meme, I thought I had addressed that part of myself with some reasonable self-awareness, that I'd made a conscious decision to shed that part of my behavior, like it was an ill-fitting jacket instead of a layer of dragon scales that I had grown. I was wrong. How do you flay that off of yourself when it's the only armor you've ever known? Who is brave enough to stand all tender and bare, when the enemy is all around? I wasn't. I can see all the ways, now, that I simply returned to the well-worn grooves of my own history, for the last four years of this authoritarian insanity, the last year of this global pandemic. </div><div><br /></div><div>I have no doubt that plenty of others have traveled their well-worn grooves to get them through this time of outrage and untruths and disease. The thing about survival tactics is that they work, at some level, even if they aren't psychologically healthy ones. If survival is the goal, and it was for many, many people during these last four years, then a measure of grace is needed, both for those whose response was fight, and for those whose response was flight. </div><div><br /></div><div>While I'm trying to decide what that measure of grace might be, how to bestow it upon myself and others, I am hopeful that the coming days and months will give us the air and light and space we need to figure it all out, and find other ways of living besides just surviving. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Things I'm doing right now: </b></div><div><br /></div><div>Painting interior house trim, and hating every minute of it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Reading a cookbook: <a href="https://www.chroniclebooks.com/products/plenty#:~:text=The%20Plenty%20cookbook%3A%20Plenty%20is,every%20home%20cook%20can%20make." target="_blank"><span style="color: #38761d;">Plenty, by Yotam Ottolenghi</span></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Losing sleep over the anxiety-inducing ideas presented in this New York Times article: "<a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/01/19/magazine/negation-culture.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #38761d;">How Nothingness Became Everything We Wanted</span></a>."<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Adding <a href="https://www.baileys.com/en-us/products/#baileys-salted-caramel" target="_blank"><span style="color: #38761d;">salted caramel-flavor Bailey's Irish Cream</span></a> to vanilla buttercream frosting. This isn't sponsored. This isn't a recipe (add a few tablespoons to a batch for part of the liquids). It's just solid advice for cake eaters. Go do it. </div><div><br /></div></div></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-44294882402668281432021-01-14T13:23:00.000-06:002021-01-14T13:23:09.841-06:00A Secret and Inward Working of Powers<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQhmhZnRaWgX0b7q4Yrt_8crb1Pijj73rEpUl-rgeAdI7tV7KBGKHSbUJ9GfsveHVSGo7RMYPweMW0Iegd1PVkuPb5Y0x_rAQBbtoayrmK8jg_z8jgnc1KhBoadysuESjL5TE7EFi4kXc/s800/livingroom_plantcorner.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="558" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQhmhZnRaWgX0b7q4Yrt_8crb1Pijj73rEpUl-rgeAdI7tV7KBGKHSbUJ9GfsveHVSGo7RMYPweMW0Iegd1PVkuPb5Y0x_rAQBbtoayrmK8jg_z8jgnc1KhBoadysuESjL5TE7EFi4kXc/s16000/livingroom_plantcorner.jpg" /></a></p><br /><p></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: medium;">"Winter should not be considered as only negation and destruction. It is a secret and inward working of powers, which in spring will burst into visible activity"</span></h3><h3 style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: medium;">--Henry James Slack</span></h3><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div>It's January in Iowa, pandemic month 4,682. We're indoors and home-bound, more or less, both by the normal cycle of the seasons, and by an uber-virus. </div><div><br /></div><div>This does not sound at all like a "secret and inward working of powers." It sounds like drafty upstairs bedrooms in an old house. It sounds like being sick of cooking every. damn. meal. It sounds like I haven't had a beer at the taproom with my coven in forever. It sounds like a barely stifled whimper. </div><div><br /></div><div>January, thankfully, is also when the seed catalogs come, and with them, the power to imagine the Garden that Might Be. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDyyh9yskv1Fly20V5Wb_6hgT4zARjutfc4idmegmXYPe9UA4QoGozWYqrT5s955a4W7uBzuoTgQI04Es51C6VnngDlEq5a9-0p-bf76wUWhi4PgddYj2al53Y3r_Ts8U8C4L9aLmOMpQ/s800/catalogstack.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDyyh9yskv1Fly20V5Wb_6hgT4zARjutfc4idmegmXYPe9UA4QoGozWYqrT5s955a4W7uBzuoTgQI04Es51C6VnngDlEq5a9-0p-bf76wUWhi4PgddYj2al53Y3r_Ts8U8C4L9aLmOMpQ/s16000/catalogstack.jpg" /></a></div><div> </div><div>There is a lot of daydreamy goodness to that when the only thing keeping my fingers warm is a mug of tea, and it is still a long time (in pandemic months or normal ones, for that matter) until spring. </div><div><br /></div><div>I know that I am at my most perfect self as a gardener in January, when all things seem possible, and the pages of the catalogs are full of bright vegetables and soft blossoms. Seed and plant catalogs are the storybook version of real gardening, a storybook that I am all too willing to read, over and over again, like a young child. What happens between April and September is sweatier, buggier, full of earthy delights (I can literally stop and smell the roses) and equally earthy disappointments (just what the hell ate my collard greens?)</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLRiOoHIHPxX75PLSqVQDY3ij3xzCxGtNeFLzrGRR2YvSKVnT42WTnzyCcCluOnyHOu5RQcaRE2yrG0lkWGI3HbsEfP-q3dDN9JeazoDWFP11GgIirI-ZRVK3MHuTmLD4NigCeHcJndeU/s800/shadegarden.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLRiOoHIHPxX75PLSqVQDY3ij3xzCxGtNeFLzrGRR2YvSKVnT42WTnzyCcCluOnyHOu5RQcaRE2yrG0lkWGI3HbsEfP-q3dDN9JeazoDWFP11GgIirI-ZRVK3MHuTmLD4NigCeHcJndeU/w300-h400/shadegarden.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>I like to consider myself a gardener. A planty person. Herbal witch. Urban farmer. Green thumb. Horticulture geek. But I am not convinced that I am or can become a gardener in any fully adult way. I can't have some sophisticated color scheme, because I want to use all the crayons in the box, from burgundy black dahlias to snow white daffodils. My perennial garden is organized much like my mind's thoughts, with a random assortment of plants crowding the borders. What may have started out with a plan slipped out of bounds as my interests grew this way and that, and so did the bee balm and black-eyed susan, all over the place. And while I came for the flowers, I stay to feel the dirt in my fists, nudge a strange bug along a leaf, and stand still watching, while a possum toodles along the back fence line at dusk. If I were without neighbors, I might make mud pies and sour smelling mashes of dandelion petals and water as I did when I was five. I'm a little less tame in my garden. I like it that way. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>While I have no interest in the perfection of award-winning landscape design or neatly trimmed lawns, I still want to be better at growing things. Better at nurturing green life. Better at raising my own food. Better at taking care of the small patch of Mother Nature under my stewardship. </div><div><br /></div><div>That part of January garden planning requires putting down the pretty storybooks, and engaging in honest reflection on my past history. (Are you listening, America?) Not just the successes, but also the total failures, and everything in between. It's where reality and daydreaming meet, and it is the fertile ground where a future garden begins to take shape, the one that with any luck I'll get to tread with dirty bare feet come June. </div><div><br /></div><div>Last summer, I grew <span style="color: #38761d;"><a href="https://www.rareseeds.com/store/vegetables/sweet/sheepnose-pimento-pepper"><span style="color: #38761d;">beautiful little red peppers</span></a>. </span>We stuffed them with chives and cream cheese, and roasted them. It was my first real success growing peppers from seed for this garden, and I am proud of that accomplishment. It took some research into the best varieties for our region and a heat mat for seed starting, but I learned better ways to grow a healthy food I wanted to eat. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3OZE-f15qfDUAdHFvF7tU9XbXYz5hjKgu_wVJbwN2FgL9LG3TTJn3VHP-u0LBZBS1OysUf7DYh9mgOMnyV6fvaJy4bTFpGWNpfXGOhyoz65In5Lq2FJGZ_DQODfOrlU99NPPgsyyswko/s800/peppers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3OZE-f15qfDUAdHFvF7tU9XbXYz5hjKgu_wVJbwN2FgL9LG3TTJn3VHP-u0LBZBS1OysUf7DYh9mgOMnyV6fvaJy4bTFpGWNpfXGOhyoz65In5Lq2FJGZ_DQODfOrlU99NPPgsyyswko/s16000/peppers.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div>I grew gorgeous dahlias like this one, a variety called David Howard. But that is only half the goal in tending these half-hardy perennials in a cold winter state like Iowa. They require their tubers to be dug up and stored inside for the winter. The last two winters, I've killed the tubers-- once by keeping them too dry, and another time by keeping them so moist they rotted. This year they are stored in the basement trying yet a third storage method. I may be too stubborn, but I am awfully fond of these lush sunset blooms. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbVuxsridlBwZmzrAltXgZ1p1AaAG3lEq69Xbseomsv7OZVy7mUrLio46qZnpzJ7SZwqoTIJaQEjkBJQHJclpCSVAv-SLs54QSRyoTfoTsOSXDUMKzq3XjxCgzut8HgVFLdgAid2yDUeA/s800/david+howard+dahlia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="695" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbVuxsridlBwZmzrAltXgZ1p1AaAG3lEq69Xbseomsv7OZVy7mUrLio46qZnpzJ7SZwqoTIJaQEjkBJQHJclpCSVAv-SLs54QSRyoTfoTsOSXDUMKzq3XjxCgzut8HgVFLdgAid2yDUeA/s16000/david+howard+dahlia.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div>Sometimes I am a good or terrible gardener on what seems like a purely accidental basis. I discovered I am good at growing geraniums, or pelargoniums. The photo below is Lady Plymouth, a scented leaf variety. I give them a sunny window or a spot under the grow light indoors during the winter and water them once a week. In summer I toss them outside into the patio boxes, where except for regular watering and some occasional feeding, they go do their thing without a whole lot of angst on my part. I've been told they're not for amateurs. And yet here I am, with a growing collection of them.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiArd7BAZCH_5pV9Q6lTMXxNmzNdtuXpIVxyqtUNUosLSiQKEC4Yu5WmGCSS_gFXO1_0D92YNoaQn73GDEV3AJ5dMoxkeud623tZH19A2tTb47t3sz6cTcYN7u0JRkdkiDsQUyb22IAk3M/s800/ladyplymouthgeranium.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="571" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiArd7BAZCH_5pV9Q6lTMXxNmzNdtuXpIVxyqtUNUosLSiQKEC4Yu5WmGCSS_gFXO1_0D92YNoaQn73GDEV3AJ5dMoxkeud623tZH19A2tTb47t3sz6cTcYN7u0JRkdkiDsQUyb22IAk3M/s16000/ladyplymouthgeranium.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi03Pc2SPjmD_vbhc2Fu5wNA5VJpl7y8Ty_I57s10Q4O8pCGcMas-_7xLeDsEQs236aRVRnPjstExjWzU8knf7DDuOcLCzKTzSuE0KqxDeU86_ize5aWbWHYX690Dnm0-rfRLQc2nSWwis/s1067/deadplant+%25281%2529.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi03Pc2SPjmD_vbhc2Fu5wNA5VJpl7y8Ty_I57s10Q4O8pCGcMas-_7xLeDsEQs236aRVRnPjstExjWzU8knf7DDuOcLCzKTzSuE0KqxDeU86_ize5aWbWHYX690Dnm0-rfRLQc2nSWwis/w300-h400/deadplant+%25281%2529.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></div>I am accidentally terrible at growing alocasias, a beautiful tropical houseplant with what appears to be a lengthy list of finicky demands that must be met in order for them to flourish. I've read up. I've searched the internet. I've watered them more. I've watered them less. I've watered them more, but less frequently; and watered them less, but more frequently. I've watered them from below. I've watered them from above. I've misted them. I've kept their leaves clean. I've watered them with distilled water. I've watered them with room temperature water. I've inched them closer to the window. I've inched them further away from the window. I've praised them, named them, petted them, begged and pleaded with them, prayed for their little planty souls. They all come home, put out a few new leaves just to make me think I've got them figured out...and then slide into a slow death spiral I can't seem to pull them out of. It's maddening. <div> <div>I sometimes keep the dead bodies around to torture myself about the money I've wasted watching these things die on me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here's what they're supposed to look like, from the florist at my grocery store. I didn't bring this one home, because I'm beginning to feel like a serial murderer. I am bad news for you, plant babe. </div><div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWEdqA5t-06KPW5H8IOQQLw-FGAsNFlOfoEc_A0AVgXW_ARB4TkKg9Mc7AaUUy94BA9_HZMTv9AVw8Jkd6FJgl8Vjz0KZv_m6-hl1VhsOyD0S0x7bst5wG9-yry7Qg7pWQi53aivmxDy4/s1067/alocasia.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWEdqA5t-06KPW5H8IOQQLw-FGAsNFlOfoEc_A0AVgXW_ARB4TkKg9Mc7AaUUy94BA9_HZMTv9AVw8Jkd6FJgl8Vjz0KZv_m6-hl1VhsOyD0S0x7bst5wG9-yry7Qg7pWQi53aivmxDy4/s16000/alocasia.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div><div>Last summer I also managed to grow slimy, inedible cauliflower, overcrowd my entire vegetable garden to the point that it underproduced, and kill a rather expensive flowering mandevilla vine. We also decided we missed green beans, which we did not grow last summer, and can cut back on tomatoes, which we love, but that we are almost too good at growing. </div><div><br /></div><div>By Jan. 19, when my local greenhouse opens and I can go buy this year's supply of seed starting soil, I will have spent hours with the storybook side of this exercise as well as the honest assessment part, along with seed inventory, list making, sketching on paper, and making decisions half-driven by the cook that is me (leeks! squash! tarragon!) and also by that inner five-year-old (cool rocks! snapdragons! marigolds as big as your head!)</div><div><br /></div><div>Garden, I'll be ready for you when you wake up. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Things I'm doing right now: </b></div><div><br /></div><div>Reading a history book: <a href="https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/andrew-bridgeford/1066/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #38761d;">1066: The Hidden History in the Bayeux Tapestry, by Andrew Bridgeford</span></a><br /><br /><div>Enjoying a Facebook page where you can all-caps vent your spleen on its "Shouty Thursdays": <a href="https://www.facebook.com/talesofakitchenwitch" target="_blank"><span style="color: #38761d;">Tales of a Kitchen Witch</span></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Making calendula salve from <a href="https://homesteadandchill.com/homemade-calendula-salve-recipe/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #38761d;">Homestead and Chill</span></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div></div></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-37457866478157256222021-01-02T13:02:00.001-06:002021-01-02T13:02:28.506-06:00January 2021 <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5aCUG1FoUcMCb-akENvqy8gCZb7iHagEHM5ELo8p2DMvFGrr_-L2dcd7bZPKYb0g2VycH6soG7B2pEaGYzN8DFRgnGugROw35aZX5kZXHi6I0ljOXJMRVeRlwiiC4PvsfKBxzaK3anlk/s800/crochetsnowflake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="681" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5aCUG1FoUcMCb-akENvqy8gCZb7iHagEHM5ELo8p2DMvFGrr_-L2dcd7bZPKYb0g2VycH6soG7B2pEaGYzN8DFRgnGugROw35aZX5kZXHi6I0ljOXJMRVeRlwiiC4PvsfKBxzaK3anlk/s16000/crochetsnowflake.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>This household is in that vague, sleepy, weird, in-between time that happens post-holiday, made even weirder by the fact that nobody has had on a real pair of pants or gone to a proper office or classroom in months (I exaggerate only slightly), due to the pandemic's grinding on. Still, we've taken full advantage, with bowls of chili and casseroles of hot spinach dip, and naps, and movies (It's a Wonderful Life, Die Hard, Lord of the Rings marathons).</p><p>While everyone I knew seemed to embrace the holidays even more fully and earlier this year, as a way to forget the utter garbage that happened in 2020, I found myself with my old familiar reluctance to, as they say, get the party started. I have long known that a large part of my holiday scrooge-y-ness has to do with my introvert side: I find holiday stores, gatherings, music, and stuff all tend to put me in sensory overload without good coping mechanisms in place. </p><p>Didn't need the coping mechanisms much this year. "Family Christmas" involved driving to St. Paul, Eau Claire, and Cedar Rapids to deliver Christmas presents to the kids, giving them quick (masked) hugs, and driving back home, the most we were willing to risk to see our kids, even for a few minutes. Our Christmas dinner was the four people in the household around the kitchen table. Like so many other events in 2020, it felt incomplete and constrained, even for an introvert like me. I miss my people. </p><p>While I did put the tree away on New Year's Day, I'm leaving a few things as they are this year, at least for awhile. Some of my favorite Christmas decorations are not actually overtly Christmas, but more generally "winter," and I want them to hang around in January. Probably because the holidays did feel incomplete. Probably because winter is my hibernation time and I want to feel cozy. Probably because I'm a little lazy. Probably. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDt1D0Ko5GXsBgeJZEf0R85dawmymboEbyNIHaspe_oa-7dDX2uPFw9lR4Qn2I1KhPokHT_0QF5vGz16Lk2fzrXdwGJMVQjOpRk9lOjZp32Uyeb2_HlsVD_HweNqjrucXck0YxnZ5CZ7c/s800/holidaycandles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDt1D0Ko5GXsBgeJZEf0R85dawmymboEbyNIHaspe_oa-7dDX2uPFw9lR4Qn2I1KhPokHT_0QF5vGz16Lk2fzrXdwGJMVQjOpRk9lOjZp32Uyeb2_HlsVD_HweNqjrucXck0YxnZ5CZ7c/s16000/holidaycandles.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p>The mantel is garland, pine cones, and LED candles. For a person who really values authenticity, I'm mad for the fakery that is LED candles. You can get them with a remote switch to turn them all on at once, they add that soft golden glow one wants for long winter nights, and you can place them any old place and wander off from them like the menopause addled brain that you are and don't risk burning the house down. </p><p>I got a new wreath for the new front door this year, and it too has a Christmas-into-January vibe. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj1pdUP-DvZYSaCManONGWlLNWwtDRf2wQy5BtTL6IuvwIaUVJymZTh5fb-bc_WplVf2STg_Os_1D90nZ4cXtXRC66renEgiz72aLkkAueZDYTdlVMpnu-dLQ_HY0P1IR7nILP3Bb-iKU/s800/PXL_20210102_171249427+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="647" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj1pdUP-DvZYSaCManONGWlLNWwtDRf2wQy5BtTL6IuvwIaUVJymZTh5fb-bc_WplVf2STg_Os_1D90nZ4cXtXRC66renEgiz72aLkkAueZDYTdlVMpnu-dLQ_HY0P1IR7nILP3Bb-iKU/s16000/PXL_20210102_171249427+%25281%2529.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p>The last thing that's sticking around is actually overtly Christmas, but because it's chalkboard art I put a lot of work into, it stays for a few more weeks before I scrub it out for something new. It's out on the screen porch, cheering up an otherwise plain corner. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqioL2-1aSJ2a_VNe1Bocw1cFqV4w7CP4yTjyp_PUadjtBuUsSNvNtdhE__ldJQmXGTyH1oYG0MpOeqgwrfQfvkUpd-Nhyphenhypheni24KsTfpITVklmmwNRon1LVLSS2ryYtbrp0i1TI7jAZzXfA/s1067/PXL_20201224_175150720+%25281%2529+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="800" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqioL2-1aSJ2a_VNe1Bocw1cFqV4w7CP4yTjyp_PUadjtBuUsSNvNtdhE__ldJQmXGTyH1oYG0MpOeqgwrfQfvkUpd-Nhyphenhypheni24KsTfpITVklmmwNRon1LVLSS2ryYtbrp0i1TI7jAZzXfA/w480-h640/PXL_20201224_175150720+%25281%2529+%25281%2529.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p>Other stuff I'm doing right now: </p><p>Watching this: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FVb6EdKDBfU" target="_blank"><span style="color: #274e13;">The Trial of The Chicago 7</span></a></p><p>Reading this: <a href="https://medium.com/permaculturewomen/my-10-point-plan-for-feral-eldership-c3620e17e632"><span style="color: #274e13;">My 10-Point Plan for Feral Eldership</span></a></p><p>On the way from that link, I also found this: <a href="https://medium.com/@susanraffo/please-dont-call-yourself-an-empath-d8c8238f7baa" target="_blank"><span style="color: #274e13;">Please Don't Call Yourself an Empath</span></a></p><p>Amused by this: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CJd9Jgjni0M/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #274e13;">New Yorker cartoon</span></a></p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-81990015639848762412020-08-29T11:16:00.000-05:002020-08-29T11:16:05.712-05:00Flattened<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL8mQrxJgwuxU0zZDyPHlNQ7SUsQqCr5aJUv3VDiIh7sUha7wlNtn1J3Hxq9421WJT4cxeXm2M9PaNGD8d1SZVv9FnQGMS2cU169yrgYUo8MDMaZsFiDY1qpxBvKhMmaS5iljZhyw9wEk/s800/117722327_10158839611592268_8144949991284841545_o.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="379" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL8mQrxJgwuxU0zZDyPHlNQ7SUsQqCr5aJUv3VDiIh7sUha7wlNtn1J3Hxq9421WJT4cxeXm2M9PaNGD8d1SZVv9FnQGMS2cU169yrgYUo8MDMaZsFiDY1qpxBvKhMmaS5iljZhyw9wEk/d/117722327_10158839611592268_8144949991284841545_o.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Iowans felt the way the corn looked. Image Iowa State University Extension and Outreach. <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>On August 10, a straight line storm howled through Iowa, the state where I live. Meteorologists called it a derecho, a word for a widespread and long-lived straight-line storm. I had never heard the word before, even as a life-long Midwesterner who's seen her fair share of scary storms; but Wikipedia assures me that the term has been in use since the late 19th century. </p><p>In 2020, it meant winds equivalent to a category 4 hurricane with no time to prepare. I had been walking around the neighborhood in the morning before the storm hit; thunderstorms had been predicted for that afternoon and I wanted to get my walk in before the weather turned. When I got back I'd also paced around our yard, checking the tomato plants, puttering, and trying to delay the start of my work day.</p><p>There is a moment before a bad storm when birds and insects stop. Stop moving, stop singing, stop whirring. If you are paying attention, it is one of the most ominous silences in Creation. It made me lift my face to the western sky, where there was a bank of fast-moving darkness heading our way. I went inside, and half an hour later, the storm hit my town. </p><p>In Iowa there is a standard line of dark humor about the country rube who is too dumb to be scared, who watches tornadoes and hailstorms from his front porch, when all common sense and storm sirens and meteorologists are telling us we should be in our basements. But the plain truth is that we are all that dumb rube. I think Iowans feel that we need to "keep an eye on it." As though we could prevent it just by keeping watch. As though it is somehow likely to be worse when we can't see it, if we're hidden in a dark cellar corner between the boxes of Christmas decorations and the shelf of surplus canned goods. It's a perverse kind of courage. Tom and I played the part, watching from the front living room window, while transformers blew, trees cracked apart, and our street ran in full flood. As soon as the storm was done in the central part of the state, it gathered strength and blew full force into the eastern part of the state, finally petering out somewhere in Illinois.</p><p>The result was an estimated quarter of a million households without power in a state with approximately three million residents, and 10 million acres of destroyed crops, mostly corn and soybeans, but others as well. Split and crumpled grain bins. Thousands of downed or damaged trees. Wrecked homes. </p><p>Weeks later, communities in Iowa are still digging out. It would be more than enough in a good year. And by good year, I mean any year not this one. But here we are. Iowans are looking at a physical manifestation of all that's happening to our nation, <i>as well as,</i> you know, what's happening to our nation. That's some shit, people. It flattened us like it flattened the corn stalks. </p><p>Also weeks later, we have other layers piled on the flat surface of our physical destruction. News that Iowa's numbers in the pandemic have reached new and alarming heights. News that multiple school districts are in a legal fight with the governor's office over the right to protect their students and teachers from the risks of the pandemic. News that the executive office of our nation intends to reallocate funds from FEMA to other uses, funds that we desperately need right now in our state, and will not be getting. News that the federal aid package approved for Iowa was too small, and included no aid to homeowners or farmers, the very people who suffered the most damage. News that unemployment here took another big bump as a result of the storm damage. News that elsewhere in the Midwest, racial protest rages on and has cost people their lives. </p><p>It's a lot of layers. Layers of hardship, pressed down with more on top, and no sign of it ending soon. It makes me reconsider that perhaps we don't want to keep an eye on it anymore, and that it would be better to ride this (the storm, the country's political crises, the economy, the pandemic) out in the aforementioned basement, dusty Christmas decorations and cans of green beans be damned. But that would also be sinking beneath the acreage of all this flattening, all these suffocating layers. That seems as though it might be fatal, no matter how tired and pained we might be. Unlike the country rube, I am plenty scared of the flattened landscape of my state, my country, my people. But I will continue to keep an unflinching eye on it, even so. I may not be able to prevent it by keeping watch, but I will be witness, and that is often how one finds the fortitude to stand back up again. </p>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-79731964283684133722020-08-06T22:14:00.002-05:002020-08-06T22:14:59.735-05:00August Serving Suggestion: BLT Sandwich<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjEDBxWg7VMaumJ9rlItD0xe_3UjfqaPnM6Smy-xFT0TQm5RHFr78yqjyozypzr1sH3U627bia7K02TEduAkib9SnYctTBje-7UZnAOr9S0bvyxw3wjdGdsjaU90iWwUR5N1L8eAgddxU/s800/blt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="530" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjEDBxWg7VMaumJ9rlItD0xe_3UjfqaPnM6Smy-xFT0TQm5RHFr78yqjyozypzr1sH3U627bia7K02TEduAkib9SnYctTBje-7UZnAOr9S0bvyxw3wjdGdsjaU90iWwUR5N1L8eAgddxU/d/blt.jpg" /></a></div><div><br /></div>On packages of the nonsense they sell as food in grocery stores (rice cakes, ranch dressing, Count Chocula), they often use the term "serving suggestion." For food conglomerates, it's a legal disclaimer. For me, it's that I don't consider writing about a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich to be a recipe. I don't really consider this cooking. I'm not talking about measured amounts of anything-- and if you can't figure out how to make a sandwich at the same age you should be able to read this sentence, I can't help you.<br />
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Writers who are more hip than I (read: nearly all of them) might speak of "curating" ingredients. I kinda hate that word being used unless you work for an art gallery or a museum...and we're talking about a <i>sandwich, </i>for crying out loud. But, the BLT is nearly worthy of that kind of particularity, if not in the ingredients list, at least in the how and where they assemble-- a kind of feng shui of pork fat, summer heat, and vegetable garden excess. It's a very specific experience. <div><br /></div><div>It's best for supper, not lunch. It's a kitchen sandwich. I've never had a good BLT at a restaurant. Never. Better places will destroy a BLT with "improvements" like pepper bacon and arugula and herbal mayonnaises. Chain restaurants always have weirdly dry and tasteless tomatoes, the harried teen boy in the back kitchen won't toast the bread precisely the way you like it, and they'll be stingy with the bacon. Nope, nope, nope. Kitchen is best. So much so, it's part of my serving suggestion.<br />
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For one BLT sandwich, you need six things:</div><div><br />
1. Your own kitchen. Ideally, you've come in from a few hours of yard work, you've got dirt on your bare feet, and you're not really sure what to have for supper. But you have a shit-ton of tomatoes from the garden sitting on your counter you don't know what else to do with, and you're too tired for anything more ambitious. If there are other people involved, they are the ones who have seen you every damned summer Saturday in your paint-stained Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt and still love you anyway (but wish you would go take a shower, like, right now). You know that the knife that slices the tomatoes best is in that drawer over there. The skillet that fries the bacon just the right shade of crispy is within reach. You don't have to wash your feet or comb your hair or find the car keys to get this sandwich. <br />
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2. You could say about bacon what is often said about pizza and sex; even when it isn't that good, it isn't bad. Trying to be fancy about bacon is ironic. It's a blue collar food; it's got a job to do and it is going to do it as the earthy base layer of the sandwich. I've used store brands. I've used the good stuff you can get at a decent butcher counter. I like the thick cuts for crisp/chewy bacon, but can appreciate the position of people who prefer thin and crunchy. Either way, the whole point of bacon is the smoke, fat, and salt. </div><div><br /></div><div>3. Iceberg lettuce. I know. I once denigrated iceberg lettuce as the salad of my grandmothers, but what was I thinking? Grandmas are smarter than we are; that's how they get to be grandmas. Iceberg lettuce has its place and it is as the capital L in the BLT. Its layers of cold, sweet, and crunchy are the yin to the bacon's yang. You can't really be fancy about iceberg. You can't grow it either, and you shouldn't have to-- grocery stores on Mars have iceberg lettuce. And unlike the sissy baby boutique greens that we grandchildren have wasted our hipster spending money on, iceberg lettuce will last forever in the bottom of your produce drawer. Or at least until the next time you make BLTs, which will be soon with as many tomatoes as you have to get through. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgymtBiSVqJKTCPnVvNew6x8IA4OPtljCdKzKt7az-Np9qOmWQiEQ9WWA_Z3TUpxmNv94Ik09pAGO_2JNGpMR5te_GlyCHWclxGrdI1Fy_CJMmfXzbPuwKLa5EllXPe7aFhsHBai88FofE/s800/IMG_20200805_180223+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="593" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgymtBiSVqJKTCPnVvNew6x8IA4OPtljCdKzKt7az-Np9qOmWQiEQ9WWA_Z3TUpxmNv94Ik09pAGO_2JNGpMR5te_GlyCHWclxGrdI1Fy_CJMmfXzbPuwKLa5EllXPe7aFhsHBai88FofE/d/IMG_20200805_180223+%25281%2529.jpg" /></a></div><div>
4. Tomatoes. I think of the BLT as the Sandwich of August, because that's when I have tomatoes from my own garden. I put a lot of thought and planning into growing my tomatoes, starting seed indoors in February, just so that I can have this particular sandwich in this particular month. Look at that bad boy: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCx0gnBv5M9NaHZoey-_C-6ab8D88hD2_Ag_D4JfE4qAd4qNyk__iZdObaxWYIANeoQWgSNf_reMEsZPjgbhhjjd_fkiVqIstpUxC46_Hp3V6OyGBtgPlGNeM3Gy2H7izCY-y2ezcHOeU/s800/IMG_20200805_180316+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCx0gnBv5M9NaHZoey-_C-6ab8D88hD2_Ag_D4JfE4qAd4qNyk__iZdObaxWYIANeoQWgSNf_reMEsZPjgbhhjjd_fkiVqIstpUxC46_Hp3V6OyGBtgPlGNeM3Gy2H7izCY-y2ezcHOeU/d/IMG_20200805_180316+%25281%2529.jpg" /></a></div><div>This one weighed over a pound, and a single slice made a whole sandwich. There are, in any given August, about eleventy-billion of these things growing right outside my back door. There are few better ways to which they could be put when they are this perfect. And by perfect I mean that the juice from the tomato will soak your bread, run down your wrists, and require multiple napkins. </div><div><br /></div><div>5. Mayonnaise. The mayo isn't part of the acronym, but it should be. BLTM. I have my strongest opinions about the mayonnaise. First of all: obviously pro-mayo. If you live east of the Rockies, it's Hellman's; if you live west, it's Best Foods. If you live south, I'll let you folks have your Duke's. It's a fine mayo and we've got bigger things as a country to argue about. Kraft people, you're excused from the conversation. And Miracle Whip people? Satan get behind me. As for getting it on the sandwich-- load up. This is no time for halfway measures. </div><div>
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6. Toast. As a snob in general about bread, you would think that I would be a snob about it when it comes to BLTs. But really it's just a vehicle for getting the BLT (and M) combination from plate to face. Honestly, almost anything will do as long as it's toasted and not too weirdly flavored. I've used hamburger buns when out of sliced bread. I've had a pretty darn good BLT in a pita pocket. I like multigrain bread best, but my husband likes white. You can be fancy about the bread in a way that you really can't be about bacon, but the truth of the matter is that no matter how awesome the bread, the bacon grease and the messy tomato and the Grandma lettuce and the kitchen table and your Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt will drag this right back down to the proletariat. And that's okay. Better than okay, because you have a BLT sandwich. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-74334475963423768792020-07-19T23:19:00.003-05:002020-07-19T23:31:09.660-05:00This post should make anyone feel better about their half-done renovationRenovations are supposed to have a start date and end date, right? A before and after. A glorious reveal. <div><br /></div><div>This post will contain none of those. Instead, I will present you with during, during, during, and, to top it all off, some more during. Because that's how renovations go around here. </div><div><br /></div><div>The photo below right is probably the best my kitchen has ever looked in its most recent incarnation. Not saying there's anything wrong with it; there wasn't. I'd moved into my house, put a brand new Formica countertop on refinished 1960s-70s era maple cabinets, painted, and....well. Not much else. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6RSr8M6FfbpAeDNIb0eghVETdxQC3T-2Gw_p5XR4N5-d-CEJIMvSrrLew5HNfTKBixwxehf-5YDIpLdCheiSMrIoPNJsPAqdDv-s15va4E-MoaaVL-ch-nwPNFMKT7T349ahxL4pRTbU/s689/west+side+kitchen+vert.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="689" data-original-width="500" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6RSr8M6FfbpAeDNIb0eghVETdxQC3T-2Gw_p5XR4N5-d-CEJIMvSrrLew5HNfTKBixwxehf-5YDIpLdCheiSMrIoPNJsPAqdDv-s15va4E-MoaaVL-ch-nwPNFMKT7T349ahxL4pRTbU/w363-h500/west+side+kitchen+vert.jpg" width="363" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I was at that time a single parent trying to raise four boys and fix up a house that needed more attention (and of course money) than I could give it. So many things (kids, broken water heaters, yards, jobs) were desperate for my attention that something had to give. Kitchens being the center all things-- meals and homework and craft projects and bill paying and board games-- there's never a good time to have your kitchen all torn up. So I just didn't bother.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had a list though. I'm good at making long, day-dreamy, expensive lists full of the things I'd like to do to a room. </div><div><br /></div><div>That was back in 2012. Eight whole years ago. It seems at the same time an eternity, and a few wild seconds. You'd think that in that span of time I'd have ticked off a majority of the boxes on that list. </div><div><br /></div><div>Nope. </div><div><br /></div><div>The kitchen pretty much has looked the same ever since I put the paintbrush down in the summer of 2012. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the summer of 2014 my sliding glass door cracked, at a time when money was tight. (I'm trying to remember a time when money wasn't tight.) It waited months, until the spring of 2015, before I was able to get a new one installed. Living with it even for a few months was really discouraging for me. I'd spent so much time and some hard earned cash to make it be basically okay looking and functional, and it seemed like a huge step backward. </div><div><br /></div><div>In this collage photo, on the left is the half of the broken sliding glass door. On the right, the newly installed one. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDTkJPTbrFLytgs6gHHBqygLiTolxwbDzUCmVIR6NCnIc9jF4mH9vO976bqDA1Jd1mH5hpbbhMeYs48AcJcSfYA3GG8H-LHFr6n5FXSeNhjUbet3qeljhQcuuHZMvxINws8PmE0MBjgzk/s800/8+x+10+in.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="544" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDTkJPTbrFLytgs6gHHBqygLiTolxwbDzUCmVIR6NCnIc9jF4mH9vO976bqDA1Jd1mH5hpbbhMeYs48AcJcSfYA3GG8H-LHFr6n5FXSeNhjUbet3qeljhQcuuHZMvxINws8PmE0MBjgzk/d/8+x+10+in.jpg" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I was supposed to have painted the trim and sliding door frame on the new install. That also hasn't happened yet. Five years. I suppose that gives you an idea how much I hate painting trim. </div><div><br /></div><div>One of the up sides, if you can call it that, of living a long time with a DIY list while you DDI (Don't Do It) is that you are usually pretty darn sure what isn't working in the space by the time you finally get around to crossing an item off the list. </div><div><br /></div><div>The big ticket item on that list for this room of our 1939 house was the windows. The window over the sink, and big one in the eat-in area were 70s-era casements. They were poorly installed and poor quality, which meant the kitchen was freezing in the winter, and roasting hot during the summer (the kitchen is on the northwest corner of the house). The crank mechanisms didn't work very well any more either, and screens were missing. Over the sink, one of the panes was replaced with plexiglass, which was clouded and scratched. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH58t05E1gquFWo6LGgCd8oST5s1mnHrzvGo8cQqCe591A2KZb4Dv_NXM6b22bPQgnAFPvQVr8qaey8rBoKFbGoB4-IIUhNYnjBHI3GVAAgteDzWMFl9IKlUrsIymmRzoew89bl9qFOJs/s750/full+view+north+kitchen.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="500" height="781" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH58t05E1gquFWo6LGgCd8oST5s1mnHrzvGo8cQqCe591A2KZb4Dv_NXM6b22bPQgnAFPvQVr8qaey8rBoKFbGoB4-IIUhNYnjBHI3GVAAgteDzWMFl9IKlUrsIymmRzoew89bl9qFOJs/w520-h781/full+view+north+kitchen.jpg" width="520" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Those 70s-era fabric curtains were wool, lined on the inside with a heavy felt backing. In the winter they kept out the drafts, in the summer, some of the heat. </div><div><br /></div><div>Over on the aesthetic side, the windows were ugly. They didn't match the windows in the rest of the house, which are white eight-over-eight or six-over-six double hung windows. And the dark brown trim seemed to trap the light right at the windows, never getting into the room. </div><div><br /></div><div>This year, finally, we used our tax return to fund window replacement. Tom decided that he didn't want to do the install, so we hired it done. This turned out to be a magnificent decision for the welfare of our sanity and our marriage (which are, as you might guess, unavoidably related to each other). </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwhDGgUmyXmM4-Q7RQ39y9XWiEAes_Q-V1CN0ByBUSt8oB_HxvEYlAALRoiu8M2pKXauzKT3jasE5wxBt3yK7mdA1FS8icNdfjGWeKl4XzxRPqCfbmW6KSz2lkaG728UVRMSepuO_jelI/s800/IMG_20200718_174359+%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwhDGgUmyXmM4-Q7RQ39y9XWiEAes_Q-V1CN0ByBUSt8oB_HxvEYlAALRoiu8M2pKXauzKT3jasE5wxBt3yK7mdA1FS8icNdfjGWeKl4XzxRPqCfbmW6KSz2lkaG728UVRMSepuO_jelI/d/IMG_20200718_174359+%25281%2529.jpg" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>These are Marvin fiberglass windows, with wood trim that still needs painting, but matches the trim in the rest of the house in design. The white color bounces tons more light into the room, and makes the space seem bigger. The sashes tilt in for cleaning. Everything about them is sleek and bright and smoothly gliding, basically everything our janky old windows were not. </div><div><br /></div><div>Over the sink the new window does an impressive job keeping the sun from heating up the kitchen in <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhkX9qyA38WdVEN4oAk21YDh8K4XIjfV0lqZomPDZSmfLKu8xYe-_1AEORoD2qD4PjwmWvOzq8-5lz6xIwfdQE6NfmKLvsdopcxw8O2rqhL_07bmCFSDiGDyVE_HOi-zYbM_zEiiE1b-g/s1067/IMG_20200719_212155+%25281%2529.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhkX9qyA38WdVEN4oAk21YDh8K4XIjfV0lqZomPDZSmfLKu8xYe-_1AEORoD2qD4PjwmWvOzq8-5lz6xIwfdQE6NfmKLvsdopcxw8O2rqhL_07bmCFSDiGDyVE_HOi-zYbM_zEiiE1b-g/s320/IMG_20200719_212155+%25281%2529.jpg" /></a></div>the afternoon, even without a curtain or blind. And while I did not request it, the windowsill is deep enough to host ceramic chicken planters. I'm shocked that Marvin did not advertise this feature in their full-color brochure, but you can see I wasted no time in claiming some windowsill territory for my poultry (and houseplant) shenanigans. </div><div><br /></div><div>Eight years later, I'm not much closer to "after" or "reveal" with the kitchen, but these windows made such a huge difference that we feel a bit more energized about the possibilities. At any rate, we're going to bask in the joy of newness and accomplishment while we consider where we go next, which is: </div><div><br /></div><div>Paint. The new trim needs to be painted. While we're at that, we should paint the sliding glass door trim. It has also occurred to me during the last eight years that while I like the color green, the shade I chose for this room is too dark. After eight years it's looking pretty tired, and I admit I'm tired of it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Dishwasher. The dishwasher was old when I moved in, nine years ago. I think it's probably about 137 in human years, and has reached the unfortunate stage where it removes the food from the plates and puts it on the silverware. Basically, it's overdue for a meltdown, which, following Appliance Law, occurs during the least convenient moment (Thanksgiving, in a dishwasher's case). I see a Labor Day appliance sale in my future. </div><div><br /></div><div>Floor. I had ambitions about the floor when I moved in, in 2011. It was disgusting then. It has reached a nadir, but it's another big ticket item in a year full of them. It will probably have to wait. But will it be another five to eight years before a big change in our kitchen? </div><div><br /></div><div>Not if the dishwasher has anything to say about it. </div><div><br /></div></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-26753686166890842932020-07-12T21:18:00.002-05:002020-07-12T21:58:53.520-05:00Hate the wabbits, eat the squash. It's July in Iowa. Gardening, it turns out, is an ongoing lesson in the fact that you cannot control Nature.<div><br /></div><div>It's always in July that some switch is flipped, and the heat and humidity that is an Iowa summer comes steaming down. It's the seasonal trait that makes us known for our corn. Iowans wear shorts, sweat through our deodorant by 10 a.m., drink Arnold Palmers by the gallon, consider Dairy Queen drive thru a medical necessity, and try to move slowly. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's about this time, too, because of that humid heat, that the garden becomes more bristling with life than even the spring. The cucumber vines grow six inches or more a day. (It's true. I measured.) The lawn needs mowing every three days. Everything looks shaggy and a bit too much, like a woman who's only managed a single haircut in the seven months of this pandemic year. (That would be the head gardener. That would be me.) Everything needs weeding or trimming or harvesting. </div><div><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPPco4CdxaKRToF8Z-9JEQSbr1TT5fytSEhNwHgNT1HGV-Mbnq0Kpr_lWrMUBiPEaxUqY4osy_ENGlvO4_lC-QbBAKYCxkc8VMX1WzzK5TUmWk1irbY_gE-Gd9rrpuupR-UW5adfe9alo/s650/Julygarden.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="650" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPPco4CdxaKRToF8Z-9JEQSbr1TT5fytSEhNwHgNT1HGV-Mbnq0Kpr_lWrMUBiPEaxUqY4osy_ENGlvO4_lC-QbBAKYCxkc8VMX1WzzK5TUmWk1irbY_gE-Gd9rrpuupR-UW5adfe9alo/s320/Julygarden.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div>I cannot control the rabbits. Heck, the rabbits cannot control the rabbits; their reproductive prowess is already legendary. I garden in a mid-sized Midwestern college town, where the term "urban" is used in the mildest of senses; it's no concrete wasteland. We have older homes set close together, but people have more or less landscaped properties and there are city parks with trees and paths through wildflowers and prairies. It's lovely for its citizens, but also for the rabbits, who take advantage of this as a 24/7 free salad bar. </div><div><br /></div><div>Don't tell me they're cute. I'm not buying it. With no real predators, they maniacally chew through my hostas, my lilies, my marigolds, my zinnias, my dahlias, my hydrangeas. The only reason they don't make off with the vegetable garden entirely is that it is a raised bed further topped by a two-foot high fence, a kind of horticultural West Berlin. Then the rabbits have flagrant, frenzied sex on my lawn, raise dozens of hungry babies, and the carnage to my landscape intensifies. Nothing seems to slow them down, and my early efforts to live trap them and relocate them was short-lived; they got too smart to fall for it. So now I have smart, hungry, sex-crazed rabbits eating and procreating, and I'm pretty sure they are laughing little demonic bunny laughs every time I come home from the nursery with more fodder (literally) for their evil world domination plans. Elmer Fudd sang about killing the wabbits. I wish something would; owls, foxes, hawks, and feral cats, where are you?</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuNBn0zmsL1Xoq1kVpc7romKZz-pSYd2Utt3vnff7v65aGACW-avYzS6Mh1Ud74u7GyW50LzMkQ0XUCfLKHHWNxH7VGhtSMcO60ATnaf2u9DipYKPgSsDr5siL_Kzel6RfiSo7TRuOw28/s800/IMG_20200712_180933.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="586" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuNBn0zmsL1Xoq1kVpc7romKZz-pSYd2Utt3vnff7v65aGACW-avYzS6Mh1Ud74u7GyW50LzMkQ0XUCfLKHHWNxH7VGhtSMcO60ATnaf2u9DipYKPgSsDr5siL_Kzel6RfiSo7TRuOw28/w781-h586/IMG_20200712_180933.jpg" width="781" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was a hosta, before the toothy little mammals got to it. </td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>In West Berlin, er, the vegetable patch, I have summer squash. "Having" summer squash is not the same as growing it or eating it. Summer squash is a lot like life. It is easy. Until it's hard. And then it's really, really hard. And sometimes it's all or nothing, which also sucks. </div><div><br /></div><div>Starting squash from seed is ridiculously easy. It's one of the seeds they start in paper cups in kindergarten classes, because dirt + water + squash seed + sunshine = sproing! An itty bitty little squash plant. It lures you in that way, with its charm and simplicity. </div><div><br /></div><div>However, every other summer I have been able to grow zucchini or patty pan or yellow squash, I have had beautifully healthy plants with loads of blooms. Some of those years, the plant even gave me a squash or two, just to be a tease. To lift me up to that smug place where gardeners think, "I am a goddess of all things green; behold my produce." We are precisely at that point in this annual exercise of hope and, sometimes, denial. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ8H80ykC-xBVCiYbHXTNyriO1MQ6mbb2q0qIgljg7_PmATLe_bd5NqnYa7UxU0_3d1ltgCFLyOJJ5OmYSo-8hFHzvifC7Jqm1PYSwmwA9naOcR3fyfaQmzt9fRCYqozM6MAG_Mac7gfU/s800/IMG_20200712_194457.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ8H80ykC-xBVCiYbHXTNyriO1MQ6mbb2q0qIgljg7_PmATLe_bd5NqnYa7UxU0_3d1ltgCFLyOJJ5OmYSo-8hFHzvifC7Jqm1PYSwmwA9naOcR3fyfaQmzt9fRCYqozM6MAG_Mac7gfU/d/IMG_20200712_194457.jpg" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>It is at this point that a tiny little caterpillar known as a squash vine borer is born, burrows its way into the juicy thick stalks of my pride and joy. I didn't notice the adult moth hovering over my veggies earlier. I definitely didn't notice the teeny little brown egg clusters the moth laid on the underside of the leaves. And then one day the entire plant goes limp. I think it's heat stress, but it's worse than that, the borers have demolished my squash vines from the inside out, and all those baby squash are not going to grow up to see my dinner plate. It is over. It is compost heap. It is maddening. </div><div><br /></div><div>Or, the exact opposite happens. Somehow, through a combination of old folklore (wrap the part of the stem emerging from the earth in aluminum foil), worried examination (is that brown spot an egg? Or is it dirt?), application of organic pesticides, pure dumb luck, or the laser beam of my focused anxiety, the squash plants somehow make it through the infestation, and thrive. They become the verdant version of the rabbits, and I am stacking up squash on the kitchen counter in disorganized pyramids. So. much. squash. We eat it grilled and in kabobs, sliced raw with hummus, covered in tomato sauce and cheese, sautéed with butter and tarragon, baked into lasagna, diced into vinegary salads, and yes, even made into zucchini noodles (I will not ever say zoodles, because I am a grown-ass woman and I have standards.) Every night I go into the garden with my basket, and return with more gold and green wealth, out of only two plants that are falling apart in the business of making squash babies. We share our squash with family. We share with neighbors. We share with friends. We share with coworkers. </div><div><br /></div><div>We don't share with the rabbits. To hell with them. </div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-66468083974858288102020-06-14T22:45:00.001-05:002020-06-14T22:45:09.991-05:00Some Things A Dumb White Lady Learned on Instagram<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqjYFBGE1NgPOzV5ZGVQlFQ0ggn70ycGeS-D8hFnCD2a7cZDbBJzvgM_RDYkE-DpJV5nT5C892qjRLOh1ytE5P_AIeqUPJaJQ3ynY3qOxq1YtseoqcjVLPyOBLfR6OC-d0XkqP88l55wU/s800/Insta+grid.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqjYFBGE1NgPOzV5ZGVQlFQ0ggn70ycGeS-D8hFnCD2a7cZDbBJzvgM_RDYkE-DpJV5nT5C892qjRLOh1ytE5P_AIeqUPJaJQ3ynY3qOxq1YtseoqcjVLPyOBLfR6OC-d0XkqP88l55wU/d/Insta+grid.jpg" /></a></div><div>Me. I'm the Dumb White Lady. Learning new things on Instagram.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>I know my voice as a relatively sheltered, middle-class, middle-aged white woman is not a relevant one to black folks. Most of the dozens I follow on Instagram are influencers, have thousands of followers, and don't need my opinion or my support to elevate their voices. That's really not where I can contribute. </div><div><div><br /></div><div>On the other hand, I am, in my dumb-white-ladyness, well versed in the dumbness of other white ladies. And I have to say to my fellow kind: you have all lost your damn minds. </div></div></div><div><br /></div><div>Let me start at the beginning. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm on Instagram. I myself post mostly about garden stuff there, but not regularly. I don't have a huge amount of followers; I am definitely <i>not</i> an influencer. I don't have my blog-connected-to-the-FB-connected-to-the-'Gram-connected-to-the-Twitter-machine. Not because I don't know how, but because I don't care. I don't have a unified personal brand or whatever they're calling it these days, and if I did it would probably be "haphazard hootenanny of anxiety." Besides, my social media accounts aren't for gaining followers.</div><div><br /></div><div>The purpose of Instagram for me? A happy place with pretty pictures. Yep. When my whole day has gone to shit in face mask sweats and work emails and unexpected bills and sullen smelly teenage boys-- then I go to Instagram to look at photos that afford me a little free escapism. I look at pictures of baby cows, and castles in Scotland, and watch videos of Sir Patrick Stewart reading sonnets, and Stanley Tucci making quarantine cocktails. The Tooch making drinks, y'all. Some days you just need that kind of smooth in your life. </div><div><br /></div><div>I follow a lot of accounts, many of them by women or about women or that appeal to women. There are a whole lot of flower farmers, houseplant enthusiasts, lifestyle magazines, National Parks, public gardens, travel bloggers, artists, actors, and photographers I follow because I admire their work, their creativity, or the thoughts, things, and places they share. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I realize, like I once thought any <i>rational</i> person should, that Instagram is composed of real women with real lives, which are not always perfect, or pretty. Women I follow post surprisingly vulnerable narratives on their public Instagram accounts along with all those beautiful images. About struggles with eating disorders. About struggling to keep a small business afloat. About struggling with infertility. About struggling with a seriously ill child, a death in the family, mental health, addiction, crop failures, job losses, health problems, sick pets. It's all in there. The struggles. </div><div><br /></div><div>That's because, even if I'm following some account for the luminous photos of flowers or the mouth-watering dessert recipes, the platform belongs to that person. It's their narrative. If they need to interrupt houseplant posts to talk about the fact their favorite cat just died, that's something that they can do. It's <i>their </i>story. They get to tell it on <i>their </i>platform. They don't owe me a certain narrative just because I expect it. Stories change all the time. That's how life is for everybody. </div><div><br /></div><div>Or at least, I naively assumed that was understood widely, among, you know. Decent humans. I thought that NO ONE would, for example, comment on an Instagram post, saying, "you know, I follow this account for the beautiful flowers, but if you're going to keep mooning on about your miscarriage, you can count me out." Right? No one would say that. No one in their right mind would say that because that would mean they are an incredibly self-involved, rude, and miserable cow. </div><div><br /></div><div>Did that paragraph up-hill from this one, with the (hopefully fictional) example about the miscarriage, make you gasp a little in outrage that someone could be so cruel? And yet here we are, doing essentially the same thing in the context of the homicide of a black man-- white women being incredibly self-involved, rude, and miserable cows. </div><div><br /></div><div>A few weeks ago, African Americans saw a <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/31/us/george-floyd-investigation.html">black man's life snuffed out</a>-- a man who could have been their son, their brother, their daddy, and who, by the way, WAS a son, a brother, and a daddy. The act itself was sickening in its own right. The fact that it was just another horrifying death in a long, deep history of racism...well, that's just heavy. Heavy as lead. Heavy beyond people's ability to bear. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is an enormous loss. It is a trauma inflicted not only on that man's family, but on a group of people as a whole. Black Americans are rightfully aggrieved and outraged. That grief and outrage triggered protests around the world, some of them peaceful, and some aggravated by police violence, looting, and outside agitators. It sparked what we are in the middle of right now, a national conversation about how we can address our country's legacy of racism. </div><div><br /></div><div>On Instagram, lots of accounts, both organizational and personal, were trying to figure out how to enter this conversation. Some wanted to acknowledge people's pain. Some wanted to offer comfort. Some wanted to make clear that they were an ally. Some wanted to help in any way they could. On Instagram and elsewhere, this took the form of efforts like <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blackout_Tuesday" target="_blank">Blackout Tuesday</a>, which was an attempt to express solidarity with the Black Lives Matter movement, to express being an ally in the search for racial justice. Accounts from <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CA70auwn5ov/">lifestyle magazines</a> to <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CA7RrZvnjEc/" target="_blank">baking bloggers</a> joined in. Some didn't, for reasons that were also about being an ally, and out of <a href="https://www.nbcnews.com/think/opinion/blackout-tuesday-instagram-was-teachable-moment-allies-me-ncna1225961" target="_blank">concern for keyboard activism</a> (I was one of those).</div><div><br /></div><div>The reaction of white ladies blew me away. Especially on the Instagram accounts that were owned by other white women. It's as if they expected, at some level, for the conversation to remain exclusive of all that (clutches pearls) unpleasantness. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Unfollow." </div><div><div><div>"You should stick to cooking. No politics." </div><div>"I'll unfollow if I have to. I don't come here for this crap."</div></div><div>"I'm done here for good if this is going to be a regular topic" </div><div><br /></div><div>Apparently the blondest, lipstick-wearingest, Jesus-fearingest, fur-baby spoiling, front-door decor obsessed, white woman is sweet as she can be, until you sully the perfection of her social media days with some else's truth. How dare you interrupt her quest for the perfect frosé recipe with anything that might make her feel uncomfy on her thoughtfully curated comfy couch? Especially, especially, <i>especially</i>, if the person posting this truth is another white woman herself. I mean. <i>The nerve</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>If you can't keep the topic to puppies and (non-LGTBQ+) rainbows, they warn, they are leaving, with a capital 'L', with a flounce and a nose in the air. As if their very presence was what made someone else's story valid. As if their departure signified how wrong someone else's story must be. As if they have the right to approve of narratives that don't belong to them. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>Let me point out again: <i>that's how they were behaving on Instagram accounts belonging to other white women. </i>Not on the accounts of black women (as far as I know, though frankly I would not be at all surprised). I had to sit with this awhile. It was hard for me to understand. First, it seemed cowardly. And it is. Clearly, these women calculate where they can get away with spilling the acid of their disapproval.</div><div><br /></div><div>They expect the world to be a white space for them. All their interests, be it baking, or home decor, or world travel, or pretty pictures of their favorite flowers, are supposed to be enjoyed in a space where other people's stories cannot intrude, especially if they are unpleasant, and especially if they make white women out to be at all complicit in that unpleasantness. How threatening it must be for them to have other white women validating the voices of black experience. Even if we are (and we most <i>certainly</i> are) stumbling around and getting it wrong and doing all sorts of dumb white lady stuff, the fact that we are trying (however badly) to hear what black people are telling us, threatens the other white ladies in the room, who just assumed that everyone in the (white) club understood the unspoken rules. It threatens them a lot. </div><div><br /></div><div>That's why they need to dominate the narrative everywhere they go. Not just in their own space, but in other people's as well. Black people's most certainly. But also by extension any white woman who would use her platform in alliance with black people. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's not a good look, white ladies. Announcing your departure from someone else's space like You Are the Queen of All That, pretty much proves every point ever made about white fragility. And if a fellow dumb white lady can (now, finally) see that, it outlines for those of us who are trying to be allies where the work needs to be done. It lets us know when we need to smack you like a Lutheran mom in church on Sunday. Be quiet; someone else is speaking. And it isn't all about you. </div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-84566448218335002782020-05-30T14:25:00.001-05:002020-05-30T14:25:37.931-05:00Heavenly Shades of Petals Falling, it's Iris Time<br />
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One of the upsides of the work from home status has been the ability to step outside, into my garden, any time I want. Usually I work in a windowless office that requires a long hallway walk and two sets of heavy double doors to get to any sunlight, and while our university campus is beautiful, it's just not the same as having ready access to the little corner of the outdoor world you call your own.<br />
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This year, the iris are spectacular, and within 20 paces of petting distance from my desk chair. Do you pet flowers? I do. Iris are particularly nice for flower petting, because you have that marvelous contrast between the fuzzy bits (so soft), and the smooth ruffles of the petals (so silky).<br />
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My iris bed was enlarged last fall, when I lifted an entire bed of daylilies in our perennial bed, and bumped them to the front, near the sidewalk. It seemed like a better place for the daylilies, where the clumps will eventually crowd out weeds, and the flowers are on stalks light and airy enough to see through. That left more room for iris in the space left behind, in the spot where the garden is pretty high and dry, a situation that iris corms prefer.<br />
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Sometimes the garden goddess will let you know that you made the right decision by rewarding you with lots of blooms the first year you rehabilitate a part of your garden, and that was certainly true this May with iris. How gorgeous is this?<br />
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I'd had several varieties already in my iris bed, but also ordered some more. My two favorite sources for iris are a local one here in Iowa, <a href="http://www.rainbowfarms.net/index.cfm?" target="_blank">Rainbow Iris Farms</a>, and <a href="https://www.schreinersgardens.com/" target="_blank">Schreiner's</a> (note: this isn't a paid endorsement or sponsored post, just two plant suppliers I like and trust.) I wish I could say I had a sophisticated color scheme or plan for iris, but no. I have all the restraint of a two year old with a box of crayons, and I tend to order what appeals to me and chuck them in the bed any which way.<br />
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At the same time, I also received some iris from my dad, and from my dad's girlfriend. These are doing great as well, but may need an extra season or two to reach their full potential. I think they had a degree of transplant shock moving from their Ozark gardens with thin, rocky soil to their Iowa garden, with a much colder winter and clay/loam soil. I love the significance and depth and sentiment a garden has when it's made up of plants from the gardens of people you care about. It's a living album, with plants that evoke stories and memories instead of photos.<br />
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Even though I understand the merit of native plantings and prairie habitats for my state, I have this unapologetic fancy for the flowers that were at home in our grandmothers' gardens. I long for the ruffly, showy, pastel blooms of peony, gladiolus, dahlias, and iris, the queen of the grandma garden court. Iris blooms are just so "extra" as my stepdaughters say, that I find them hard to resist. A flock of them reminds me of ballet dancers, Van Gogh paintings, and silk lampshades.<br />
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Iris also remind me, just to keep this post weird, of the Platters song from 1958, "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M26zWFUPGpE" target="_blank">Twilight Time</a>." I don't know why. Maybe all those lavenders, blues, and mauves evoke twilight? Not sure. (Also as an aside, Twilight Time also features in one of my favorite episodes of the X-files, "<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kill_Switch_(The_X-Files)" target="_blank">Kill Switch,</a>" which may give you a troubling amount of insight to the way my brain free-associates random stuff. You're welcome.)<br />
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The iris bed rehab was just one of the ways my front perennial bed has been switched up this year. I'm more fond of the close-up photos (because subtle color changes and raindrops), but I will try to document the garden more as a whole. It is a patchwork of new problems and long term success this season, and well worth the work it takes to turn the former into the latter.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-64051545085893324352020-05-24T15:23:00.000-05:002020-05-24T15:26:26.620-05:00Slow Nature<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption">A few of the things that stopped me in my already slow tracks this week. </td></tr>
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I am a slow person. It's in my nature.<br />
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When I was a child, I was often chided for being the last person at the table. As an adult, I still take longer to eat than almost anyone. I'm not a picky eater; I just take time with my meal.<br />
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I am slow to wake up. I am generally not at my best before 9 or 10 a.m. in the morning, even with copious quantities of coffee and some solitary time (rarely granted) to gather my wits about me.<br />
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I am usually trailing behind the group. At the point in my life a few years ago when I was running, there was no training I could do that would get my body to run a sub-30-minute race. When walking, I get delayed because I notice a tree, an unusual cloud formation, a neighbor's spectacular poppies.<br />
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At museums I'm the last one out, because I so often read the little cards explaining the exhibits all the way to the end. This happens in the more mundane routines of life as well. At the grocery store, online shopping, in my closet at the beginning of the day, I tend to mull my choices, thoroughly.<br />
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When all hell (the pandemic) broke loose, I responded quickly where and when it was vital, like at work, and getting my kids set up for virtual education. But. While others were also launching themselves headlong into the challenge of staying at home with zoom parties and closet clean-outs and thirty-biscuits-in-thirty-days baking challenges, I not only maintained my usual plod through the absolute minimum of necessary tasks, I grew even <i>S L O W E R</i>.<br />
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Actual Nature has been slow going this spring too. It's been colder, with fewer sunny days. We even had snow in Iowa this May. Everything is late. I finally and impatiently put my tomato plants in the ground last weekend not because it was warm, but because they'd definitely outgrown their pots and I was tired of shuffling them from inside the house to the screen porch to the patio table and back again. Peonies that would usually be blooming by now have buds that are still tight little fists. Plant life seems crouched in a defensive posture, waiting for warmth. Sunshine. Permission to thrive.<br />
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Maybe that's what I'm looking for, too. The toll that the pandemic has taken on the nation, <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/23/reader-center/coronavirus-new-york-times-front-page.html" target="_blank">in lives</a>, in the <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/16/health/coronavirus-ptsd-medical-workers.html" target="_blank">mental and physical health of our health care professionals</a>, upon the most vulnerable among us, has left me with no great enthusiasm for making this spring a months-long celebration of domestic life. This Memorial Day seems like a missed opportunity for a national day of grief, not only for our veterans, but for all the people lost to the pandemic. I know our government will not mark the day in that way, and it makes me deeply sad.<br />
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Slowness is a coping mechanism. It's a poor one when it veers off into avoidance, and I could be the poster child for that in other areas of my life. This spring, though, it served as a protective layer, blunting the emotions of so many things-- missing my children's milestones, and fearing losing their future ones, the amount of anxiety now built into daily tasks, friends and family facing layoffs and furloughs, and the relentless onslaught of bad news from every corner-- and giving me extra time to process the overwhelm. In the perversity that is life, the suspension of regular activities is what may have given me the time and space to process the greater losses.<br />
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The peonies just naturally held on to their buds while the cold passed over it; the tomatoes plants slowly built up their root systems under the earth while the chill held its new leaves in check. I have not come out of quarantine with recipes mastered, weight lost, hobbies launched, languages learned, or rooms redecorated. But I will come out, in time. I wish the same thing for the nation-- the time it takes to measure our fears and grieve our losses, and the ability to regain perspective and hope.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-25737729869157278572020-04-09T20:51:00.000-05:002020-04-09T20:51:28.327-05:00Nest<br />
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I had the photo and the title of this post knocking about my head for weeks while the global pandemic barged full force into our lives in the U.S. "Nest" evokes home, rest, familial love, nurture, and shelter-- all comforting notions that were crushed like an eggshell this month.<br />
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I've been doing my real world day job since March 18 from this desk in the front room/library. I've always had this set-up, and throughout my adult working life I've been able to work from home, sometimes as a necessity (sick kids, weather cancellations) and sometimes as a sanity saving measure (bullpen newsrooms are not known for their calm and quiet atmosphere). When I freelanced, it was my only office.<br />
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But this is different. This is not "I'm working from home because I don't have my shit together as single mom," which, if I am honest, is exactly the reason why I worked from home in the past. It was just me, struggling to get through a day, a week, a month in which my deadlines at work coincided all too neatly with migraines (mine), ear infections (the kids), and a complete lack of clean socks (everybody).<br />
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Now, it's no longer one of the few luxuries afforded two-bit freelancers; it's required by the situation, required by this all-obliterating concern, the global pandemic.<br />
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I work in communications for a government entity, and so I've been marinating in the grim details of the coronavirus pandemic well before it was officially named one. Just that, the details and communicating them, are draining, let alone confronting it as a patient or a health care provider. Terror, even in its mildest forms, is exhausting.<br />
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It's no longer just me doing work from home while I sort out my personal chaos; now work is living at my place while the world sorts out its chaos. I realize that if this is the only way in which I'm inconvenienced by the situation, I'm lucky indeed. But it took me a while to recognize the distinction, and the way it affected me. I couldn't understand why overnight I seemed to be unable to move from my end of the sofa for hours on end, why I seemed to stub my toe on doorways I've traversed for nearly a decade, why I seemed so utterly disoriented in my own space. I have been wanting to sleep all the time. I want doors closed. I want to eat warm, buttery carbohydrates and drink slightly more wine than is rationally good for me. I want, for god's sake, a warm blanket to hug at all times, like an insecure child.<br />
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The difference between the comfort I take in domestic life and the outside world has always been distinct in my mind, a firmly defined "in-here" versus the whole wide "out-there." Like many middle class Americans, I've had the privilege of a breezy, put-a-bird-on-it brand of domesticity, subject to new toss pillows, arty pretensions, and a fresh coat of paint when I get bored. And while I still think aesthetics are important, they aren't the whole, true story of our homes.<br />
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I think of that cardinal's nest I photographed a few springs ago. Domestic life is a nebulous one, made up the bits and pieces that we find emotional value in and collect around ourselves; much like a bird assembles sticks, tufts of grass, bits of leaves, and shed animal fur into a soft inner lining to cushion her eggs. Feathering the nest is a comfortable metaphor, but incomplete, made for softer times than these.<br />
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The fragile bowl of bare flesh that is a nest of young hatchlings is just as much "out there" under the wide world's sky as it is a snug scoop of "in here." Ornithologists estimate that the mortality rate of baby songbirds is one in three. They drown, freeze, fall, or are consumed by disease and predators. Their survival to adulthood is achieved through a delicate, infinite number of interconnected factors-- eons of evolution, the weather, the availability of food that season, the experience of the mating pair, the healthy balance of the local ecosystem. How young birds come to exist at all is either a miraculous accident or an accidental miracle.<br />
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It's how all nests exist, really. That's how a bat virus in a Chinese city we've never even heard of can be the reason all our fragilities are exposed-- as a species, as a society, as a body politic. That's how I bake bread and tend seedling cauliflowers and wear running pants while the days run together. I am experiencing both at once, a miraculous accident and an accidental miracle. I feel just as vulnerable and blind as any baby bird, and yet, here is this nest, looking and feeling for all the world like it always has.<br />
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I don't know what to make of it, yet, or whether it makes my nest less valuable, or more so. I like to think more valuable, just because I now know it to be less safe than I ever imagined. How does that make any sense?Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-43088514728586906112020-02-02T22:52:00.000-06:002020-02-08T16:53:29.918-06:00Trees I Have Loved<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am not a January person.<br />
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Living in the Midwest, January means the the arrival of truly cold weather and the ice, snow, and bad roads that go with it. I joke that I must be part bear, because hibernation until about April or so seems far more attractive to me than scraping the windshield of my Subaru, crunching down the snow-packed roads to work, and hoping to warm my bone marrow drinking pots of tea in my windowless office.<br />
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The hibernation bit is probably not so much a joke as a strong tendency to seasonal blues and depressions. I found out a few years ago that my body is terrible about maintaining enough Vitamin D levels to keep me, well, sane enough to function during the dark winter months. Knowing that and supplements have helped.<br />
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So has lowering my expectations. Not in a defeatist sort of way, but acknowledging that I am not at my best in January, and that maybe some forms of hibernation are not only okay, but a good idea. Recent interest in the Danish concept of "hygge," which I think Americans have culturally translated to mean "fireplaces, warm socks, and hot cocoa?" <i>Definitely a good idea</i>. Going back to the actual roots of the word, which mean something like "courage, comfort and joy?" For Pete's sake, sign me up for all three.<br />
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In the last year or two my interest in all things green and growing has intensified, and so I've also attempted to embrace the concept of hibernation in that cycle of plant-life sense too-- it's not a season of death, or nothingness. It's a season of necessary rest. I suspect that humans are not as immune to the cycle of seasons as we think, and that winter is the time for me to give in to what my body is pushing me to do--sleep a little more, keep my thoughts and perspective inward so that when the time is right, I have the energy to flourish.<br />
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It makes me think of trees. They cycle through periods of necessary rest so that they can flourish later. Their life spans in some ways are similar to we humans; we relate to them in that way. But they also spend their life rooted to one spot, achieve immense size both above and under the earth, and age often through generations of humans. Trees are about as monumental and immortal of a living thing as we'll ever be able to know. I see them as a metaphor for a larger truth about existence that we can't grasp with our small minds. Those are the sorts of things I think about, while hibernating in January (and waiting to write about them until February). It also makes me think about the trees in my life which have brought me "courage, comfort, and joy."<br />
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Like my sweet gum tree. It grew right outside the window of my bedroom in a little ranch house in southern Missouri where I was a small child. I thought that because it was outside my bedroom window, it was "my" tree. And maybe the little girl me meant that in terms of possession, but I like to think of it as the first real friendship I had with a tree. It was young, and so was I, and so we understood each other the way childhood friends do. Every September and October it filtered sunlight into my room in dancing bits of fiery yellow-gold and purple. When playing outside I picked up the spiky seed balls for pretend kitchen cooking, threw them at neighbor kids, and hooked them together into improbable shapes and stacks. Sweet gum tree is a playmate I remember fondly, miss some days, and wonder what has become of it. I hope it grew up, like I did. I hope it belongs to another little person looking out that bedroom window.<br />
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If my young childhood was a sweet gum tree, my tween and early teen years were the backyard ash. It was the 70s, we lived in a duplex apartment full of harvest golds and browns in a university town in Iowa, and I was disinterested in everything life was serving up to me at that time. My parents had split, my mother was struggling to start a new job and a new life in a new state, my baby sister was SUCH a baby sister, and junior high school was SO junior high school. I was outraged that I was not allowed to go to rock concerts, and equally outraged that I was teased for playing with my sister's dolls. I did not feel like I really had anything mastered, except for climbing that tree. I think of ash trees as being the plain vanilla ice cream cone of the tree world. There are fancier ones out there, but vanilla ice cream is better than no ice cream at all. This was true. I could grasp two small lower branches and hold on, walking my rough bare feet up the bark until I could hook a knee over the first large branch, and haul myself the rest of the way up by my hands into the canopy. I often did this with a book tucked under my chin; there was a little crook that exactly fitted my behind and lower back so that I could recline and read. That tree wasn't so much a friend as a necessary shelter from long, boring, hot summers when I was too young to do anything, and too old to do anything, and too confused to know which was worse. I discovered Ivanhoe and Judy Blume and Lois Duncan and Kurt Vonnegut and How to Care for Horses (that I would never own). I hurled a copy of Little Women down to the ground when I grew impatient with it, and then felt guilty about returning it, the spine-end a little grass-stained, to the public library. I owe a debt of gratitude to that tree, for giving me the space to just be.<br />
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Magnolia was a tree at the southeast corner of my mother's house, and somewhat of a miracle. Iowa isn't exactly the place for saucer magnolias; they don't thrive in windy frigid prairie winters. And yet, she was elegant and spreading and magnificent--as if she'd relocated to the rough frontier from a garden square in Charleston and simply refused to accept that she wasn't a Southern lady anymore. She was pretty dramatic. When she bloomed we'd all go out into the yard and just stand and look at her and say, "Wow." But the porcelain pink blooms were fleeting, and fell to the grass like breaking teacups in just a few days, even fewer if we had a badly timed windy day. Her satiny leaves shaded a little green cavern of hosta, astilbe, and ferns from hot Midwestern summer sun, and the saucer of water for the birds. Altogether she struck a somewhat ridiculously romantic pose at the corner of the patio, but we loved her for it. It was the best thing about that modest house. Eventually her high maintenance ways and flair for drama caught up with her, and her demise was a hurt that I still feel when I think about her. But I do think about her, for the guts to bloom where planted, and to do it without apology in a foreign landscape.<br />
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I say hello to this crabapple nearly every time I take a walk around our neighborhood, where the houses date from the 1910s to the 1940s. It's growing on the backside of a condominium complex that used to be my husband's elementary school. The tree has likely not been there as long as the school, which was built in 1924, but still qualifies as a senior citizen of the tree community here. I am glad she survived the remodeling of the school and grounds into condominiums. I'm glad she hasn't fallen into the hands of people who deem trees like this to be "too messy" for city street trees. I love that she produces her guts out in September, so much so that her branches wobble under the strain of all the fruit. I love watching the birds clamor around her, eager to get every last bit they can before the winter freeze. It's my "way to be" tree, because it seems to understand itself, and glories in being that very thing-- a crabapple tree, the best damn crabapple tree it can be. I wish I could be half so aware of, and accepting, of myself.<br />
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I don't often name things. But when I do, it's not because I made it up. It's because they introduce themselves and tell me their name. This is Harald, the patio cedar in my back yard. My relationship with Harald (yes, that's with the second "a", probably because the house was built by a Dane, and I expect that the trees would also have picked up the Danish way of spelling) is complicated. First of all, he's not all that pretty in many ways-- his top was lopped off at some point well before I purchased the house, and so he tends to spread out in all the weird ways that conifers do when their main leader branch is lost. He likes to snuggle a bit too close to the eaves for comfort and needs a regular pruning back so he doesn't wipe the shingles off. He sheds needles like crazy and we're forever sweeping the patio. But. He shades the table where my family and friends gather all summer. He holds aloft the string lights that make the garden so enchanting in the evening. He protects the back half of the house from the worst of the late afternoon summer sun, and the worst of the northern winter winds. He is a filtering protector of my houseplants, who get kicked out of doors for their own good every May. He has been witness to some of my worst frustrated ugly cries over the years; and the canopy to my wedding day. We grumble about Harald, we sweep up after Harald, we love him anyway. There are actual people like him in our lives, so we should be able to see and accept that best-and-worst sort of dichotomy in a tree. I think. Ask me again when he's dropping his tree schmutz into my chardonnay in July.<br />
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There are so many trees on the place my Dad calls "The Hill," that I could forgive people for overlooking the little cedar. He's cuter than Harald, but that's because my Dad keeps him groomed for a string of Christmas tree lights during the holiday season, and it explains his picture postcard shape. He's situated in a picture postcard landscape too, in the Ozark hills where my Dad lives, and where my paternal side of the family came from generations back. It would be too simple to say this landscape and that little cedar are a part of me. They are. But I also had to lose them and win them back, and that part is complicated. I reckon that is a story many people could tell, not just about trees and landscapes, but about the struggle to grow a fully functioning human heart. Maybe there are more majestic trees to symbolize that kind of stuff; but for me, a scrappy little cedar up on a rocky ridge seems just about right.<br />
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My children call this the White Tree of Gondor. It's a sycamore, beautiful in summer, but at its best in winter, when all the white branches are bare. While it's spectacular against a clear blue sky on a sunny winter day, I prefer the soft look of it against gloomy clouds and the gentle monotones of the winter landscape. It's in a difficult location, at one of the busiest intersections in town right next to the entrance of our large public university. I'm always driving past it, admiring it, and wishing it was some other place where I could walk past or around it instead of buzzing by on my way to whatever life was dishing out that day. I realized I couldn't write this blog post without getting a photo, and that a photo wouldn't happen without actually walking to it, even though that street corner isn't particularly pedestrian friendly. I ended up parking on a side street during my noon hour, crossing a bridge over the creek, stumbling a bit on the path that hadn't yet been cleared of snow. I had nothing but my car keys and my phone in my coat pocket, and knew I probably should have brought my 35mm camera but dammit, at least I was there. I was highly aware of all the cars whooshing by. The snow on the side of the road was black with the tiredest kind of dirt. The tree, in contrast, seemed to possess its own clean quiet, even so close to the road. I gave a twig-end a polite little jiggle with my bare cold hand, like a hand shake. Close up, the bark was even more subtle and beautiful, with markings that can't be seen in a speeding car.<br />
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January is like that stumbling walk to the corner just for the sake of seeing a tree that I love--inconvenient, incompletely planned, cold, and I hate to admit it-- necessary for the sake of its own discoveries. I'm still working that concept out in more detail, but intend to revisit it next year when I need to. And, it being January and all, I know I'll need to. Until then.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6419950376125528057.post-62565408317169584032019-11-16T20:47:00.001-06:002019-11-17T00:10:41.377-06:00The Girl in the Song<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinTOy830Ls8hpjQSrZgYKgOh9gwOgREldMTbKVMRKsuDkPWSL8GR1DvzgVHJAOMghXWwAJi_S5eySJJrV0MdQpBU2hjj2Z9qSN6uW01B6Vho3Q-SAIQ0IGra50YvQ3WzxPy4B6jAZnuhw/s1600/bp1984.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="590" data-original-width="700" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinTOy830Ls8hpjQSrZgYKgOh9gwOgREldMTbKVMRKsuDkPWSL8GR1DvzgVHJAOMghXWwAJi_S5eySJJrV0MdQpBU2hjj2Z9qSN6uW01B6Vho3Q-SAIQ0IGra50YvQ3WzxPy4B6jAZnuhw/s1600/bp1984.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This Associated Press photo was originally printed in my high school yearbook, 1984</td></tr>
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Bruce Springsteen released the album <i>Born to Run</i> on August 25, 1975. I was born a little too late to run, being not quite eight years old at the time.<br />
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My parents were still married. From the deep backseat of their Chevy Impala, I remember Glen Campbell. Johnny Cash. Dolly Parton. Loretta Lynn. Tennessee Ernie Ford. It was the kind of music that was on AM radio in small town southern Missouri, where we lived.<br />
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At the pool and at the park and at the ice cream stand, roasting through those hot humid summers we had down there, the big kids in the little towns would have their transistor radios on. I got to hear what actual teenagers were listening to, even though I was far from one myself. Philadelphia Freedom. War. Wings. Janis Ian. It was different than my parents' music.<br />
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Like most kids, especially then, the music wasn't something I chose. I was a passive absorber of the adult culture around me; so when Captain and Tennille sang that love would keep us together, I didn't even really think about it. It was a song on the radio that I didn't control, and like bedtimes and homework and wearing uncomfortable shoes to church, it wasn't something that even occurred to me I could reject or even ask for something else. I didn't even know there was a something else.<br />
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I do not remember Bruce in any of this. I don't think he was there yet-- for me, anyway.<br />
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In just a few years' time, my life changed dramatically. My parents split up; my mom moved north with my sister and me, to a different town in a different state. That wasn't something I chose either. It was a painful time for my parents, so it was a painful time for me. I seemed to land with a hard thump in junior high, chubby but stretching rapidly up, ratty sneakers, knee socks that kept slumping down, thick eyeglasses, and long bangs that flopped in my face. Grown-ups had proven themselves to be too indifferent, or insensitive, or insistent, or too much of all those things all at once, to be trusted. I read a lot. My bedroom door was closed a lot.<br />
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It was into this scene that Bruce Springsteen walked. I giggle a bit at the drama of that sentence; as if the curly-locked and leather-jacketed Boss had leaned off the Big Man's shoulder on the cover of the <i>Born to Run </i>album, and into my doorway instead, guitar still at the ready.<br />
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The beginnings were actually a bit murkier. By the time I was thirteen, I'd acquired a cheap turntable stereo. I'd discovered that 45s were 99 cents at the record store at the mall, which I could walk to from our harvest gold apartment. I had some spending money every once in awhile, some time to myself, and just enough freedom to choose-- if not my life, exactly-- then at least the music I listened to. I might not have been born to run, but I wanted to catch up. To what, I didn't yet know; I just knew I liked the sound of it.<br />
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It was during this time that Mr. Springsteen eased his way in to the metaphorical doorway of my life. First <i>Born to Run</i>. Then back a bit, with <i>Darkness on the Edge of Town.</i> I wasn't sophisticated enough yet to be interested in <i>Nebraska</i> yet, and I couldn't afford <i>The River</i>, because double albums cost too much for a kid with no job. But it was enough. And even though I was also listening to all the other stuff that was coming out at that time, prog rock and new wave and punk and metal, I kept coming back to Springsteen.<br />
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In that "I'm the only freak of my kind" way that teenagers often think of themselves, I was crazy enough to believe that Mr. Springsteen was a secret that I alone possessed. Yeah, you could read about him in the pages of <i>Rolling Stone</i> and there were other people standing in line at the record store to buy his stuff, but music critics and other fans didn't know what I knew.<br />
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His songs gave form and recognition to feelings and thoughts I'd been having, things I didn't have the experience or vocabulary for-- yet. It made me feel part of the human condition called adulthood that I was only just beginning to understand, and wasn't quite ready or sure I wanted to enter. I was tethered to my turntable by bulky headphones behind a closed bedroom door. It was a secure vantage point, not just to love the music, but absorb the stories Springsteen spun about life.<br />
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It has been said over and over again that the appeal of Springsteen's songs is their narratives, universal themes of the working-class everyman and everywoman. For all I know academic papers have been written about that very topic.* But I want to write about the universal made particular, made singular, made Laura Beth, made her want to be the barefoot girl on the hood of a Dodge drinking beer in the soft summer rain.** I want, and am trying to write, a love letter to the maddening, skinny, dark-eyed, wild-hearted, day-dreaming woman-child I was at seventeen. I owe one to her, the one who thought of herself as the girl in those songs.<br />
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In the summer of 1984, Bruce Springsteen and his E Street Band released <i>Born in the USA</i>. It was a post-Vietnam era rock assessment of the most difficult relationship any American will ever have, the one with the place you were born-- the ideals you want to keep, finally recognizing the wrongs you need to walk away from. Did the sixteen-going-on-seventeen girl listening to the radio in that Chevy Impala she now drove, consciously and deliberately recognize these metaphors between country and home, citizenship and family?<br />
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Oh, hell no.<br />
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That didn't come until much later. But the people in Springsteen's songs were people I recognized. They were never promised perfection, and they certainly couldn't buy it. They were all too aware of what they didn't have. But they were willing to work. They were willing to prove it all night.** They were willing to give what they had. I wanted that in myself. I wanted it in other people. If I saw myself as the girl in those songs, I wanted no less than the boy in those songs too.<br />
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As it so often happens at exactly that point in a young woman's life, a Boy in the Song appeared. He came along as part of a small circle of friends who delivered one of the first of many best gifts from the universe-- a feeling that I belonged somewhere. His eyes were intensely blue when he looked at me, and he spent a lot of time coaxing words and emotions out of my quietude. They all made it feel good to laugh. On November 16, 1984, this new group of friends went to see Bruce Springsteen live and afterward, the Boy in the Song kissed me lightly on the cheek, outside the concert stadium in the frosty night.<br />
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It is hard to put words to the revelation, for these people and that Boy to arrive in my life at exactly that time. They seemed to hold a different map, one I never got, and they showed it to me and pointed "you are here." I was able to put a pin down somewhere, anywhere, and with people who were just like me. Now I knew, for the first time, that it was possible to belong somewhere other than to the place you were born. It wasn't just an important thing. It was everything.<br />
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In the profound joy and relief of that moment, compounded by inexperience and teenage hormones, it was too easy to overlook the fact that the reason they found me, the reason they were so happy to see me, is that they were lost too. And as much as I wanted and needed them to be my rescue party, we were all just lost together.<br />
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But at least we had each other, and all the moments we could steal from reality. We had old sofas in dark basements, and hands held under tables in the high school lunchroom, and phone calls late at night when no one could yell at us to "get off the phone!" Just like the friends in the song, we made our commitments to love and friendship like they were weapons against all we'd ever known. We made a promise we swore we'd always remember-- no retreat, baby, no surrender.**<br />
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But the Boy and the friends and I, we failed each other. Not just in the typical teenage ways that everyone experiences growing up, but also in ways that were very specific to our particular brand of damage. Our parents had done their best with what they had, but across all our families poverty, divorce, addiction, alcoholism, mental illness, Vietnam-- all those things cut a wide swath through our upbringing, whether our parents could help it or not. And mostly, they couldn't. Neither could we.<br />
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I expected a lot of that scared, wild, rapturously angry and romantic young man, and that scruffy, rebellious tribe of friends. They expected a lot out of me. But we were still lost, some of us getting more so, and life was about to launch us out into the world.<br />
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By the time I left high school, the music industry had rolled into cassettes and quickly on into CDs-- my life and even my music went on to other formats whether I wanted them to or not. Bruce recorded albums without the E Street Band. Those songs sounded like bumping into an old friend with a new life that didn't include me. I knew what that felt like. It hurt. It made me think that all the things I believed in, including the Girl in the Song, were at least wrong, and possibly worse, didn't even really exist.<br />
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So I stopped listening. I dumped Springsteen for R.E.M., the Offspring, U2, anything and everything but the songs that had led me to pain in the past. It was comfortable to like music without being emotionally invested in it. I went to college and kept writing but for the sake of a journalism degree rather than for myself, another comfortable choice. I also ended up marrying a nice boy who was not in any song whatsoever, just to be on the safe, comfortable side. During those years, I couldn't bother to stay informed of Mr. Springsteen's latest musical endeavors. When his concert tours were in town, I was invariably vastly pregnant, nursing, or in some other way tied to a domestic life I couldn't have escaped if I'd wanted to. I didn't want to.<br />
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But another strong theme that weaves its way through Springsteen's music is the idea that, however much running or leaving or walking away you do, your truths are going to be there, waiting for you in dark bedrooms, on lonely highways, and through the hard lessons life serves up. You can't escape yourself. I certainly didn't.<br />
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That was the reason I spent the last decade struggling to become, if not found, at least un-lost, locatable on a map I had drawn myself, in a landscape that felt like the best kind of home. It was an act of survival, and like a lot of acts of survival it involved desperation, poor choices, fear, exhaustion, and loss. Eventually it also began to involve things like independence, home ownership, self-regard, and if I am being completely honest, some more exhaustion and loss. Because this shit is hard.<br />
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It also came to involve Tom. One night this summer, I came home to find him, asleep in his armchair, deeply tired out from his day's work. On the television, Springsteen on Broadway played to this lightly snoring audience of one. Tom had been re-watching it without me. It would be a good story, a perfect story, if Tom loved Bruce Springsteen as much as I do. Somewhere in the struggle to find my place in the world, in a way almost as complicated as the struggle itself, Springsteen's music came back to me. But Tom isn't a passionate fan, and has a way of referring to him as "Phil Springsteen" just to tease and annoy me.<br />
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It occurred to me that night and more and more as time goes on, that the longer Tom is in my life, the more he seems to be in all the songs, in just the right way. If I need someone to wait for me or for a sunny day, to cover me or to be tougher than the rest, Tom seems, always, to be that.** On our wedding day in 2017, our program quoted Springsteen: "There's another dance. All you've got to do is say yes." So, we did.<br />
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As I write this, it's been 35 years to the day of that night in 1984, when Bruce took the stage in my hometown.** The girl who saw herself in those songs wasn't wrong about herself, or what she wanted. She knows that now, and still has the music to prove it.<br />
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*The minute I typed that sentence, it got me on the academic journal search engines, and I found <a href="https://doi.org/10.4324/9781315672144." target="_blank">THIS</a>. I will most likely read it, because I am that kind of fan. And geek.<br />
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**All the references made to Bruce Springsteen's words and music are not in any way intended to be an infringement of any copyright belonging to him, the E Street Band, or to their publisher. His work is entirely his own. Moreover, the writer owes a debt of gratitude to Mr. Springsteen. Thanks for helping me with the growin' up.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09678523115908249689noreply@blogger.com3