Lucky Me

I’ve been lucky in many ways during my lifetime, but not with winning prizes. This is partially genetic. My mother used to say that one of our friends and her family won everything, and indeed, it seemed true. The only thing we ever won was a turkey at a Shriner’s holiday dinner, and once a doll for me.

Waco attempted to rejuvenate the downtown area about 1958. The festivities included a contest to name and win a life-sized, walking doll. In the name of rampant consumerism, my mother offered the name, “Ima Bargainhunter” and won the doll. I was almost too old for it, more a tree-climbing, pony-riding tomboy, committed to an ancient rag doll and a couple of Barbies. So after a few outings, Ima was boxed up and stored with some gorgeous Madame Alexander dolls I hadn’t much use for either. My daughter eventually discovered Ima, and enjoyed her until the poor, brittle, decades-old body lost a couple of fingers and an arm. Ima was retired to the doll hospital after that and sadly, never emerged intact. The Madame Alexanders are stored in my studio now and should probably be sold on eBay. They’ll have to bury the rag doll with me.

When my son was young, I won a skateboard for him. I think that was the extent of any winning between Ima Bargainhunter and present.  Zack won the Guillain-Barre Syndrome lottery, only 17 in a million, a prize no one wanted. But our luck changed a bit last week with a call from Brookshire’s. Turned out three managers wanted to rush out to the ranch RIGHT AWAY to personally present me with a $50. gift card. Seems I had been entered automatically whenever I presented my Brookshire’s card and purchased Food Club items.  We cook A LOT. Well, woohoo / whoopee! But you want to come NOW when I’m frantic? Really?

I was in the middle of using all those great Brookshire’s products to produce the usual gluten-free fare for my daughter’s weekend visit, goodies to take to a hospitalized cousin, homemade bread and two stellar appetizers for a party we were helping host in Waco that evening. I was running late, as usual. If that salmon mousse didn’t chill at least four hours, my favorite copper fish mold would certainly produce a big plop of salmon mush when flipped over later. (It should have been made the day before). Did I mention that my kitchen was a huge mess?

 

I thanked the manager profusely, and asked if perhaps we could delay the home visit. There was a long pause. Jason Beard asked, “How about twenty or thirty minutes?” I came close to replying, in the midst of my cooking/ prep madness, “Well, thanks, but no thanks. It’s not a good time”. But something stopped me. After all, this was such a nice gesture, and fifty bucks is fifty bucks, even if it did seem a bit of overkill hoopla these days when most trips to the grocery cost $100 or more. Never look a gift horse in the mouth. “It won’t take long, will it?” I asked somewhat ungratefully. You have no idea how rushed I was. It made me seem rude.

I dashed to the workshop, asked Zack to please unlock the front gate. “They won’t come into the house, will they?” he wondered, knowing how it looked just then. Well, certainly not. So we met the three managers outside (all of whom I know well and have asked over the years to please find this or that product for me if they could. And most times they did). They gave me the card and asked if I’d like to win more. I think I asked whom I had to kill.  No, I asked what I had to do. “Just take us inside and show us all your Food Club items!”

WooHoo ! Winner!!!

So much for embarrassment over the mess, but I was still checking my watch. My daughter followed. We all marched into the little kitchen which was hard pressed to hold six full-sized human adults. I pulled out 22 items, was told to stop. We cleared /moved the table on which I’d been prepping, lined up items, took a picture with Jason, balloons and a huge replica of the gift card I’d later receive for more than the promised $50. It was like winning Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes (except not that much).

Thanks for the wonderful surprise, Brookshire’s! And the salmon mousse did OK too.

The Zacharias Technique

Zack and I aren’t your typical family. I’ve admitted in print that we’re not “baby people”, which would certainly make us seem almost inhuman to many. (We like babies fine from afar, appreciate them and revel in your joy of children and grandchildren. We’ll adore and dote upon any presented to us by our own. We just don’t want to kiss, hug and squeeze every random infant we encounter like most true “baby people” I know. OK, so that’s one way we’re different.

We choose to live in an old, drafty farmhouse in the country, on a ranch that’s rather a work camp. That’s another difference. We’d rather make something or read than watch network television or reality TV. We’re opinionated, stubborn and discuss ideas.

Another difference will make us seem positively un-American. We don’t like sports on TV. Zack did previously, but with current filming techniques, he tunes in no longer. The cameramen pan the crowd for strangers cleaning fingernails, using cell phones, chewing gum. More reality TV. No thanks. Sportscasters impart useless fluff, attempt wit and fill air time. There are close-ups of players’ and coaches’ faces. Rarely do you view the whole field/court to follow the entire play. I never, ever enjoyed sports on TV, would rather watch paint dry.

As far as driving to a stadium in heavy traffic and paying good money to park one’s car in what will later become grid lock; it’s a joy we avoid, having both previously experienced that pleasure.  This must be why God invented beer and tailgating, like scopolamine for childbirth decades ago. (Google it). After the substance hits the system, the patient remembers no pain.  Beer makes sporting events possible. Even in the comfort of one’s own home, it dulls the senses enough to survive the down times.  This isn’t the only beneficial effect of beer, but without it, where would sports be?

Stadium sticker shock is enough to send one back to the couch, chips and cooler. Prices of tickets, drinks and food have risen to the point that the average American family (if there are any left) is unable to enjoy a day at the ballpark/ stadium for under several hundred dollars. This is no less than a national tragedy. Saving enough money to take the kids to a game (or likely putting it on credit cards and agonizing later) is now akin to saving for vacation. Folks wish to share a happy childhood memory with their children. It’s not right that a parent must mortgage the farm to make it happen or sit in the nosebleed section.

Zack and I were discussing the taxes people pay in certain cities to build large sports stadiums and arenas. Does this benefit the actual tax-paying resident who can’t afford a ticket every week? Does the renown of a major sports team (when winning) in one’s own fair city put money back into this guy’s pocket? Is it worth it?  I say no. It may bring business to the municipality and money to other pockets, but it will never find its way back to the average citizen. Are bragging rights for “your team” (a bunch of sometimes fairly otherwise worthless guys you’ll never know) worth it? How many big teams (or their multi-millionaire player/ heroes) pitch in to help build “their new house”?

The die-hard, inveterate football fan might reverse our own preferred Zacharias Process described at the end; use the wonders of modern technology to watch ONLY football. This means no commentary or cheap filler/ banter during time-outs and injuries. Just pure football; athletics the way sports was meant to be. Zack did a quasi-scientific study.  Each play takes an average of approximately 8 seconds. Say there are 30 plays a quarter. This would be 240 seconds x 4 quarters =almost 1000 seconds. Divided by 60 that’s about 15 minutes of real action. Using the Zacharias Technique, one might distill the entire game viewing down to fifteen minutes, leaving the remainder of the afternoon for other activities including more enjoyment of refreshments and the company of any guests who shared the vision.

OK, enough ranting. Bottom line is that the DVR that Zack never wanted but now loves paid for itself during the Super Bowl. We weren’t inside glued to the game or Madonna’s halftime show, but we did save it all to fast forward for the commercials. Not having to watch the pregame show or actual football; satisfying. Not suffering Madonna; awesome. Viewing only commercials in about ten minutes; priceless.

The Smoky Eye

I’m on the verge of cancelling my subscription to my last fashion magazine. All these years I’ve perpetuated the myth in my own mind that it’s possible to be fashionable in my current lifestyle. Maybe not so much. Perhaps it’s time I accept reality. I spend most of my time in well-worn jeans and patched, ripped and perpetually stained work clothes. This is real life, my life. I get really dirty on a regular basis.  Still, I continue to buy “good clothes” as if I need them, as if I frequent really nice places on a regular basis. I don’t. But hope apparently springs eternal. Or delusion simply persists. I don’t live in New Orleans, New York or Miami any longer. I’m ready to accept this reality.

Even at this age, in this place, I’ve tried to stay current with whatever Madison Avenue has shoved down our throats as “must have”, au currant fashion. A piece here, a piece there. A little lace when lace is in style. Recently I read about the popularity of “the smoky eye”. For pity’s sake, I’ve been doing the smoky eye for over thirty years and never stopped. Why mess with success? It’s simple, fast, and easy. You don’t need expensive cosmetics to produce the desired result. It makes eyes look bigger and better. The smoky eye is a can’t-fail technique, tried and true. And it’s in magazines yet again. Everything comes back around with time. It finally dawned on me that for younger women who buy these magazines, these styles, ideas and techniques are new. Well, duhhhh. This was a rather startling, if glaringly obvious revelation.

When a woman reaches a certain age, she’s likely gone through several permutations of smoky eyes, straight, curly, long, bobbed, big hair, and iterations of metallics, bell bottoms, straight, skinny, cropped pants, previously called pedal pushers or Capri’s. The more mature among us remember when flip flops were called thongs which are now something else entirely. We’ve been through high, low, kitten and weirdly shaped heels, ballet slippers, pointed, round, square, and peep toes.  Live a few decades and see skirt lengths, widths and styles rise, fall, and change. Bags have been horizontal, vertical, shoulder strap, hand held, satchel, small, large and huge. I prefer huge.  We’ve gone through rustic, preppy, frilly, nautical and masculine fashion trends, to name a few. Where once it was necessary to stick to one look each season to remain in style, it seems now that anything goes. Why do I need a magazine to tell me what to do? And at this age, I rarely heed advice from anyone on just about any subject, so why fashion?

After a while, you feel you’ve seen it all. There’s been one notable exception lately, and that’s the cage shoe. I must admit that one was a big, strange surprise. Never really saw this before. How in the world did shoe designers come up with such a weird look and manage to sell it to a gullible public?  Well, they do it all the time. Why am I so surprised? I still can’t get used to it, possibly because it looks so much better on long, skinny, young legs). But I bought a pair anyway. They may be my last, great fashion hurrah/ mistake.

The only place I can usually wear my cage shoes or any of my other fashionable clothing or accessories is to religious services or to the Cliftex movie theater. At the Cliftex, friends need a couple of glances to recognize me when I’m dressed up. They always look shocked and surprised. This makes me realize how ratty I must look when I run to town for barbed wire or range cubes. You can get away with this in the country, thank goodness. So maybe cage shoes would look a little silly, too extreme. I usually don’t have time to change out of my ranch clothes before dashing to the movies anyway. I should make more of an effort to knock off work earlier to “clean up good”. So if you see me dressed up, please don’t laugh. At some point I’ll feel I must wear the great clothes I’ve collected all these years while I was so interested in fashion. In style or not, I’ll need to use them to justify the investment. I’ll be that weird old lady who drives her dilapidated farm truck to town, shopping for Geritol in high heels, wrapped in an ancient, moth-eaten fur coat.

Fashion Fairy, the ultimate authority!

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Pigpen Patios; the end of an era

The End of an Era / Pigpen Patios

I can’t remember a time when there wasn’t a pigpen on this ranch, even if there were no little porkers in residence. As recently as when my kids were small, there were still piglets raised here. Actually that’s not so recent now. It’s been at least two decades since the last pig departed, and the intricate maze of pens and small buildings had fallen into sad disrepair. We tried to ignore the eyesore, far from the houses. There were more pressing concerns. The pigpen was on the back burner.

In our continuing efforts to class up the act around this old, beloved place, Zack considered refurbishing one or more of the porcine palaces, turning them into little sheds of some sort. He always brings work upon himself when he has these ideas. But that’s why things around here look 100% better than they have in years. When he says, “You know, I’ve been thinking . . . . “, I’m certain I’ll be helping with yet another huge project. And the pig pen seemed such a big job. But we’ve tackled big jobs before. A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step (Chinese philosopher Laozi). Put another way, the best way to eat an elephant one bite at a time. Getting started is always the toughest part.

Upon closer examination of all possibilities, Zack discovered a caved roof on the largest building. Opportunities for refurbishment were dismal all around. Sadly, it appeared all structures were in the same dilapidated state. Rescue wasn’t an option, and I admit I was more than a little disappointed. After all, we’ve happily and successfully resurrected other things out here that most folks suggested we simply set fire to. I hated to see the pigpens go after such a long history. We did manage to leave one small building intact for sentimental reasons, pure nostalgia. It will need a bit of shoring up. But that can wait. In the good ol’ days, the pigs even had their own very shallow “swimming pool”. It was never, ah, sanitized. Now it’s full of fallen, rotting leaves and other debris. I jokingly refer to it as “the reflecting pool”. We’ll see if we can pretty it up a little. Fish are out of the question. Even the youngest raccoon could go hunting for dinner in this little pond.

Surveying the damage

Demolition became the reluctant, new plan. Our friend Ron helped Zack remove the old structures, hauled away the tin and other metal. Zack trimmed up salvageable trees, removed others along with sticker vines and weedy, invasive bushes. All possible grape vines were saved, along with certain sections of fence that supported them. Some of the vines appear to be very old. Come spring we’ll discover if they produce respectably-sized mustang grapes or the tiny variety that seem good only for decoration.

Say bu-bye to the pigpens.

My daughter Becca and I have helped with the clean-up when possible. With much elbow grease, we took down fences, rolled up old wire, lopped limbs and small trees, chain-sawed larger ones, clipped our way through generations of undergrowth.  There have been several impressive bonfires. A few old tools and “treasures” were discovered; curious things like a single, glass punch cup, an old metal sign, a fresno hidden under the thick growth of vines/ bushes, an old, corner sink, a large, glass jug still containing a liquid of questionable origin or perhaps vintage. Zack will transform one very large and interesting piece of wood into the top of a custom coffee table, yet another of his “Zacharias Reclamation Projects”.

up in smoke

Several large, rough, concrete “slabs” will remain amongst the green, rolling hills of our new “Pig Patios”. These will provide a good base to showcase/store our many antique, horse-drawn farm implements. These have been here since well before I was born. As we’ve discovered them scattered all around the ranch, often sunk deeply into the earth with trees growing through, Zack has lovingly and painstakingly freed them from their prison of years. The concrete will provide a surface that cannot grow up in weeds or trap them again in Mother Nature’s “loving arms”. What was once an active, agricultural pen/ compound and then an eyesore is being transformed. It’s fast becoming a lovely vista overlooking our stock tank (during the rare, wet times it’s full of water). Honestly the view is now pretty even without the water. Who could have imagined we’d really turn this old sow’s ear into a silk purse?

Not a bad view now (when there's water in the tank)

the "reflecting pool"

one of many burn piles

Technology Overload

I thought perhaps my impatience with technology overload was a function of age, but lately I’m thinking it affects everyone.  It might even be harder on younger folks. Watching my children in their demanding jobs, I see no end to the business text messages, emails and phone calls. Their days no longer end at 5, 6, or even 7:00 PM, and it’s difficult to discern the weekends. The work never stops, no matter where they are.

Will people finally revolt from this unending techno-overload? Or will they just accept it as the price of remaining employed? Will certain large companies continue to take unfair advantage of employees, working them harder and longer, demanding more and more of their waking moments, until they achieve meltdown?  When is enough enough?

I thought programming a VCR was difficult, but I survived it. That was over two decades ago. Now I cringe when I replace my cell phone or computer, or learn a new system. Thank goodness my children help me with various upgrades. Our phones are the simplest available. We’ve resisted the dive into the more expensive world of texting and smart phones.

Technological advances come so quickly now that the “next generation” of any device may require a demanding, new learning curve.  When we acquired our DVR receiver a couple of years ago, I handed the controls to Zack, King of the Remote. I have enough to do. This is the one techie device he’ll stretch himself to manipulate to its every possible advantage. (Mind you, this is the same man who will find the patience to spend hours teaching himself to use a dovetailing machine in his woodworking shop). He fought tooth and nail against upgrading to the DVR. But he enjoys the ability to save old and new movies, skip through sections, go backward and forward. Probably a control thing.  I can change channels and volume, pause, speed forward and go in reverse. But I don’t even attempt anything else. If it’s set to record, I don’t touch it.

I finally own an MP-3 player. My son added the music and suggested I might toss our cassette and CD players. Had he lost his mind?  We’re enjoying our second, improved digital camera, but he first was easier. My computer back-up system promises to save pictures in perpetuity. Both my son’s hard drives failed at once and he lost all of his. What are the chances?  I fear it will become more difficult to develop actual film in the future. I love the new GPS my kids gave me. It’s a big improvement over our old one, but just as bossy. It has a larger, touch screen (my first), and is easy to operate.  My Kindle reader is a marvel.  I was oh-so-proud of transferring a file from email attachment to computer to Kindle, all by myself.

We’ve added several new devices to our lives in the last few months, holiday or birthday gifts from each other or the children. I have yet to unpack and try two of them, so uncertain am I of learning another BIG NEW THING. Zack reminds me of the sewing machine purchased two years ago and as yet unpacked. My ancient ones were failing. Rather than take the time to learn the intricacies of a new one, I’ve been relying on my aunt’s tiny, old Featherweight Singer. If I will just begin, it won’t be difficult.  It’s the starting that’s the hard part.

Recently I purchased a refurbished, somewhat complicated coffee grinder/maker. It arrived with DVD tutorial, and I was terrified to try it. Along with glowing Internet testimonials from satisfied customers, there were negative reviews/ horror stories for every brand and model. Checking product reviews on the Internet is like researching medical conditions. Both can be helpful, but often frightening. You know that old saying about a little knowledge being a dangerous thing. There are customers who bought lemons, didn’t read or follow directions. Sometimes the problem is the product. Other times it’s operator error. Reviews can be misleading and even alarming. Eventually one must simply bite the bullet, dive into the technology pool, purchase the product, and go from there.  This earns one the right to complain, sometimes in print.

We try to keep our lives as simple as possible, but “progress” is making it difficult. My old camcorder produced a huge VHS tape. It was EASY, but heavy. Now VHS tapes are becoming as old-fashioned as vinyl records and cassette tapes. This new camcorder will be different, until mini DVD discs give way to something else, memory sticks, I suspect. I’m working up my courage now to remove this thing from the box before it becomes obsolete.

Our Changing World

The Internet has changed things. When I think about it, I’m thunderstruck. The following observations are only the tip of the iceberg:

There are “stores” that aren’t brick and mortar. They exist only in cyber space. Even known companies offer catalogues and encourage ordering online along with help lines and customer service. We can find almost anything under the sun from anywhere in the world, pay shipping instead of gas from the comfort of home. The desired item appears at our door. EBay and Amazon are king.

There are insurance companies, banks, stock brokers and investment counselors available in the ether of the Internet. With no overhead, they offer lower rates. Warranties are available online for most purchases.

There’s a website called Snopes to check the veracity of incoming email forwards. Snopes will confirm if it’s urban legend, true quote, a bunch of malarkey, part true/ part false, or perhaps exaggeration. Finally a definitive authority. I love it.

People can work from home, in their pajamas if they wish. Or less. Folks telecommute.

We can look up definitions and spelling online at the touch of a key or with a few mouse clicks, research almost any subject. The possibilities are endless (as are the nights I stay awake much too late reading, reading, reading, and learning.

Streaming is something that has nothing to do with boating, tubing, rivers or waterways. One can watch TV on the computer.  Between that and reality TV, companies no longer pay for commercial time on certain TV shows. Soap operas are dropping like flies, I understand. I suspect this has to do with the ages of viewers. Companies who buy air time want to appeal to the spending public. That age group is growing younger and younger, as it always does. This also explains the shift in country music stations’ offerings of “new country” which really isn’t country at all. It explains why oldies radio now plays selections from the 70’s and 80’s (NOT old) instead of the 50’s and 60’s (OLD). Thank goodness for Sirius Radio and Cousin Brucie.

Music, movies and books are available free online. Some of this is legal and some not so much. The stealing of identities from online information is definitely NOT. Internet scams abound. Beware.

Reviews of products and even medical procedures are available online for edification and contribution. Take them with a grain of salt and they can be of use.  Again, the same caveat is offered for either category.

There’s now something called Pinterest, an interactive website that almost takes the place of browsing magazines, with many categories like home furnishings and fashion. “Real” magazines are going the way of soap operas. When I tried to find Country Home /Living magazines last year, only one was still available. I ordered. It arrived each month, a pale, sad ghost of its former self. I won’t renew.  Magazines that are still making it have online extensions.

Don’t even get me started on Face Book, YouTube, and Skype. (I’m still resisting Twitter and the others). Social networks have changed the ways we interact with each other and the world. Ten or twenty years ago, something like Skype was science fiction. I never thought to see it my lifetime. But I thought that about microwaves, my first Apple computer with the green screen and black type, and cell phones. I’m sure my parents were just as amazed with radio and TV, the replacement of body parts, and so forth.  My father lived 98 years. In his lifetime, he saw the automobile replace horse-drawn conveyances and air travel become commonplace. At a more basic level, he saw indoor plumbing, and electricity standard in homes, modern conveniences and appliances.

The list of modern inventions is almost endless and mind-boggling.  I wonder what we’ll look back on one day and marvel about. I’m already astounded to the point of delight simply by Ziploc bags, crazy glue and a zillion other things we take for granted, I still wonder what we’d do without heat and air conditioning. I’ve read that the three things most responsible for increased longevity and quality of life of human beings are sewage systems, antibiotics and dental care.

My grandparents, parents and their siblings couldn’t have imagined the multitude of changes in the last three decades, from crazy glue to organ replacement.  And surely we cannot imagine the changes that will occur in the next decades. It’ll be a very, very interesting ride.

Does anyone else ever think of all this, or is it only me?

Happy Feet 2, my own review. R-rated

We didn’t see the first Happy Feet movie, so maybe it was just as strange. The second one should be rated “W for weird”.  Seriously. The guys who conceived and executed this extravaganza had to have been extremely high and/or under the strong influence of illegal pharmaceuticals when they joined all the disparate parts and connected the dots. Some of it was unabashed revival meeting. There was the obligatory and ubiquitous Bogus Preacher type who had been saved from catastrophe, and returned to the flock to tell the tale.  There was an Old Geezer Penguin shaped more like a vulture. He was supposed to be the wise leader (I think). There was the Special One who wasn’t at all what he appeared to be (as if there were ever any doubt). There was a happy little family and lots of parental love, some sacrifice and bravery. There was even a little tongue when the Special One (in a particularly sleazy moment) tried to pick up the Mama of the happy little penguin family. That was VERY STRANGE.

There are the Big Messages all the way through, LOTS of them, like every one ever invented: You don’t have to be big to win. Everyone gets made fun of at one time or another. Good friends stick together. You can be different and it’s OK. If you all pull together, you can accomplish the unthinkable, even if you’re different colors or species. Maybe you don’t have to follow the herd, or flock or school — or whatever krill swim in —-swarm, I think they called it. If you believe in yourself you can do anything (well, maybe not, but then get back up and try something else. Sometimes the guy who seems like the savior/hero really isn’t as good as your own, ol’ Dad. Stuff like that.

There was the obligatory uplifting song and —-of course dance— the invented genre of Irish clogging combined somehow with rap/ hip-hop overtones (performed by penguins who spoke as if raised in the ghetto. The creators stopped short of gang hand signals unless I missed them in all the movement. I’d be willing to bet I did). One dance that was more Latin, to go with the more Latin genus or species of penguin. Most of the characters sounded of African American heritage, as did the female lead singer. Some were obviously Hispanic, as noted, one  Aussie, some Irish. There was a Rastafarian moment, a vegetarian moment, a global warming moment. There was yodeling, obviously not from any ghetto I could ever have conjured up in my wildest of dreams. An operatic performance burst forth at an unexpected moment from a surprising source. Well maybe not so surprising— which of course turned the tide. The only concession to reality amid all these parables and subliminal and not so subliminal messages was the hard reality that penguins truly cannot fly. But really, why inject reality into a fantastic cartoon where penguins dance and speak?

There were the bullies turned heroes who came through in the end. There were kids who shamed a parent into doing the right thing, the offspring who wouldn’t allow a parent to quit when the going got tough. You had microscopic, crustacean Krill Philosophers who at one point interpret tap dancing is “an attempt to escape the existential realities of life”— our favorite line of the entire film. The dancing’s existential effect initiated seismic activity to release the penguins from their icy predicament. The Krill metaphorically clicked their heels together and finally said, “There’s no place like home”. (We did laugh at the Krill banter). There was a plethora packed into one movie,  a vast understatement. I was exhausted when we left the theater.  The graphics or animation (or whatever it’s called now) was astounding, natch.

I have to wonder if this overwhelming mish-mash of input appeared to an innocent, inexperienced child as pure, enjoyable story without all the worldly, cultural and possibly Biblical references. —I’m guessing it stood as just a true visual extravaganza with  nagging subconscious morality tales. There WERE no children in the audience. It was adult night at the Cliftex. And the crowd was far from enormous. All in all, I’d have to say that, although I accompanied my visual experience with only plain popcorn and Dr. Pepper,  some folks may certainly  consider defying gravity by smoking something of exceedingly high quality before and possibly during the watching of this “children’s movie”, with snacks abundant and at the ready.

And THAT is my review.

Keyhole Garden

And so it begins. . . . . .

A few years ago, Deb Tolman, Ph.D. (Dr. Deb) arrived in our area. She began sharing her approach to sustainable landscaping, living, education and building practices. Dr. Deb leads a garden club that charges no dues, hosts field trips to places of interest, offers workshops for great projects, helps keep alive a farmer’s market, and encourages folks in general. She’s also an expert on worms. Not your typical gal next door. Since Deb introduced the concept to the area, there have sprung up over the last three years about sixty keyhole gardens. A workshop produced the example at our local Ace Hardware store. Last summer during the drought, few conventional gardens in the area could survive much less thrive. Most of us couldn’t afford to water daily; and city or community water with chlorine isn’t so well tolerated on regular basis anyway. Not everyone had access to well water, and there was some fear that might become scarce also. At the point it seemed we might run out of water for humans, it seemed frivolous to irrigate failing gardens. Most of us sadly gave up after months of work and no little expense. It was too oppressive to work the gardens by mid to late summer anyway. The heat and dryness wore us down. The only gardens going strong were the keyhole gardens. These are raised beds of a six foot interior circumference, built from things like cedar staves, brick,

Zack mortaring our rocks

concrete or rock. They are mortared or not, as required. The walls are two feet high to discourage local armadillos and cottontails. (We built ours in Stinky’s backyard to protect it from deer and raccoons. MOST of them will stay away from even an aging, overweight, night-blind, hearing-impaired blue heeler). At one point in the six foot circumference of the garden, there is incorporated a “keyhole” cutout. This allows the gardener to step into the circle to “feed” an interior basket for composting. The layers of filling, similar to those of a lasagna garden, will eventually become soil. You may Google both lasagna and keyhole gardens for images from all over the world and more information than you’ll ever need. Deb has a useful video on keyhole gardens as well, and a website: www.debtolman.com This raised garden has no floor other than the ground and is filled with (thin) layers upon layers of “brown” items such as water-soaked cardboard, newspaper, shredded junk mail, aged manure, brown leaves, phone books, programs, even cotton or wool clothing. There are three parts “brown” to one part “green” like fresher manure, grass and plant clippings, coffee grounds, and compost items. We’re planning to use a few horse apples toward the bottom of ours. The interior sides are lined with cardboard. The central basket (cylinder) of wire is created and installed after the first layer of cardboard and rises a foot above the garden wall. Composting and watering will occur in the basket. You throw all the good stuff in the basket, job it down/mix with a length of rebar. A little manure will disguise any odors that might offend human noses or entice canines or raccoons. Deer and cattle, being vegetarians, are deterred by stinky smells. Nutrients and water will eventually emanate from the central basket. The whole garden is kept wet and damp in the beginning while the “cooking” ensues in the layers below, and rain will water all. It should take only a month or two before all those layers become rich soil. Any natural non-protein substances may be added when making the garden. Deb even used an old feather duvet once. But you won’t find me wasting down on my garden unless it’s beyond salvage. Everything is topped off with a relatively thin layer of topsoil. Wadded newspaper can be used later as mulch under plants. We only spent money for mortar and topsoil. The day you lay your first soaked cardboard on the ground, all manner of creepy crawlers come up from the ground to munch. And that’s the whole idea. You invite rolly-pollies and worms into the structure to do the aerating for you. They need to feed off the carbon. We used rocks from the ranch here and a few from a neighbor’s place, learned a bit about mortaring. It was hard work, and with rocks, a challenging, creative puzzle. We’re filling the keyhole garden now, and you can’t imagine how much material is necessary. We hope to plant onions and garlic within the week! Wish us luck!

Not finished yet! Still have to fill it!

carving a few initials in the mortar

Looking good!

Almost there.

You didn't think I'd let him have all the fun, did you?

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The Real Story

Remember those awful Holiday Bragging Letters people sent out via snail mail before the New Year began? This was before we were all so well connected with email, the Internet, free long-distance, cell phones, Skype, and social networks. Sometimes a perfect family picture accompanied the letter.

A favorite holiday picture, suitable for inclusion in a typical, Holiday Bragging Letter--- or a blog entry.

The text itself chronicled the triumphs and celebrations of the previous 12 months. No one ever mentioned the black sheep of the family, high school or college dropouts, any who were hauled in for DUI, committed crimes, went to jail, had to get married, or got divorced. (The latter two were once in about the same category as incarceration). Bragging letters listed only good things. The purpose was to send the message that one’s own family was just perfect, and everyone else’s was not. You all must realize by now that I try to keep these columns light most of the time. Obviously there are people out there who still send these letters and recipients who are dying to know all the good news. They want to keep up, see pictures, hear news. I’m poking fun at the annual holiday letter the way I poke fun at almost everything. So don’t be offended. Now that I’ve gotten that out the way, I can get back to being sarcastic, critical and cynical. Or maybe serious. The holiday season is a dangerous couple of months for depression. People who’re having a hard time see all this holiday cheer and feel they’re the only ones not surrounded by a perfect family and loads of friends, with pocketfuls of money to spend on clothes, gifts travel and parties. Wise up and get real. If you’re in a good situation, count your blessings. If things aren’t so great, realize you’re like most folks. There’s good and there’s bad. No one’s life is perfect or without care, sorrow or disappointment. That’s the human condition. You know all those T-shirts that say things like “Put on your big girl panties and just deal with it”. There’s a reason they sell so well. One of my favorite sayings is from the play Same Time Next Year; “Life is full of hills and valleys”. It’s so true. I’ve written that all things pass, both the bad AND the good. If your family isn’t perfect or you find yourself alone or broke this holiday season, don’t despair. The entire rest of the world isn’t part of the set of White Christmas. The happy ending isn’t likely to come for each and every one in two hours, by the end of the story. Life is a journey. Just being in on the ride is wondrous. Even the bad days are good days. The fact that we’re here to experience any of it is a miracle. Just do the best you can. Well, if that sounds sanctimonious and preachy, I’m sorry. The advice that’s often given to folks at this time of year if they’re feeling down is to get out and help someone else feel better. It isn’t bad advice.

Can't believe it's been a year since this meal!

Although good friends had invited us to share their table, we declined and stayed home alone this Thanksgiving. We really appreciated their kind invitation, but we just wanted to stick around here together. We prepared nothing special, zipped over to the local BBQ place about noon for the traditional dinner, paid for it, and had nothing to clean up. I still prefer my own cooking and favorite recipes, but this was easier. We came home, bathed the dog, and had other fun all day long. I’m not kidding. It was a wonderful day. We didn’t feel we‘d missed anything (except the kids, of course).  And the friends who had invited us over for dinner—we’ll be with them later this month. We don’t have a big family, and that’s just the way it is. Some of us, especially only children like me, reach an age when all the family who came before have passed on. Kids may live elsewhere. Holidays are bittersweet if I try to recreate my childhood memories of a huge, OLD, caring family, many of whom no doubt drove each other crazy. As the only little kid at the table, it was boring, but filled with love. Now I appreciate and miss it. I do enjoy the old family recipes and certainly did it up right for my kids every year when they were with me. I still do if they’re here for holidays, which most often they’re not. I can’t complain. I miss them, but see them when possible — holidays or any old days. They’re happy and healthy, and so are we. I’m a lucky, grateful woman. Peaceful Holidays to you all.

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Personal Quest for the Best

Have you noticed supermarkets making more room for store brands and pushing old favorites into smaller spaces? Some have disappeared altogether. I went searching for Q-tips. The small area allotted was empty, but there were loads of the store brand. If you‘ve ever had a little piece of cotton stick in your ear from an off-brand cotton swab, you’ll forever after insist on the brand that stays intact. The Johnson and Johnson swab was the culprit in my case, and you’d think that would be a trusted brand. Well, maybe not so much. Some store brand options are cheaper and acceptable substitutes for brand name products. Take, for example, Food Club brand kettle chips. Fantastic, and take a smaller bite from your pocketbook. There are other examples as well. Products with fragrance, such as laundry and dish detergent, softener sheets, soft/bar soaps, and antibacterial cleaners can be highly offensive to some noses and pleasant to others. One of the hand cleaners I purchased reminded Zack of men’s room disinfectant from old Phillips 66 gas stations. Not good. Paper products are also a personal, subjective choice. My last visit to the supermarket included a lively discussion of bath tissue among three of us educated consumers. Let’s call it what it is and dispense with the euphemism. It’s toilet paper. (We don’t bathe with it). I’d hazard a guess that this one product might yield possibly one of the most heated arguments pro and con various brands of all products in the store. Once upon a time, a customer could choose from very few major brands. These days, one needs an advanced degree in marketing and a high level calculator to determine the best value for the money. There’s brand, softness, strength, price, and other more ephemeral, elusive qualities invented by Madison Avenue. Regular means you’ll change the roll every five minutes. Then double, giant and jumbo. Here’s where that calculator comes in handy. Once, I found my favorite brand at Target in a size no one sold locally, the giant roll. Not too small, not too big, just right. Naturally, the company discontinued it. There are the intangibles of bath tissue preference (for those who care to euphemate). Some prefer soft; others strong. Some like cheap if flimsy. Some are loyal to the same brand they chose forty years ago. And once you haul it home, you still must decide to install the roll over or under. So many options. Stanley Marcus (of the Neiman Marcus Marcuses) once wrote a book called Quest for the Best. Might be time for me to pen a sequel of my choices, but of more mundane items than Stanley’s favs; his and hers Lear jets for example. I’ll start by going out on a limb to expound on paper goods. Currently the only T.P. for me is Charmin Ultra Soft, although I did try a sale package of the Strong, so no one should accuse me of being stuck in my ways. Paper towels must be Viva. Every day napkins are Bounty. Better napkins can be whatever brand is cheaper. Even the store brands are usually acceptable, if you watch the ply. Tissues must be Kleenex unless they’re Puffs with lotion (which Zack doesn’t like). All paper goods must be pure white, like sheets (100% cotton). If I’m wiping my nose or anything else, the paper had better be soft. Honeycrisp apples are best for those who don’t like tart. Hot house tomatoes often harbor sprouted seeds inside. The little yellow cherry or pear tomatoes are fantastic, though few buy them, an advantage for me if they go on sale. Avocados in the bag are better than the big, watery ones. Beef hot dogs are best. Chef Boyardee makes the yummiest spaghetti and meat balls; Kraft the best macaroni and cheese unless you want frozen. Then Stouffers, and to heck with cholesterol. More expensive coffee is usually better, but I don’t see the difference in tea. Grits are grits, same with flour, sugar, and many other staples. Duncan Hines makes the best cake mix, but Betty Crocker the best brownies. The turtle variety stays moist for days. These preferences are only the tip of my personal grocery iceberg. I could go on and on. I could tell you that Coldwater Creek makes the best and most interesting long jackets, that Born and Sofft brand shoes and boots are the most comfortable without looking like they belong on your great aunt Gertrude. For boots, it’s hard to beat Ariat, Red Wing, and Justin unless you get into the pricier brands. I reserve the right to make additional boot recommendations later. There are so many good ones. Target has the best long, tank tops and thin, layering tee shirts. B. Makowsky has the best, huge leather bags, and Fossil has some acceptable options for runner up. Dooney and Bourke and Brahmin would be in the running, but they’ve become too pricey unless you find them on eBay, which I highly recommend for almost any buying experience. Gucci and LV are all hype, but I’d buy them again in a New York minute if I could afford them. To heck with Coach. Cashmere is the best wool, duh. Nike cold gear has the warmest mock turtlenecks, but buy a size too big. They’re tight. Under Armour runs a close second are are more expensive. Hot Tail exercise pants with no waist band are the bomb. Gold Bond lotions are the thickest. Eye creams with liposomes are probably the only ones that actually work. If you really want results, investigate plastic surgery. Aussie Hair Insurance is the best detangler, and TIGI Extra Strong Mousse will hold your hair like iron. Pantene Intensive Repair in a tube was the best conditioner, but it was discontinued. Figures. Cover Girl waterproof mascara in the purple tube is better than Mabelline; I don’t care what anyone says. They’re both better than the expensive brands, so don’t waste your money. Ask any professional makeup artist. Cover Girl Color Stay eye liner WILL stay on and works for eyebrows too. The other Color Stay products are probably just as good. Essie nail polish is even better than Opi, and if you Google the best nail polishes, you’ll find a few I’ve never heard of that are supposed to be better. For manly things, Zack would probably start naming his favorite brands like Orvis, Land’s End, Duluth, Ben Silver (for ties) and Cabelas. Peterson for pipes, Early Darkness for pipe tobacco, Zippo for lighters. Red wing boots, revolvers instead of automatics with a few exceptions. Case knives. I can’t even begin to get into the best power tools, tractors, woodworking supplies. But I will tell you that with most tools being made in China these days, Harbor Freight offers lower prices and often similar quality on certain items. I think I need to stop now. I could probably spend weeks naming things Stanley Marcus forgot. We all have our personal favorites, and I invite you to share yours. My daughter claims I can talk/write about anything. Perhaps she’s right. If one person has such definite attitudes regarding a few grocery/ personal items, imagine the multitude of opinions floating around out there on every possible subject. It’s a wonder people can ever agree on anything at all.