The camera batteries died and I couldn't figure out how to get that windmill to turn.
Losing Mom
2 months ago
Showing posts with label Home. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Home. Show all posts
Friday, January 28, 2011
A Favorite Running Route
As I ran away from home today, I took a shot of Elk Cliff Farm so I'd recognize it when I returned.
Here's a view of our James River frontage.
Hold your breath for the Tolley Tunnel.
Let's hope the autoduct is sturdy.
I like this barn.
I keep thinking we should get one of these to run our well pump, someday to recharge our car batteries.
"You've barely reached the 2-mile tree," says Virginia. "Whazup?"
The camera batteries died and I couldn't figure out how to get that windmill to turn.
The camera batteries died and I couldn't figure out how to get that windmill to turn.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Neighbors
Some of you have asked, "Who is Virginia?"
She's been called an alter ego, a muse, a figment, the female James, but never a Nazi or socialist. Her time for name-calling may be on its way since her recorded life has been accused of lacking the trauma of reality. Jimmy -- the fellow wearing the orange vest, who shouldn't be carrying a gun because he's a felon -- maybe it's in his vocabulary. Or Phil, the law school graduate, who stalked her from Georgia. There's plenty of time to grow a few villains. And her skin, so Virgin-ia, invites redheaded passion.
Speaking of guns and orange vests, on our 4-mile walk this afternoon we spotted a sentry at the end of a neighbor's lane, close to the sign that says "No strangers." In any other neighborhood we've lived in, we'd have called it creepy, but here it was normal.
As we drew closer our guess proved right. It was Jim, out checking his traps, carrying his "over and under" Baikal double-barrel shotgun/rifle. He opened the Russian gun to illustrate its dual purpose, handy for deer or coyotes as well as birds. He's always teaching us something, this man with a solar-operated dog feeder, a BB recycler (shoot at the target and the BBs roll down a chute for re-use), an elevator that carries firewood from his garage to his living room, an outdoor shower heated by a few hundred feet of rolled black garden hose, and a house he built himself using many materials (including windows, doors and shake shingles) collected from construction site dumpsters.
We met him about 12 years ago in the James River. I mean that literally. While we were fishing, up from underwater swam Jim and three kids, all snorkeled and flippered.
"I have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you,
I've always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you.
So let's make the most of this beautiful day,
Since we're together, we might as well say,
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won't you be my neighbor?"
She's been called an alter ego, a muse, a figment, the female James, but never a Nazi or socialist. Her time for name-calling may be on its way since her recorded life has been accused of lacking the trauma of reality. Jimmy -- the fellow wearing the orange vest, who shouldn't be carrying a gun because he's a felon -- maybe it's in his vocabulary. Or Phil, the law school graduate, who stalked her from Georgia. There's plenty of time to grow a few villains. And her skin, so Virgin-ia, invites redheaded passion.
Speaking of guns and orange vests, on our 4-mile walk this afternoon we spotted a sentry at the end of a neighbor's lane, close to the sign that says "No strangers." In any other neighborhood we've lived in, we'd have called it creepy, but here it was normal.
As we drew closer our guess proved right. It was Jim, out checking his traps, carrying his "over and under" Baikal double-barrel shotgun/rifle. He opened the Russian gun to illustrate its dual purpose, handy for deer or coyotes as well as birds. He's always teaching us something, this man with a solar-operated dog feeder, a BB recycler (shoot at the target and the BBs roll down a chute for re-use), an elevator that carries firewood from his garage to his living room, an outdoor shower heated by a few hundred feet of rolled black garden hose, and a house he built himself using many materials (including windows, doors and shake shingles) collected from construction site dumpsters.
We met him about 12 years ago in the James River. I mean that literally. While we were fishing, up from underwater swam Jim and three kids, all snorkeled and flippered.
"I have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you,
I've always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you.
So let's make the most of this beautiful day,
Since we're together, we might as well say,
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won't you be my neighbor?"
Monday, January 3, 2011
Dispensing Our Collection
In 1994, after buying a Victorian home in North Carolina, we sold most of our things at a yard sale in St. Louis and moved, planning to buy what we "needed" to outfit the new old house. We had enough left to fill a 16-foot U-Haul truck. Four years later, we replaced the Victorian with a bigger "country club" home and bought some things to make it look lived in.
Four years later, we had another yard sale and moved to Arrowhead Lodge and the little cottage next door, in Virginia. Allied Van Lines filled a 52-foot semi-trailer, but didn't anticipate the hill in our lane. "Are you working today?" the driver asked. "No." "Could you drive your pickup up and down the lane as we gradually empty this truck?" "Sure, Karen and I can do that." So went the day, the scariest moments involving the transfer of my 9-foot concert grand onto our 7-foot pickup bed, with Karen driving while the two movers and I held on tight -- so much for my original plan to disappear for the piano moving.
Four years later we moved into this farmhouse, again using our pickup to transfer what we needed, but with no semi -- and the concert grand stayed.
Four years later, we aren't moving. I don't think. If we did, we'd probably need two 52-foot moving vans unless we had a giant yard sale or auction. I wasn't planning to get rid of anything until today, when I read my sister's blog posting (http://steinermp.wordpress.com/) and discovered that my best friend has suggested doing it. So I began taking inventory and discovered the job is bigger than the inventories we took when I worked for the Great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Co. (A&P). Actually, an inventory probably isn't necessary. We could simply start taking pictures and posting them on Ebay, not a bad idea. Think how much easier picture-taking is these days, and so much cheaper, not having to buy film and pay for processing.
"Come now, you've got to be kidding!" says Virginia. "You're just getting started on the greenhouse, and the goatherd has settled in nicely."
Hmmm. It might make sense to get a head start on 2012. Six years in one home is a long time.
Four years later, we had another yard sale and moved to Arrowhead Lodge and the little cottage next door, in Virginia. Allied Van Lines filled a 52-foot semi-trailer, but didn't anticipate the hill in our lane. "Are you working today?" the driver asked. "No." "Could you drive your pickup up and down the lane as we gradually empty this truck?" "Sure, Karen and I can do that." So went the day, the scariest moments involving the transfer of my 9-foot concert grand onto our 7-foot pickup bed, with Karen driving while the two movers and I held on tight -- so much for my original plan to disappear for the piano moving.
Four years later we moved into this farmhouse, again using our pickup to transfer what we needed, but with no semi -- and the concert grand stayed.
Four years later, we aren't moving. I don't think. If we did, we'd probably need two 52-foot moving vans unless we had a giant yard sale or auction. I wasn't planning to get rid of anything until today, when I read my sister's blog posting (http://steinermp.wordpress.com/) and discovered that my best friend has suggested doing it. So I began taking inventory and discovered the job is bigger than the inventories we took when I worked for the Great Atlantic & Pacific Tea Co. (A&P). Actually, an inventory probably isn't necessary. We could simply start taking pictures and posting them on Ebay, not a bad idea. Think how much easier picture-taking is these days, and so much cheaper, not having to buy film and pay for processing.
"Come now, you've got to be kidding!" says Virginia. "You're just getting started on the greenhouse, and the goatherd has settled in nicely."
Hmmm. It might make sense to get a head start on 2012. Six years in one home is a long time.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
King for a Day
Back at the castle, one day between trips to Ohio and Pennsylvania, the Lady of the Manor, a/k/a the Queen, greeted the King and Prince with venison lasagna. Several of the subjects quacked, a few whined welcomes, and the Boxers begged for belly pats. The egg layers couldn't care less.
Or were the whines expressions of suspicion? My day began with unfinished business, a return trip to the abattoir. When I arrived home with two full coolers, I glanced at the goat paddock with a twinge of guilt, not yet a full-fledged farmer. Tonight's dinner plays out the deal I mentioned in an earlier blog -- continuing carnivore versus virgin vegetarian. We sort of agreed that if we could not eat Shasta and Dodger, then meat markets would become off-limits. Unlike the protein most of you eat, I like to think they were happy from birth to death. In fact, not too many birds, butterflies, rabbits and other creatures suffered as they traveled from farm to table -- which is not the case with the out-of-season produce that graces grocery shelves throughout the year. Tears have been shed, something that most likely can't be said for most of the hamburger and green beans (look at them under a microscope sometime) devoured here and around the world. We, kings and queens, sit on the top of many pyramids.
My trip to Bluffton often reminded me that big rocks to little children are simply stones to adults. On the morning I ran past the Community Market to buy a couple "expensive" navel oranges for my mother, the house that guards the entrance to the skilled nursing facility surprised me. Not only could I see it from the town hall, it was merely blocks away. My 4-mile trudge through waist-high sludge to elementary school had shrunk to less than a mile. Today I ran to our post office and local bank before launching my 8-mile round-trip to Arrowhead Lodge, reminding me that we live near a small town, too.
"You smell like gasoline," says Virginia.
She's right. This afternoon I cranked up my Stihl and divided a few logs into firewood. Welcome home, King!
Or were the whines expressions of suspicion? My day began with unfinished business, a return trip to the abattoir. When I arrived home with two full coolers, I glanced at the goat paddock with a twinge of guilt, not yet a full-fledged farmer. Tonight's dinner plays out the deal I mentioned in an earlier blog -- continuing carnivore versus virgin vegetarian. We sort of agreed that if we could not eat Shasta and Dodger, then meat markets would become off-limits. Unlike the protein most of you eat, I like to think they were happy from birth to death. In fact, not too many birds, butterflies, rabbits and other creatures suffered as they traveled from farm to table -- which is not the case with the out-of-season produce that graces grocery shelves throughout the year. Tears have been shed, something that most likely can't be said for most of the hamburger and green beans (look at them under a microscope sometime) devoured here and around the world. We, kings and queens, sit on the top of many pyramids.
My trip to Bluffton often reminded me that big rocks to little children are simply stones to adults. On the morning I ran past the Community Market to buy a couple "expensive" navel oranges for my mother, the house that guards the entrance to the skilled nursing facility surprised me. Not only could I see it from the town hall, it was merely blocks away. My 4-mile trudge through waist-high sludge to elementary school had shrunk to less than a mile. Today I ran to our post office and local bank before launching my 8-mile round-trip to Arrowhead Lodge, reminding me that we live near a small town, too.
"You smell like gasoline," says Virginia.
She's right. This afternoon I cranked up my Stihl and divided a few logs into firewood. Welcome home, King!
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Black and White Day
Today was tough for this pseudo-ultramarathoner, thankfully today instead of a week from today. This morning I tried to imagine running 25 miles by the time I woke and couldn't. My stomach felt as if someone had kicked it. I couldn't find enough handy blankets to get warm. After 3 frigid trips to the bathroom, I felt better, but far from good. Now, near the end of the afternoon, I've enjoyed a 9 a.m. rise and two long naps. For the first time in months, maybe years, I haven't been outside. Wait a minute...there, cancel that! I just let a few snowflakes melt on my tongue.
When Karen slammed the back door this morning to fetch firewood -- you must slam it or it won't latch -- I found comfort both in her willingness to pinch hit for me and Chy's foghorn. Also, it must have been almost first thing, Karen put my overalls in the wash. A few hours later, she delivered them to me, toasty warm from the drier. Finally, there might be sweat somewhere on my body. No hanging out the laundry today. See why?
Lately, I've been thinking about how fortunate we are to live in this home, especially on a day like today. All but one of our walls, interior as well as exterior, are at least a foot thick, made of brick from clay harvested and fired on-site. According to a neighbor, his grandfather lived for a while in a train car and walked across our field every day to bake bricks. More than 140 years ago, someone knew a little something about passive solar construction, facing this house north and south with tall, wide windows that allow the sun to warm much of our living space, including the walls. Nevertheless, on a cloudy day like today, it might be nice to build lofts up under our 9 1/2 foot ceilings.
"So what?" says Virginia.
Just being thankful. No one other than perhaps me is going to be terribly disappointed if more snow and ice coats the Blue Ridge next weekend and I choose to stay in our little castle.
"Certainly not me," says Virginia. "You might work on my life, as you did today. Thanks."
When Karen slammed the back door this morning to fetch firewood -- you must slam it or it won't latch -- I found comfort both in her willingness to pinch hit for me and Chy's foghorn. Also, it must have been almost first thing, Karen put my overalls in the wash. A few hours later, she delivered them to me, toasty warm from the drier. Finally, there might be sweat somewhere on my body. No hanging out the laundry today. See why?
"So what?" says Virginia.
Just being thankful. No one other than perhaps me is going to be terribly disappointed if more snow and ice coats the Blue Ridge next weekend and I choose to stay in our little castle.
"Certainly not me," says Virginia. "You might work on my life, as you did today. Thanks."
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Farm Music
Do you hear what I hear? Loud snorting, like a giant pig. Maybe soon it will develop into a foghorn. Chy, our jenny, just like me, gets very excited when Karen comes near. Maybe she's bringing something special, some arugula (for Chy) or some freshly baked chocolate chip cookies (for me).
If you think roosters only crow early in the morning, come for a visit and you'll learn the truth. Which reminds me -- since the rooster born last Spring spent a few hours at a slow bake, the barnyard has sounded different. I sort of miss the crowing duets, back and forth, back and forth, usually in the afternoon. Lately, too, the change in seasons has caused most of our hens to abandon their egg-laying squawks, taking us down to two eggs per day.
Each time either of us slams the back door on our way out, a chorus of baas calls from the goat paddocks. I must admit it's great to feel loved. Don't tell me they only want me for food because even after they know I'm carrying none, at least one of them crowds me and massages my glutes.
Today and yesterday, underneath everything, inside or outside, is a low rushing sound. Not like the random rumblings of motor vehicles or aircraft passing, it's constant, continually up and over and down. Sometimes when I step outside, my first thought is it's raining, then I remember it's not, it's Elk Creek after rain. I'm reminded of Opossum Run, up by Arrowhead Lodge, which happens to feed into Elk Creek -- we moved downstream -- after a hurricane, rushing so fast we heard it rolling huge boulders.
Even seeds talk to me, as you already know if you read my blog posting two days ago. Thanks to Susan, I no longer feel self-conscious talking back to the plants that schedule much of my life. More accurately, perhaps, it's not the plants scheduling me, it's the result of me tracking my holodynes. Lord knows, I do not, what this is all about, but sometimes I think there may be something to it.
"Listen," says Virginia. "Do you hear what I hear?"
I hear her, too, but probably not what she hears. I always hear. Pillows pressed against my ears, I cannot escape chirping, sizzling, humming and pulsing. Just now I heard a mouse trying to slip unnoticed through our heating ducts.
Oh, how could I forget? The chattery quacks of our rambling ducks rarely fail to draw a chuckle.
I loved the movie, "August Rush," always music everywhere.
If you think roosters only crow early in the morning, come for a visit and you'll learn the truth. Which reminds me -- since the rooster born last Spring spent a few hours at a slow bake, the barnyard has sounded different. I sort of miss the crowing duets, back and forth, back and forth, usually in the afternoon. Lately, too, the change in seasons has caused most of our hens to abandon their egg-laying squawks, taking us down to two eggs per day.
Each time either of us slams the back door on our way out, a chorus of baas calls from the goat paddocks. I must admit it's great to feel loved. Don't tell me they only want me for food because even after they know I'm carrying none, at least one of them crowds me and massages my glutes.
Today and yesterday, underneath everything, inside or outside, is a low rushing sound. Not like the random rumblings of motor vehicles or aircraft passing, it's constant, continually up and over and down. Sometimes when I step outside, my first thought is it's raining, then I remember it's not, it's Elk Creek after rain. I'm reminded of Opossum Run, up by Arrowhead Lodge, which happens to feed into Elk Creek -- we moved downstream -- after a hurricane, rushing so fast we heard it rolling huge boulders.
Even seeds talk to me, as you already know if you read my blog posting two days ago. Thanks to Susan, I no longer feel self-conscious talking back to the plants that schedule much of my life. More accurately, perhaps, it's not the plants scheduling me, it's the result of me tracking my holodynes. Lord knows, I do not, what this is all about, but sometimes I think there may be something to it.
"Listen," says Virginia. "Do you hear what I hear?"
I hear her, too, but probably not what she hears. I always hear. Pillows pressed against my ears, I cannot escape chirping, sizzling, humming and pulsing. Just now I heard a mouse trying to slip unnoticed through our heating ducts.
Oh, how could I forget? The chattery quacks of our rambling ducks rarely fail to draw a chuckle.
I loved the movie, "August Rush," always music everywhere.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Fire in the Window
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Buying Time
I'd like a few extra hours each day, same lifespan, same aging per day. It's possible, you know, although I've been a pretty slow learner.
For the past 10 days, off and on, we've been scraping, re-glazing and re-painting our second story windows. After watching me stretch my calves for a couple days and holding on with one hand, while my feet took turns gradually sliding down the slippery copper roof, Karen called our local roofer for suggestions. He had two. One, use C-clamps to fasten a couple small boards to the vertical seal where two roof sections meet, then place a ladder or board above the C-clamp contraption. This worked wonderfully, no more slipping and less need to hold on with one hand.
For extra safety, I wrapped a tie-down around each end of the 2x4 and fastened it to the window shutter hinge base. Here's a photo of one of the tie-downs.
And here's me in action.
"Enough of that stuff," says Virginia. "What was his other suggestion?"
It was a much better one. He suggested we buy time -- the time of two of his employees. They showed up today and nearly finished the job for us. Hallelujah!
For the past 10 days, off and on, we've been scraping, re-glazing and re-painting our second story windows. After watching me stretch my calves for a couple days and holding on with one hand, while my feet took turns gradually sliding down the slippery copper roof, Karen called our local roofer for suggestions. He had two. One, use C-clamps to fasten a couple small boards to the vertical seal where two roof sections meet, then place a ladder or board above the C-clamp contraption. This worked wonderfully, no more slipping and less need to hold on with one hand.
It was a much better one. He suggested we buy time -- the time of two of his employees. They showed up today and nearly finished the job for us. Hallelujah!
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Our Ordinary Kitchen
Welcome to our ordinary kitchen. What's going on today? I'm making iced tea, which is when the thought struck me and I began to look around.
Karen baked some very tasty baguettes, from sourdough starter that, last night, made me wonder if something had hidden somewhere and died in our kitchen.
On the left, hung a few days ago on the chair to dry, waits a cheese bag that drained the whey from the farmhouse cheddar Karen squeezed tight in the cheese press on the right.
Here's the cheese, almost ready to be coated with red wax from the makeshift double-boiler on the right, which saves our good pots and pans from a messy clean-up job. Behind, see the black baguette pan.
Oh, in the window, the bottles in which the base of the cheese -- goat's milk -- is stored.
Enough of the chief cook and bottlewasher, let's move back to my territory. Our friend, Susan, brought us such a tasty Ambrosia melon, I had to think ahead.
"What's on the left?" asks Virginia.
Perhaps she means the red coffee container, which we've converted into either a goat/chicken scrap collector or a temporary compost bin. Or, the antique custard glass? That's where we put the wax we peel off the cheese we eat. Who says we can't use it again?
Hey, who put that in here? It's a basket of garlic, which broke into cloves because I waited too long to dig them up.
Aw, come on. Must you remind me? This spud is lonely because I've abandoned its siblings underground. I must remember to dig them up before the rainy season arrives (when, the next millennium?).
There now, the future of the Ambrosia melon has joined the Georgia Candy Roaster. A gardener always has ladies in waiting.
"Definitely," says Virginia. "It's an ordinary kitchen."
Oh, in the window, the bottles in which the base of the cheese -- goat's milk -- is stored.
Perhaps she means the red coffee container, which we've converted into either a goat/chicken scrap collector or a temporary compost bin. Or, the antique custard glass? That's where we put the wax we peel off the cheese we eat. Who says we can't use it again?
"Definitely," says Virginia. "It's an ordinary kitchen."
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Vacation
This morning, "uh-oh" brought me out of my focus on recent regulatory changes.
Someone had forgotten to fasten the chain on one of the gates to our goat-donkey paddock, so Karen had to coax these guys back home.
This evening, as we strolled through the field you see in the picture beyond the donkeys, we enjoyed this view to the West.
When we reached the James River, it reminded me of Mirror Lake, in New Zealand, on the South Island, which reflects Mount Cook and Mount Tasman.
"Why go on vacation?" asks Virginia.
Right. We live on vacation.
This evening, as we strolled through the field you see in the picture beyond the donkeys, we enjoyed this view to the West.
Right. We live on vacation.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Saving
I remember when my parents' washer died. I'd call it "our washer" except when I moved out, I discovered it wasn't "our house" any more. Like Adam's room upstairs. It's still Adam's room, but the next time he comes home from school he's going to notice some changes. The furniture has been rearranged and some new stuff has joined the picture, including my Kurzweil keyboard. I'm having trouble resisting the view from his front window, so the things that make up my fairly mobile "office" may end up there soon. I'm reminded of the time I thought "my things" could take up space in my parents' shed forever. They asked me to take them to my house.
As for the washer, they didn't rush off to Lowe's to buy a new one, not because there wasn't any Lowes (there wasn't) but because they had to save money first. It seemed like a long time to me, I was just a kid earning about 4 bucks a week delivering the Toledo Blade except when its staff went on strike. Perhaps I missed my steady income, but I remember enjoying the vacation more than anything, like being able to waste time sleeping until 7 or 8 on weekend mornings. Once when I complained about having to get up so early, my dad settled me down with, "you shouldn't worry about that at your age; if you get tired you can take a nap." Nap? What was that? I might spend an afternoon lying on my bed, but most likely I'd have an open book and a bag of fresh applesauce donuts bought for 60 cents a baker's dozen at the downtown bakery, which hasn't been there for a long time. Now we have to make our own.
Sometimes I regret not pretending that we had to save for things like washers and dryers. Our son probably figured our credit card drew from a bottomless pit because we paid it off every month and used the frequent flyer miles to visit places like San Antonio, which I discovered on a business trip, back in the late 80s when Texas real estate dipped in value. Think I'm kidding? The past couple years talking heads have been insisting the current financial crisis was caused in part because real estate values fell, something that had never happened before. I went down to San Antonio to help with some litigation involving badly appraised loan collateral. One house had a hole in the yard, partly dug by a swimming pool contractor who must have not have realized the owner wanted a pool liner. I had returned home with rave reviews about the Riverwalk.
"You're rambling," says Virginia.
Sometimes I like to ramble.
As for the washer, they didn't rush off to Lowe's to buy a new one, not because there wasn't any Lowes (there wasn't) but because they had to save money first. It seemed like a long time to me, I was just a kid earning about 4 bucks a week delivering the Toledo Blade except when its staff went on strike. Perhaps I missed my steady income, but I remember enjoying the vacation more than anything, like being able to waste time sleeping until 7 or 8 on weekend mornings. Once when I complained about having to get up so early, my dad settled me down with, "you shouldn't worry about that at your age; if you get tired you can take a nap." Nap? What was that? I might spend an afternoon lying on my bed, but most likely I'd have an open book and a bag of fresh applesauce donuts bought for 60 cents a baker's dozen at the downtown bakery, which hasn't been there for a long time. Now we have to make our own.
Sometimes I regret not pretending that we had to save for things like washers and dryers. Our son probably figured our credit card drew from a bottomless pit because we paid it off every month and used the frequent flyer miles to visit places like San Antonio, which I discovered on a business trip, back in the late 80s when Texas real estate dipped in value. Think I'm kidding? The past couple years talking heads have been insisting the current financial crisis was caused in part because real estate values fell, something that had never happened before. I went down to San Antonio to help with some litigation involving badly appraised loan collateral. One house had a hole in the yard, partly dug by a swimming pool contractor who must have not have realized the owner wanted a pool liner. I had returned home with rave reviews about the Riverwalk.
"You're rambling," says Virginia.
Sometimes I like to ramble.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Sharing
Do you know what your wife or husband does? Could you fill in if she or he were absent? Sorry singles, you've got a leg up on this one and may want to wait for another blog posting.
In our home, Karen and I have divided the chores in a way that seems to work without giving it much thought (at least, I haven't). One of our elder friends accuses us of reversed roles, which makes us feel special but isn't quite true because Karen does what I don't want to do, which is what men have been arranging for years, and I like to think Karen thinks I do what she doesn't want to do, which is what women have been arranging for years.
She cooks, cleans house, chases the toilets when they run, repairs lighting fixtures, fixes leaking pipes, mows the lawn, weed-eats, scrapes and repaints, rehangs doors, blah-blah-blah. If you've been to her blog, you know how handy she is.
Meanwhile, I sit around and read and write, practice piano, run, play in the gardens, try to fill the basement kitchen with vegetables and some fruits for the winter, and do a little stock and bond watching. Oh heck, you've been to my blog, I don't have to tell you what a girlie slough-off I am.
Anyway, what prompted this to-do was our receipt today of a check in the mail. A few months ago, Karen's doctor prescribed a pill regime that cost $308.31 at a local pharmacy. Karen gave me the receipt and I sent it off to our health insurance company with a cover letter. That's why we received the check today, for $308.31.
"Are you suggesting I wouldn't think of submitting that claim?" asks Virginia.
Maybe. I almost forgot. I understand many spouses feel stranded for a while after their spouses disappear. Many of us have a tendency to do our chores without telling the other what we've done. While Karen and I typically go about our days fairly independent of each other, we both delight in taking a few moments almost every day to show the other what we've done.
Too busy? I understand. I almost forgot to tell Karen about that check. Somewhere around here -- now where did I put them? -- are instructions about some of the things I do, just in case.
In our home, Karen and I have divided the chores in a way that seems to work without giving it much thought (at least, I haven't). One of our elder friends accuses us of reversed roles, which makes us feel special but isn't quite true because Karen does what I don't want to do, which is what men have been arranging for years, and I like to think Karen thinks I do what she doesn't want to do, which is what women have been arranging for years.
She cooks, cleans house, chases the toilets when they run, repairs lighting fixtures, fixes leaking pipes, mows the lawn, weed-eats, scrapes and repaints, rehangs doors, blah-blah-blah. If you've been to her blog, you know how handy she is.
Meanwhile, I sit around and read and write, practice piano, run, play in the gardens, try to fill the basement kitchen with vegetables and some fruits for the winter, and do a little stock and bond watching. Oh heck, you've been to my blog, I don't have to tell you what a girlie slough-off I am.
Anyway, what prompted this to-do was our receipt today of a check in the mail. A few months ago, Karen's doctor prescribed a pill regime that cost $308.31 at a local pharmacy. Karen gave me the receipt and I sent it off to our health insurance company with a cover letter. That's why we received the check today, for $308.31.
"Are you suggesting I wouldn't think of submitting that claim?" asks Virginia.
Maybe. I almost forgot. I understand many spouses feel stranded for a while after their spouses disappear. Many of us have a tendency to do our chores without telling the other what we've done. While Karen and I typically go about our days fairly independent of each other, we both delight in taking a few moments almost every day to show the other what we've done.
Too busy? I understand. I almost forgot to tell Karen about that check. Somewhere around here -- now where did I put them? -- are instructions about some of the things I do, just in case.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
A Room with a View
Karen blogged about my river today, so I will, too.
That's a view of the James River from our master bedroom.
"I don't think so," says Virginia. "It's too wide."
Mamma Mia, that's Capri! Jerry, are you back there? You put in the wrong slide. Getting and keeping a good staff is hard these days.
"Jerry quit yesterday," says Virginia. "He got a better offer."
I thought he wanted an internship, so I offered him one.
"Yeh, well, he found a paying job," says Virginia.
"Good grief," says Virginia. "That looks like a scene from La Boheme. You can't see anything outside the window, certainly not the river."
Shoot, she's right. That would be Opossum Run. Where's the new intern?
I give up. Go ahead, imagine the James River, in one of the mirrors if you like. Or come visit us. We take all of our visitors to our private peninsula, where Karen and I hung out this afternoon.
"I don't think so," says Virginia. "It's too wide."
Mamma Mia, that's Capri! Jerry, are you back there? You put in the wrong slide. Getting and keeping a good staff is hard these days.
"Jerry quit yesterday," says Virginia. "He got a better offer."
I thought he wanted an internship, so I offered him one.
"Yeh, well, he found a paying job," says Virginia.
Shoot, she's right. That would be Opossum Run. Where's the new intern?
Friday, August 27, 2010
The Devil's Marbleyard
The valley rumbles tonight. This summer it rumbles almost every weekend, either from clouds bumping together or sticks of gunpowder shooting skyward....
nothing like it once rumbled, long ago, when native Americans roamed these mountains. Historians will tell you this was hunting ground, not home to permanent settlements, more than a thousand years ago when arrowheads landed in what are now my garden beds. But let me tell you the truth....
a tribe once inhabited the James River Face, this ridge overlooking the James River and Arnold's Valley, back before those names existed....
"What's that white scar on the mountain?" asks Virginia.
No scar, it's a field of Antietam quartzite boulders, some as big as trucks and small houses.
"How did it get there?" Virginia wants to know.
...after two years with barely a drop of rain, the residents of the James River Face were ready to move on. As they gathered their belongings, a couple of missionaries appeared from nowhere. "Pray with us," said the strangers.
"Why?" asked the thirsty natives. "What do we have to be thankful for?"
"These beautiful mountains, the skies, your friends, your families," the missionaries replied.
"The skies bring us nothing but parched lips," said the Americans. "If your god is so important, ask him to bring us water."
The missionaries prayed. They prayed and they prayed, but blue skies mocked them day after day.
Finally, the natives had no more stomach to share the little they had with the crazy strangers. They strung them on wooden crosses, lit a huge bonfire underneath, and began to dance.
Hundreds of feet pounded on the mountainside. The moans of the people echoed through the valley, bouncing back and forth, louder and louder. The dancers failed to notice the sky turning gray, darker and darker, until sparks crashed from cloud to cloud and water streamed down their faces. Under their moccasins, the earth rocked and rumbled, tossed and tumbled, until the mountain fell upon them.
Even if the God of the missionaries had spoken, he was not remembered. Instead, the place became known as "The Devil's Marbleyard."
nothing like it once rumbled, long ago, when native Americans roamed these mountains. Historians will tell you this was hunting ground, not home to permanent settlements, more than a thousand years ago when arrowheads landed in what are now my garden beds. But let me tell you the truth....
a tribe once inhabited the James River Face, this ridge overlooking the James River and Arnold's Valley, back before those names existed....
No scar, it's a field of Antietam quartzite boulders, some as big as trucks and small houses.
"How did it get there?" Virginia wants to know.
...after two years with barely a drop of rain, the residents of the James River Face were ready to move on. As they gathered their belongings, a couple of missionaries appeared from nowhere. "Pray with us," said the strangers.
"Why?" asked the thirsty natives. "What do we have to be thankful for?"
"These beautiful mountains, the skies, your friends, your families," the missionaries replied.
"The skies bring us nothing but parched lips," said the Americans. "If your god is so important, ask him to bring us water."
The missionaries prayed. They prayed and they prayed, but blue skies mocked them day after day.
Finally, the natives had no more stomach to share the little they had with the crazy strangers. They strung them on wooden crosses, lit a huge bonfire underneath, and began to dance.
Hundreds of feet pounded on the mountainside. The moans of the people echoed through the valley, bouncing back and forth, louder and louder. The dancers failed to notice the sky turning gray, darker and darker, until sparks crashed from cloud to cloud and water streamed down their faces. Under their moccasins, the earth rocked and rumbled, tossed and tumbled, until the mountain fell upon them.
Even if the God of the missionaries had spoken, he was not remembered. Instead, the place became known as "The Devil's Marbleyard."
Friday, June 25, 2010
Air Conditioning
I refuse to read the article headed "Couple Tries to Sell Child at WalMart." Give me a break. Our son would have protested, "Is Bloomingdales or Neiman Marcus too far away?"
It's definitely too hot. No, I made no promises during cold January and February. I've always thought cold is better than hot. You can put on more clothes, but at some point you can't take them off.
All this heat calls for research -- into how to cool our house in an environmentally friendly way. It won't happen this summer, so maybe this Fall and Winter I'll set aside some time, although by then I may forget about it. Sort of like pain, when it's over, it's over.
Oh, by the way, over on the left, that's Elk Cliff, the reason our farm is called Elk Cliff Farm. Here's another shot.
I'm also being silly. It's the attitude, stupid. I seem to be regretting my decision to stumble through the financial reform bill. If the weather makes me hot, the obfuscation of Congressional verbiage burns me hotter, but I'm gittin' 'er done. If I didn't pursue this project to make me feel useful, I'd most likely find another one.
We're fortunate our house has a full English basement with a kitchen. The former owner told us the original dining room was downstairs, which makes sense for two reasons -- cooking in the downstairs kitchen would keep the upstairs cooler and carrying meals up the stairs would be very inconvenient. Because our bedroom two floors up is a sauna, we're now sleeping in the dining room. I can bake cookies and pickle beets in my sleep.
"And dream about me," says Virginia.
I roll my eyes. Sheesh.
It's definitely too hot. No, I made no promises during cold January and February. I've always thought cold is better than hot. You can put on more clothes, but at some point you can't take them off.
All this heat calls for research -- into how to cool our house in an environmentally friendly way. It won't happen this summer, so maybe this Fall and Winter I'll set aside some time, although by then I may forget about it. Sort of like pain, when it's over, it's over.
On the other hand, I think I'll have trouble forgetting about getting hotter and hotter running, pulling weeds, hoeing, planting, spreading mulch, reading and not having anywhere to cool off. Forgive me, I'm being stupid, and forgetful. We have a pump with cool well water and a creek with a swimming hole. We should be able to shift that coolness into our house, somehow, and I should be able to find time to jump in.
I'm also being silly. It's the attitude, stupid. I seem to be regretting my decision to stumble through the financial reform bill. If the weather makes me hot, the obfuscation of Congressional verbiage burns me hotter, but I'm gittin' 'er done. If I didn't pursue this project to make me feel useful, I'd most likely find another one.
We're fortunate our house has a full English basement with a kitchen. The former owner told us the original dining room was downstairs, which makes sense for two reasons -- cooking in the downstairs kitchen would keep the upstairs cooler and carrying meals up the stairs would be very inconvenient. Because our bedroom two floors up is a sauna, we're now sleeping in the dining room. I can bake cookies and pickle beets in my sleep.
"And dream about me," says Virginia.
I roll my eyes. Sheesh.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Working Vacation
Set your suitcase down at our house and you're liable to find yourself aching for a nap and early bedtime. At 5:45 this morning, Larry and I were nibbling cereal and imbibing grape juice. By 6:30 we were gently paddling the James River. Mist obscured Blue Ridge peaks, draping curtains from the sky. "Do you see them?" I asked, hoping I didn't have a detached retina. I relaxed as our kayaks parted the low-floating sky. This sort of thing, cool temperatures, and no one in sight, make a morning float worthwhile.
"See the drooping pawpaws?" points Larry, "in Alabama we rarely find ripe fruit because wildlife gets there first." "Not so in Virginia," I answer, "we picked ten grocery bags last summer. Karen made a pie and pawpaw wine."
Larry's my go-to guy for nature lessons. Last week on his way North, he gave us an American chestnut tree to plant (mostly American, perhaps as much as 1/8th Chinese to make it blight-resistant). Knowing he was stopping again on his way South, I made sure I got that sucker in the ground. Besides, I believe we should invest in future generations and, if I'm lucky, we may get to roast some of its chestnuts before we die. I also like the symbolism of blending Chinese and American cultures, a sign of future times as well as the past -- my father, though he was born in Bluffton, Ohio, lived until his early twenties in that land that no longer seems far away.
Needing more mulch for my garden, Boxerwood Gardens was a perfect fit for our next stop. Boxerwood, in Lexington, is an environmental education center. I like contributing to Boxerwood (http://www.boxerwood.org/) because I can support two interests at once -- the environment and childhood education.
KB loaded up my pickup while Larry and I toured the grounds. Quickly recognizing Dr. Munger's passion for exotic trees, Larry said, "I've never seen such a large grove of human-planted Bottlebrush Buckeyes, native to Alabama. The evening fragrance of these blossoms is incredible." They didn't smell too bad in the morning either. Everywhere we went, different varieties of Japanese maples greeted us. Admiring what is affectionately called "The Great Oak" prompted a short lecture on dendrochronology, tree-ring dating. Larry anxiously awaited a dendrochronologist's report on a beam sample recently taken from his wife's family homestead. Later, back at Elk Cliff Farm (our home), Larry identified two post oaks (quercus stellata) and explained that these 3-4 foot diameter trees easily could be older than the 10-foot plus "Great Oak" because post oaks are very slow-growing trees. Later he complimented a cedar-crowded American Elm that stands along our fence line. Let me tell you, Larry can come again any time -- he helps make our place feel very special.
Then came that nap I warned you about, two hours for Larry. I nodded briefly, then planted a few rows of Blue Lake green beans and some sweet corn. Remember that pickup full of mulch? When Larry came to, off we went to my field garden to carefully lay the mulch on a protective barrier of miscellaneous materials (magazines, newspapers, cardboard boxes, rugs, blankets and plastic) underneath my electric fence. While he kindly agreed it should prevent me from having to periodically whack weeds so they don't short the fence, I don't think it reassured him of my sanity.
"I'm not sure anything could do that," says Virginia, "ask Jerry and Kathy."
At 9:15, Larry began to hint that his 2-hour nap needed renewal.
"See the drooping pawpaws?" points Larry, "in Alabama we rarely find ripe fruit because wildlife gets there first." "Not so in Virginia," I answer, "we picked ten grocery bags last summer. Karen made a pie and pawpaw wine."
Larry's my go-to guy for nature lessons. Last week on his way North, he gave us an American chestnut tree to plant (mostly American, perhaps as much as 1/8th Chinese to make it blight-resistant). Knowing he was stopping again on his way South, I made sure I got that sucker in the ground. Besides, I believe we should invest in future generations and, if I'm lucky, we may get to roast some of its chestnuts before we die. I also like the symbolism of blending Chinese and American cultures, a sign of future times as well as the past -- my father, though he was born in Bluffton, Ohio, lived until his early twenties in that land that no longer seems far away.
Needing more mulch for my garden, Boxerwood Gardens was a perfect fit for our next stop. Boxerwood, in Lexington, is an environmental education center. I like contributing to Boxerwood (http://www.boxerwood.org/) because I can support two interests at once -- the environment and childhood education.
KB loaded up my pickup while Larry and I toured the grounds. Quickly recognizing Dr. Munger's passion for exotic trees, Larry said, "I've never seen such a large grove of human-planted Bottlebrush Buckeyes, native to Alabama. The evening fragrance of these blossoms is incredible." They didn't smell too bad in the morning either. Everywhere we went, different varieties of Japanese maples greeted us. Admiring what is affectionately called "The Great Oak" prompted a short lecture on dendrochronology, tree-ring dating. Larry anxiously awaited a dendrochronologist's report on a beam sample recently taken from his wife's family homestead. Later, back at Elk Cliff Farm (our home), Larry identified two post oaks (quercus stellata) and explained that these 3-4 foot diameter trees easily could be older than the 10-foot plus "Great Oak" because post oaks are very slow-growing trees. Later he complimented a cedar-crowded American Elm that stands along our fence line. Let me tell you, Larry can come again any time -- he helps make our place feel very special.
Then came that nap I warned you about, two hours for Larry. I nodded briefly, then planted a few rows of Blue Lake green beans and some sweet corn. Remember that pickup full of mulch? When Larry came to, off we went to my field garden to carefully lay the mulch on a protective barrier of miscellaneous materials (magazines, newspapers, cardboard boxes, rugs, blankets and plastic) underneath my electric fence. While he kindly agreed it should prevent me from having to periodically whack weeds so they don't short the fence, I don't think it reassured him of my sanity.
"I'm not sure anything could do that," says Virginia, "ask Jerry and Kathy."
At 9:15, Larry began to hint that his 2-hour nap needed renewal.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Old Man River
"Water is gold," a friend of ours insists. Elk Creek and the James River border our little farm on three sides. Strangers flock to fish from our shores or take out or put in for a day's float. We feel fortunate and inclined to say yes.
Sometimes we wonder at presumptuous users and takers, like those who carve a tree without asking, who plop down and don't look up as we walk past, who leave their trash for us to dispose, or, almost incredibly, have the nerve to pass our permissions along to others. Do they listen to the words when they sing along "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" with Aretha?
Sunday, as we relaxed on our peninsula, a flotilla of tubes approached, floating suspiciously close to our shore. I hesitate to use the word "our" -- to claim ownership of this natural beauty seems almost a sacrilege -- but then when I see what too often happens (for example, BP in the Gulf of Mexico), I wish I could buy more and exclude every stranger.
The apparent captain of the flotilla hailed us as his cohorts stuck their toes back into their shoes, dismounted and shoved their gear onto our shoreline. This explained the presence of the unfamiliar pickup we had earlier considered locking into our field. Captain B inquired, "Enjoying the River?" I said, "Yes, and you?" "Hi, I'm _____; R gave us permission and unlocked the gate for us this morning." "Oh he did?" said I, "...well, things have gotten out of control so we're going to put a different lock on the gate and from now on we'll expect everyone to ask us for permission each time they enter."
Not an auspicious beginning perhaps, but Captain B grew on us, proving to be loquacious and somewhat likeable.
"Lived here all my life," said he, and eventually, "if anyone bothers you, let me know and if I can I'll make things right." He mentioned that his grandparents were cremated in a trailer fire a few years ago and the big C claimed his father shortly after. His grandmother left him a house free and clear. "All I have to do is foot the taxes," he said.
"You've got a great place here," he continued, "fenced in so my pit bull, basically an overgrown chihuahua, can't get out and a guy can drink a couple beers without a hassle. Lots of good-lookin' women pass by. I can look but can't do anything about it, now that I'm married."
I asked, "Do you have any kids?" He said, "No, but I like practicing." I laughed, "That's good for you."
"He didn't really say that, did he?" asks Virginia.
He did, indeed.
Sometimes we wonder at presumptuous users and takers, like those who carve a tree without asking, who plop down and don't look up as we walk past, who leave their trash for us to dispose, or, almost incredibly, have the nerve to pass our permissions along to others. Do they listen to the words when they sing along "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" with Aretha?
The apparent captain of the flotilla hailed us as his cohorts stuck their toes back into their shoes, dismounted and shoved their gear onto our shoreline. This explained the presence of the unfamiliar pickup we had earlier considered locking into our field. Captain B inquired, "Enjoying the River?" I said, "Yes, and you?" "Hi, I'm _____; R gave us permission and unlocked the gate for us this morning." "Oh he did?" said I, "...well, things have gotten out of control so we're going to put a different lock on the gate and from now on we'll expect everyone to ask us for permission each time they enter."
Not an auspicious beginning perhaps, but Captain B grew on us, proving to be loquacious and somewhat likeable.
"Lived here all my life," said he, and eventually, "if anyone bothers you, let me know and if I can I'll make things right." He mentioned that his grandparents were cremated in a trailer fire a few years ago and the big C claimed his father shortly after. His grandmother left him a house free and clear. "All I have to do is foot the taxes," he said.
"You've got a great place here," he continued, "fenced in so my pit bull, basically an overgrown chihuahua, can't get out and a guy can drink a couple beers without a hassle. Lots of good-lookin' women pass by. I can look but can't do anything about it, now that I'm married."
I asked, "Do you have any kids?" He said, "No, but I like practicing." I laughed, "That's good for you."
"He didn't really say that, did he?" asks Virginia.
He did, indeed.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Babies
I can identify with the peony. "Now, where did I put my comb?"
I'm off track already. I want to show you some of the babies on our place. Momma Wren chose to build her nest in a little medicine cabinet Karen installed in our goat barn.
Have you noticed that peas pop out of the pea blossoms?
Another day or too and they're well on their way.
Our potatoes are going to blossom soon, which reminds me of a fellow who looked down his nose at me when I said we grow potatoes. "They're so cheap in the store," said he. Yes, I agree, you get what you pay for.
These chive flowers aren't exactly babies. The chives have been growing for several years. Like most things, it's a matter of perspective. Aren't they pretty? If they're attractive enough, these flowers will be replaced by seeds, next year's babies.
"I understand you have something special for any California guys or girls out there," says Virginia.
"Yes, despite the lack of salty breezes," I say. "You tell me, what is this?"
"Yes, despite the lack of salty breezes," I say. "You tell me, what is this?"
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Tent Caterpillar Control
Today, taxes done, we attacked our tent caterpillars, which I began to notice a week ago. While mowing this afternoon, Karen spotted nests in our orchard and promptly let me know. My bad, I should be checking the orchard each morning when I do my gardening round. Here's a nest in a crabapple tree.
What do we do? First, put on a rubber glove. It's unnecessary, the creatures don't bite, but makes things a bit more appetizing until, ten thousand caterpillars later, you're used to the idea and the holes that have developed in glove fingertips don't matter.
Next, either grab the nest and peel it off to deposit it in a bucket of soapy water, or if it's out of arm's reach, prune off its host branch. I gain some height by setting my ladder in the bed of my pickup.
Next, I empty the little guys in the bucket. Our chickens weren't interested in either the nests or the soup.
I don't usually put meat in my compost bins, but this looked so good I couldn't resist.
Virginia pipes up, "You forgot to tell us what you did with the pruned branches."
Our goats love them. Here's Luti snacking.
(By the way, Luti and I have this thing. She even let me milk her on my birthday.)
What do we do? First, put on a rubber glove. It's unnecessary, the creatures don't bite, but makes things a bit more appetizing until, ten thousand caterpillars later, you're used to the idea and the holes that have developed in glove fingertips don't matter.
Next, either grab the nest and peel it off to deposit it in a bucket of soapy water, or if it's out of arm's reach, prune off its host branch. I gain some height by setting my ladder in the bed of my pickup.
Next, I empty the little guys in the bucket. Our chickens weren't interested in either the nests or the soup.
Our goats love them. Here's Luti snacking.
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