PEARS AND CHAIRS

IT'S RAINING! I WAS GOING TO HANG A LOAD OF LAUNDRY TODAY, BUT I'D RATHER HAVE THE RAIN. I woke to gray skies, and when I went to let the chickens out of the coop, a light mist was just settling the dust in the yard. The clouds gathered, and now we are having a decent rain. I hope it keeps up all morning.

Last week Pam helped me pick pears from her tree. We got a laundry basket of bruised ones to cut up for my crock pot pear butter. It's pleasant to sit in the yard on the glider and peel pears, throwing the cores and peelings and bruised bits to the chickens. Ursula gets a good share, too. The chickens are wary of my dog, but eventually the pears win out and the birds come right up near her, grabbing their trophy of a pear peeling, and running away, triumphant. 

 I filled my crock pot with pears for the second time and cooked it down to a sweet, thick butter. I like making pear butter, because it's so easy, and sweeter than apple butter. I still have room in my freezer, so I don't see the sense in heating up my kitchen for canning. I freeze it in Mason jars and tupperware. Nanny taught me to leave room at the top, so the jar doesn't burst when it freezes. She used to freeze tomatoes and turkey soup that way. We'll have pear butter all winter for toast and pancakes. It's sweet enough to substitute for some of the sugar and some of the oil when cooking cakes and muffins. It's got nothing but pears, not even water.

 The glider is a nice place to sit to peel fruit, but not the only place. Many years ago I built an Adirondack chair out of scrap wood for Michael's birthday. It was sturdy, and the kids and I painted it white. The next year we made another, and then a little table to set between them. This makes a nice outdoor living room, and a pleasant place to eat dinner and watch the twilight gather. Frogs and crickets sing their evensong and bats dive in loopy figure eights for bugs. Over the years, though, the paint chipped and some of the boards weakened. The little table rotted completely away, and the chairs slanted dangerously. Before the rains came, Michael got it in his head to fix the chairs, unscrewing the rotting boards and finding fresh wood in the scrap pile to cut to size. I helped him carry out power tools and find boxes of screws. Together we tested each board for rot and shored up weaknesses. We got to reminiscing about the chairs and realized that they are about 15 years old. We briefly considered just scrapping the both of them and buying fresh new chairs, but as we considered, we didn't even stop working on them. They don't exactly match; I made them a year apart with two different patterns downloaded from the internet, two different sets of skills and experience; two different sets of helpers. I can still pick out which one I made first, see how I corrected some mistakes in the second, but made some new ones, too. 

I think about everything
that's happened since these
chairs were new.

 For some reason, Michael brought up the reticulating saw from the basement, instead of taking the boards downstairs to one of the table saws. The reticulating saw is a loud, clumsy thing, a bit wild for my taste. It makes a primitive cut, and so one of the boards in the back of the chair zigs a little, like a Seussian creation. We found some white paint in the basement and watered it down a little, thinning it to a milky whitewash, and then brushed it on.  

Rain in Beauty; Pare in Peace:
Blessed Be.

I feel a little tug at my heartstrings. I can get nostalgic as anyone, and I think everything that has happened since these chairs were new. To me, pruning, or cutting rotten wood out of a structure, or letting go of relationships or parts of yourself are all the same kind of bittersweet. I'll focus on the sweet part today, and think about sitting in these chairs when the rains stop again, the quiet buzz of conversation and frogs as the evening settles into night.

DROUGHT'S END?

BIRDLAND IS GREENING UP. The drought is not over, we're still several inches down. We lost trees and perennials to the scorching heat. My store of carefully picked walnuts is almost gone, and the tree in my front yard is barren this year. I will have to wait until next fall to sit cracking black walnuts again for scones and muffins and pesto. But in many important ways my emotional drought is over. 

 I think those 100+ degree days addled my brain. I remember my ridiculously petulant refrain, whining about the heat, the lack of green, my lack of energy, death all around. Last week I found myself in my yard paring apples and it suddenly struck me: I feel good! The modest rains brought us a sweet coolness and saved some of the plants. My tomatoes are in full bloom and I finally harvested a few of the little grape tomatoes. Even with irrigation, they didn't seem to pollinate in the high heat. Now they are trying to catch up. My cucumber vines, which in past years have filled my big crockery bowl almost endlessly until frost, have given me three squalid cukes, with a bitter taste. Though I watered, I think the ground was so dry at such depths that the poor, baked roots might have been able to grab only a few molecules of water as it ran down to the aquifer deep below. I found that the plants in my yard that did the best were in containers. At the peak of the drought I wondered if we would all have to learn to live in the desert. I envisioned container gardens in my yard, dust blowing between them. I hear it was better in town, and maybe in town the earth is more sheltered from the sun by buildings and trees. Here I found that the only green in my yard was around trees and bushes. At any rate, I'll take what I can get, and after this summer, a few cherry tomatoes to pop into my mouth seems like heaven.

With the coolness and new semester I have newly dedicated myself to bike riding. I found a great, old bike at our thrift store in town, the Willow Tree Mission. It is a 70's era 3 speed with a wide seat for my wide fanny. It was a wreck for just $10. I took it over to Baker's Bikes in Urbana and they fixed it right up for me with new tires, new cables and all for under $50. It is certainly not fancy, but just perfect for me. 

 Last weekend I went to a family birthday party. Ellis needed the car, so we threw the bike in the back and my youngest and I parted ways in town. I rode from my office on campus to the party in far eastern Urbana. I figure I rode about 5 miles. On campus I used the bike path, but when those ran out I got to zig-zag through the neighborhoods on roads I never drive on. What a delight to see! People are so creative with their landscaping. I saw some wonderful front yard vegetable patches, one with rows of cabbages and peppers in front of a modest ranch house, another with a colorful fence of painted one-by-ones arranged in diamond shapes, like a row of God's eyes protecting the tomatoes. I saw a few signs of chicken-keeping too! Urbana has a reasonable policy about poultry, and I delight in seeing “farm animals” in town. We need more reminders of our connection to animals. Keeping them out of sight does nothing to encourage compassion and humanity in our relationships to animals we use for food and clothing. Seeing them reminds us of our connection.

Front yard vegetable gardening seems so wise. You get the best of all possible worlds. The work in the garden gives you fresh air and exercise. You're in the front yard, so you can visit with neighbors. You get double savings of petroleum products and carbon emissions: first by not mowing your yard, second by not paying to have the food trucked from halfway across the country or even the globe. Oh, and of course the savings on groceries, and knowing you have fresh, good food. And with a little luck, and a little more rain, the harvest might be enough to share. If we have another year like this one, front yard container gardens might be the way to go.

Garden in Beauty;

Bike in Peace;

Blessed Be.

THE BEAR WENT OVER THE MOUNTAIN

Did the Bear leave these marks
as she climbed?

ON A PARTICULAR MOUNTAIN IN VIRGINIA, THE TREES ARE MAYBE NOT SO MUCH TALLER THAN WE HAVE AT HOME, BUT STRETCHED OUT, THE LIMBS THINNER, MORE SPACE BETWEEN THEM. The canopy is higher and the understory is more airy and full of light, not full of brambles like at home. Hickory, Various Pines, Tulip Poplar, and Black Walnut grow on the hillside. Spinneys of Rhododendron and Mountain Laurel fill out the landscape. Large ferns soften the mulch-covered ground. It's damp enough here that the streams still run and mushrooms still grow, popping up in bright colors from forest floor. Big chunks of quartz, sometimes bright white, sometimes tinged with a rusty color, peek out from the soil.

 

The canopy is higher...

We find plenty to explore on this mountain, one morning walking along the ridge until we get to the road, the winding, two lane highway that brought us here. We find bear scat and the prints of deer. Jack shows us how to tell the buck's prints from the doe's. My father-in-law is a hunter and knows these things, though we differ in opinion about whether my dog could catch a turkey if she wanted to. I sit on a boulder to enjoy the view for a moment and a slender lizard striped in bright colors slips like liquid into a crack in the rock.

...and the understory more airy
and full of light.

Later we put on water shoes and follow the stream that runs through the valley. Ursula runs ahead, joyously rooting in the bank and scaring up birds. My dog is a water dog at heart and she is in her element here. We find a pool in a crook of the stream and sit down for a cooling soak. We skip stones and pull limbs and other debris out of the water and throw it onto the bank to decay there and add to the musky humus of the forest floor. We take the stream all the way to the property line, then take a path up the hill that circles around before heading home to a ping pong tournament and dinner.

The next day we drive to a larger river and pile into three canoes, one for each generation. The river is wider than our stream, but no deeper and our boats scrape bottom pretty often. The drought is not so apparent here, but here nonetheless. The river is quiet and we enjoy the peaceful floating downstream, floating through the scenery as it unwinds with very little effort from us, just an occasional stroke to steer away from a place where ripples in the water reveal the shallows. Michael and I were in the first canoe, and at the bend of the river we came silently upon a Great Blue Heron standing like a statue until we were 15 yards away, then spread his magnificent wings and mutely lifted off to fly upstream. At another bend we came upon him again with his mate, and we followed them downriver for half an hour or so, creeping up to within a few yards before they flew. This repeated 7 or 8 times until eventually, they tired of our company and flew back upriver, the way we had all come, to be shed of our disruptions.

Later, up at the house, the kids found some scars on a tree—three sets of four parallel stripes cut into the bark and healed over. Did the bear leave these marks when she climbed the tree? We know the bear is in the neighborhood, because Jack saw her one day in the bottomland, chewing on a different tree. He showed us those marks, on a limb about 7 feet up. These, however, look more dramatic, and tell a different story. Is it fact or fancy? What dramas do these mountains hold?

Shadows on a Stone

That evening, in Floyd, we found a country store with an old fashioned candy counter. It was a blend of history with a modern, thriving arts community. On Fridays they host a Jamboree with traditional Appalachian music and clogging, the traditional dance. Sadly, we have to leave before Friday comes, but will plan the next trip to be sure we can make it for the festivities.

Dance in Beauty; Float in Peace:
Blessed Be.

ROGUE HARVEST

WE HAVE LEFT THE DROUGHT BEHIND TO VISIT OUR FAMILY IN THE BLUE RIDGE MOUNTAINS OF VIRGINIA. We started in the middle of the night and got into Ohio just as the sun was coming up. This was Ursula's first big trip with us, and she was sleeping in the back. My dog comes up to Chicago with us often, but that's only a short jaunt. She is quiet and patient in the car. At rest stops she is eager for a walk and water, a little break from lying down. But we hadn't thought ahead about what we would do for a longer stop for a late breakfast. We decided to take turns in the restaurant. I wasn't particularly hungry, so Ursa and I went on a walk around the cluster of chain restaurants. I'm not fond of chains, since they are all the same no matter if you're in the mountains or the prairie or the seaside or the middle of nowhere. But here at the sausage place on the border of Ohio and West Virginia I made a discovery. I had noticed before that sometimes at the corporate chains, you can find poorly pruned apple trees amongst the ubiquitous flowering crabs, but here, with time to ponder, as I walked my little black dog I figured out why. These chains tend to landscape with what they probably think of as low maintenance trees, hence the flowering crabs. But if you just plant a crab and don't prune it, it will sometimes revert back to the apple tree in the rootstock. These apples may be smaller, and more on the tart side, but they are very respectable eating and great for pie making.

How do I really feel about these corporations that suck the culture out of a region and wash it with a deadening homogeneity? Well, “hate” is a very strong word. Let's just say that I dislike immensely to drive 8 hours to arrive at a restaurant identical to the one at home. But here, in a cardboard, artificial community encompassing the sausage place, the 24 hour breakfast place, a couple of hotels and gas stations, and a drive through taco place and a couple of burger joints, I figure I can pinch a few apples if I happen to find them. Clearly nobody else wants them, except maybe a rogue squirrel or a rat that frequents the dumpsters out back of each of these places. I fill my arms with apples and hope that another sharp-eyed baker of pies will find the rest. 

Back on the road, over hills and under them, we find ourselves on a two lane highway snaking through the mountains. Here, everything is green, and flowers bloom as they do in my dreams. I believe the Blue Ridge Mountains also suffer from a drought, but not as heavily as we suffer in the Midwest. At any rate, the ramble of Black Eyed Susans at the side of the road gave me a melancholy homesickness for what I didn't have at home. We arrive in time for hugs and a tour around the hunting lodge turned family homestead, and a walk down the path to see the remains of an even older dwelling. Nothing left but the stone fireplace and chimney, about 30 feet tall. A great place, we are told, for a barbeque picnic, especially in the winter, and it sounds lovely. Ursula thinks she is in heaven, tearing ahead on the path and racing up the hills. In the fading daylight we find our way home to dinner. Inside we are temporarily distracted with catching up and visiting, and my dog snatches two steaks from the counter before being caught. Babs, ever the hostess, graciously brushes off our apologies, and she and I rethink the menu, cubing the meat and piercing it alternately with mushrooms and peppers for shish-kebabs. Ursula sleeps off her crime, while we talk and visit and eat and drink into the night.

 In the morning, Ursa and I take a walk down the path and scare up a turkey family. They crossed the path about 20 yards ahead of us, 2 or 3 adults and several half grown poults. My dog took off, but then thought better of the chase when I called her back. Then I thought better of an early morning walk with just the two of us. It's not that I don't want to meet the resident bear; I do. I just don't want to meet him alone, or even with a silly dog. Even with one who looked exactly like a bear cub when she was little. Even one who shares his name.

RAMBLE IN BEAUTY;
WANDER IN PEACE;
BLESSED BE!

LETTER TO BIRDLAND

 By Ursula

SOMETHING IS GOING ON. She went to bed as soon as we put the chickens in. Now that I know what She wants, I can be very helpful. She wants me to watch very carefully and wait, making sure all of those goofy birds go in. Sometimes they get right up to the door, but then lose heart, silly birds. Then I have to chase them around the coop again, only slowly, slowly. She walks behind me, speaking softly. We are a good team. But then She went straight to bed. Something is going on.

They were putting things in the car. The young one, too. Last time this happened They went away. I went back and forth, back and forth, trying to tell them with my eyes, “Don't go away.” Last time the one who came gave me food and pats, but I was worried. They were gone a long time.

He is cooking. It smells good, and maybe He will go out and leave the meat. I will lie here and pretend to sleep, but I am watching. It smells good. Why is he cooking after dark? Are they leaving again?

Now they are all sleeping. And the food is way up high in a box where I can't reach it. What is going on?!?

 She is up. Turning on lights. She goes from room to room, turning on lights. I think she is angry. No, frustrated. She wants them to do something. Finally they understand. Why are they getting up in the dark? They go back and forth, carrying things to the car. They open the back where I sit sometimes! I jump up! I jump up! I am a good dog! They go back inside, but the door is still open. Guys? Guys? Where are you going?

THE GROUND GOES UP
TO THE SKY!

 We are all in the car! I am going! It is dark and I sleep. I sleep. The car goes. It goes. The light comes and we go. I see cars chasing us. I see color and light and cars. She comes and puts the nose leash on me. It's not my favorite thing, but walking is my favorite thing. Walking and nose leash. Water. Smells. Dogs!! We go in the car, we go on a walk. One time He and The Young Ones went inside. She and I stayed out. She found an apple tree. I found a puddle in a sea of cement. It was more water than we've had at home in awhile. I lay down in it and had a good soak. He came out and we sat by a tree while She went in and got the young ones.

I AM A VERY GOOD DOG!

 Now we all get out! No leash! More people who smell good. I get pats. We go on a big walk with no leash! Trees! The ground goes straight up to the sky! A big puddle that rushes. I go in. I smell fish, frogs, birds, so many good things. We go inside and no one is watching. I smell meat. I can reach it. So much meat! I stand up, just to smell. It is good meat! So good. I see another one! Oh. Uh-oh. I am a bad dog! Bad dog! She is angry? Disappointed. Embarrassed! They cut up the meat I left and make shishkebabs instead. I am so sleepy! I sleep. I sleep.

EAT IN BEAUTY;
RUN IN PEACE;
BLESSED BE!

It is day and He gets up, but she sleeps. I wait for Her. When She gets up, I bark. Hurry up! Hurry up! She pours my food and says, “wait.” I wait. I am a good dog. She says, “Ok,” and I eat. I follow Her outside and we go down the trail. So many morning noises. I see a big chicken. And another. I run. They cross the trail with smaller chickens. She says, “wait.” I want to get them for the coop, but I wait. I am a good dog. I am a very good dog.

THISTLE DROUGHT

WHITE, PUFFY CLOUDS SAIL OVERHEAD...

IN BIRDLAND WE'RE STILL IN A DROUGHT, BUT ONE MORE FLOWER IS BLOOMING ANYWAY. Thistle, of course. I always leave at least 3 of them wherever they care to pop up in the yard, because they are a favorite of butterflies when they bloom. This year one has come up, majestic and brave, as tall as I am, and prickly to match the weather, and has finally sent out tight, purple blossoms. Some are blooming and some have already gone to seed. I've been seeing more goldfinches this year than ever, and they are drawn to my thistle. Today one perches on top, its weight making the whole plant sway. The bird can't wait for the second bloom of the downy thistle, when the flower opens a sphere of ghostly snowflakes. My goldfinch digs into the still closed seed head. One by one shots of thistledown float on the hot breeze as the bird's head jerks and pulls at the down, extracting its lunch.

...BUT PROMISE NO RAIN.

White, puffy clouds sail overhead, but promise no rain. We did have a little yesterday evening. I was watering my poor garden, as I do every day, and noticed a dark embankment to the Northwest. We were on the sunny side of the storm, and it seemed as if the edge would pass just a few miles to the north. But then the wind changed course and before I finished my cycle of watering, the storm was heading for us full steam ahead. It was getting to be chicken dark and I put away my hose and turned to the chickens who perch on top of the coop every night as the sun gets low over the dying corn.

Earlier generations of chickens used to put themselves to bed at the appropriate time. All I had to do was remember to shut the door of the coop after them. This flock, like kids who try to delay bedtime, sits on top and I have to scoop them up one by one, and toss them through the door of the coop. Usually a few jump off and begin to circle the coop, but Ursula stands ready to help me herd them in. My dog hasn't always appreciated her role as chicken-herd, but now I think she understands. She actually taught herself to do this by watching me. One night I didn't remember to put the chickens to bed until way past twilight. It was a night of no moon, and pitch black. I was feeling for chickens in the dark and got most of them in, but sure enough, a few jumped off and had to be herded in. I was doing the best I could in the dark, when I heard a rushing rustle and Ursula was after one that I didn't see escape into the weeds. I heard her catch the chicken, heard its mournful cry. I shouted at Ursa to let loose of the chicken, and ran to feel around in the brush in the dark with no luck. Meanwhile I saw Ursula run back toward the coop. I finally decided to leave the probably wounded, possibly dead, chicken alone, and bring the dog in for the night. Next morning, I counted the chickens when I let them out, trying to figure out who was missing...but everyone was accounted for! When Ursula ran past me in the dark, she must have had that chicken in her mouth. She knew just where it belonged. Since then, I have let her help me herd them in at night, talking calmly to keep her relaxed.

As we put the chickens to bed last night, the wind was whipping the trees into a frenzy, and fat, welcome raindrops were hitting us, dampening the dust. I shut the door and we ran for the house to watch the storm from inside. The storm hovered over us, raining furiously for about 15 minutes and then moved back north again. The gauge measured 2/10 of an inch. My rain barrel is ¼ full. They say it takes an inch a week just to keep the drought from getting worse, but at this point, anything is welcome. We'll just keep looking at the sky and praying for rain. 

RAIN IN BEAUTY;
DRINK IN PEACE;
BLESSED BE.

THE SCENT OF LAVENDER

THE SCENT OF LAVENDER

I USED TO BE A MORNING PERSON. No matter how late I stayed up, or how tired I still was, I'd be up at the crack of dawn, unwilling, but relentlessly awake. The moment the sun creeps into my window, sleep is over for me. In many ways this was a good thing. When the sun rises early in the summer, I'm up, and after the blood starts flowing and the grogginess wears off, I'm energetic. I try to get most of my work done early, while the energy is high. It's a little harder in the winter, when I often have to get up before the sun, but I have always embraced that rhythm. The flip side is that I can't stay up late. Come 9 PM, I'm yawning and stretching and thinking about my cozy bed.

But everything changed when I made myself a lavender eye pillow. I first discovered them in yoga class, where we would spend the last five minutes of the session in shivasana, or corpse pose, lying flat on our backs with our arms outstretched. I'd take off my glasses and cover my eyes with a lavender eye pillow, and would instantly relax deeply. It was partly the gentle scent of the lavender, and partly the gentle weight on my eyes, blocking all light that might distract me from my relaxation. Often, I would nearly settle into sleep before Bev's voice would call me back.

 I made myself a lavender eye pillow. It was very simple. I cut a rectangle out of my favorite dress, after I finally admitted that I was not the only one who could see the tiny holes in the floral pattern. I cut it a bit wider than the eye pillows at yoga class—more like a card envelope than a business envelope. I wanted it to cover more of my face. I sewed it up on three sides and filled it with a mixture of rice and lavender buds. I drizzled some lavender oil on the mixture, stirred it and let it sit for awhile. Then I poured the mixture into the pillow and sewed up the last side. I stitched around the edges a couple of times to make sure it wouldn't leak.

WHAT IS IN THE SKY?

I keep that little pillow on my bedside table, and in the morning, when the sun gives its first, creeping call, I decide whether I've had enough sleep. If not, I grab that pillow and lay it over my eyes and let the gentle weight, the powdery scent, and the quiet darkness lull me back to sleep. The only problem with getting this extra sleep, is that it's pushing my bedtime later and later. I'm now in a cycle of late nights and late mornings, and I suppose I'll live to regret all this when school starts again.

LAVENDER EYE PILLOW

This morning, it was after 9 when I got up. I went out to feed the chickens and saw something strange and wondrous in the sky. I was a little frightened, because it was like the whole world was covered with a flossy grey blanket. The sun was nowhere to be seen, and the blanket was low over the corn and filled with puffs and swirls. I sat down in the glider, and as I looked at the sky, I could feel that I had seen something like this a long time ago. Then I noticed another strange feeling. I wasn't sweating! It was cool. I let the breeze wash over me as I sat in wonderment.

SLEEP IN BEAUTY; PRAY FOR RAIN;
BLESSED BE.

As I sat, the breeze grew stronger and started blowing holes in my protective blanket, and I could see the familiar blue of the sky. Around the pockets of blue are the bright, puffy clouds that carry no rain. And now the breeze comes from the east, pushing whole parade. For a few minutes a big hole of blue sails directly above us. The shadows return and I feel the sun on my back. I sit with my chickens, and together we wait, and wait for rain.