Well, THAT little drama is DONE!

Leonard from Hardesty's Auto is my new best friend!

After trying everything I could think of this morning, I called him and he came with his big "roll-back" truck.

I prepared ahead of time by getting the Focus pointed downhill, strapping myself in, and coasting in neutral down the long, steep driveway. No power brakes, no power steering, just me creeping s-l-o-w-l-y down, both legs shaking on the pedal and my hand on the emergency brake. Whew. Down to the dam where it was flat and he could get his truck in.

He winched it up on the bed, and drove it away. Four hours later, he drove it up to the house and honked the horn. I wrote him a check while leaning on the hood of my car, thanking him profusely for saving my transportation bacon.

Now, can we get back to real life? Oh wait. This IS real life. Can we get back to uneventful life, where machines do what they are supposed to do, without the intervention of money, expertise (someone else's) and worrisome frustration?

The New Plan

Bill called from Japan, and we talked about cars. I would rather talk about other things, but the situation with the cars rules my life right now. He tells me that Ford starters are notorious for needing a fully-charged battery to turn over, and perhaps our 7-year old battery is less than optimum.

So my plan this morning is to pull the fuse box and check that first. If all the fuses are good, I'll sidle the van up to the Focus and see if I can jump-start it using the power of the running van engine. This will effectively "test" the Focus battery. If it doesn't start, then it really is something other than the battery. Or, it's the battery AND something else (these things usually come in twos and threes in my experience).

If nothing works to start the Focus, then I will check the van's fluids, air up the tires, and go over to Morristown to complete my test-driving of new cars--the manual transmission Vibe (I want to compare it to the automatic), the Hyundai Elantra Touring "Wagon," and the Dodge Caliber. Let's hope the van has a few more miles in her for her big finale.

Vehicle Update

First, the good news: The van is running again!

Now, the whole tortuous woe-is-me tale of exhaustion, frustration and heat-stroke:

The rain finally settled down to a steady drizzle, I got dressed and girded myself for auto mechanics. I started by removing the Focus battery. Sounds simple, right? It involved countless trips to find the correct tools, followed by more trips in to search again for the right socket, a vertical ratchet (because there was no room to turn a right-angled one), a pair of pliers, finally wrestling the cables off the terminals and lifting the heavy beast up and out of there without dropping it. I did the same thing in reverse, moving the van battery into the Focus. Didn't fit. Cables wouldn't reach. Scrap that plan.

I levered the van battery back out of the Focus, and hooked the Focus battery up to the charger. The charger said it was fully charged. Rats. I went back outside, put the Focus battery back in again, and hooked it up again. With a nod to the car-gods, I turned it on to start. At least this time there were no alarming, flashing electronic displays--just a click and a whirr. Not the battery. Maybe the solenoid? This time I was able to get the car out of Park and into Neutral, rolled it back and around, so maybe sometime in the future, it could be jump-started, if needed.

Next, the van. I rigged up an airport luggage wheely cart with a piece of 2 x 6 lumber, placed the van battery on it and bungie-corded it in. I put Echo's collar on and let her out, while I wheeled my package s-l-o-w-l-y down the concrete driveway, bumped and dragged it across the gravel, all the way down across the wooden bridge and to the van.

I unloaded the battery, popped the hood, and hoisted the monster into the tray, avoiding the swarm of hornets that apparently built a nest inside the engine compartment. Hooked it up, another nod to the sky, and vrooom! It started!

Echo hopped in and we bounced out of the field and up the driveway to the house.

Now at least I have one working vehicle. I have a diagnostic problem with the Focus, but as soon as I get my game-face back on again, there are some things I can try to pinpoint the offending car part.

Or not. I cleaned out the van in anticipation of trading it in this week for my Obama-money, just in case.

Is it time for a nap yet?

Stranded

Some days, it just doesn't pay to get out of bed in the morning.

I was all full of energy yesterday. I emptied all the trash containers in the house, loaded up the back of the red Focus with 3 weeks worth of stinky garbage, recyclables, cardboard and construction trash. My plan was to go to the dump, then go test-drive a Dodge Caliber and pick up a rack of ribs for a special supper on the way home.

I turned the key on "Old Faithful" and was rewarded with absolute silence. "Oh for crying out loud," I thought, "now what?"

Do you think that cars know when they are about to be replaced?

I rummaged around Bill's workspace and found the battery charger. I hooked it up to the battery, and unloaded all the garbage back out of the car, so it wouldn't smell up the interior on such a hot day. Then I went upstairs and stood steaming under the ceiling fan for awhile.

Four hours later, the car still wasn't showing any ambition to start. I now had clicking electronics, flashing dashboard lights and buzzing dinger-bells, but no ignition.

Oh well. I'd just walk down to the van and bring that up to the house. Deal with the Focus later. But when I got down to the field, the van's battery was dead too. Perfect.

I opened the hood, removed the battery and began the long, hot trudge up to the house, lugging the eleventy-billion pound albatross with me. It took about an hour. There was much cursing and wiping of sweat.

I put the charger on the van battery in the basement. Then I went and took a nap under the fan. The whole day was shot, and I was done.

This morning, the plan was to take the charged van battery and hook it up to the Focus. If it started, then I'd drive the Focus to the auto parts store (leaving it running) and have them test the "dead" Focus battery to see if it was completely dead, or if it just needed more charging. Then when I got back, I'd park the Focus next to the van, shut it off and remove the van battery, re-install that in the van, re-install the Focus battery in the Focus, then jump-start the Focus with the van! Drive the Focus up to the house, walk back down to the van and drive that up to the house too.

But the whole plan is on hold anyway, because it's raining to beat the band out there. And I'm still sitting here in my jammies, waiting for the rain to stop.

Oh. And if the van battery wouldn't start the Focus? Then there's something else wrong besides just a dead battery. Alternator? Starter? Fuse? Wiring? This car stuff makes my head hurt. Gnash. Grumble. Grrrrr.

I'm thinking about just going back to bed.

Echo Goes SWIMMING?

My girl-dog Echo does not like water. She hates the rain, walks around to avoid even the shallowest puddles, suffers through inevitable baths when she begins to stink, and never, ever, swims.

When we moved to Tennessee, she became more of a "country-dog" instead of a "small-town dog." She began to get a just a little more relaxed about water. She would occasionally tramp through the mud-flats of the pond and come home with muddy feet. She would periodically get wet crossing through the creek to investigate something her nose told her was on the other side.

Yesterday, while I was busily picking blackberries (and trying to extricate myself from the brambles snagging my shirt and pants), I heard a scuttle and small splash--followed by the giant SPLASH! of my dog leaping into the pond after whatever creature went in first.

As I whirled around, Echo was frantically paddling in the murky water, headed for the shore. Apparently, her limbic brain reacted before she thought about it rationally, (or as rationally as a dog can think), and suddenly, she was in the water before it registered that she really didn't want to be there.

She was a mess. Mud up to her flanks, dirty water pouring from her belly-fur, and pond scum all over her face! She stood on the bank, shaking herself, muddy water flying everywhere. It was definitely time to go home.

When we got up to the house, I immediately filled the tub. Echo slinked into the bathroom without any coaxing from me, and climbed into the bath by herself. I honestly think she was chagrinned at her own foolishness.

After much sudsing and rinsing, I brushed about a pound of hair off the dog:

She spent the rest of the day huddled damply on the couch, looking disgusted with herself.

Emergent Eggplants, Problem Peppers, Ripening Tomatoes

The gardening goddess has smiled upon me again. I have little baby eggplants! While trying to keep all the pots hydrated out there, I suddenly realized that I am going to have a wagon-load of these babies!

The eggplant flowers are breathtaking in their purple-and-yellow, multi-petalled majesty--no wonder all the bees want to pollinate these pretties:

I'm also delighted to see the baby poblanos finally coming on:

The other peppers are suffering from some sort of leaf-crinkling malady, and my next project is to re-pot them with fresh soil and a shot of fertilizer:

And deep in the foliage, there's a tomato turning pink!

Yes!

On the Mend

Things are looking a little cheerier this morning. My swelling continues to abate, and there's just a little residual itching and scratching and ballooning going on. I continue to take the blimp-out steroids, and I've gained back the 10 pounds I worked a month to take off. Sheesh. But the good news is that I no longer look like Elephantitis-Woman, and my hand doesn't feel like it's going to burst any minute. Progress.

I woke up this morning to a faint, odd smell in the house. Not a pleasant smell, kind of a combination of wet dog, sour milk, garbage hanging around too long, old tennis shoes and forgotten gym clothes, and maybe something going bad in the fridge too. Time to saddle up the buckets and mop, and swamp out the place. Sprinkle baking soda on the carpet, scrub down the surfaces, clean the sink drains and Febreeze the furniture. I've been slothful too long.

And because it has been raining every night, it's time to go down to the pond and pick the interminable blackberries again. Their profligate production guilts me. All that free food, just sitting down there, waiting for an energetic person to collect the bounty. I guess that's going to have to be me.

Venting

The Claw continued to worsen yesterday morning, so I packed myself off to my doctor's office. They wouldn't see me. They wanted nothing to do with my baseball bat of an arm and grotesquely-swollen hand, and they sent me to the ER, just so they wouldn't have to have me hanging around the waiting room, grossing everyone else out.

I knew no good could come of this. But I was in pain, and I went. After filling out the form with my left-hand (making the whole thing look like a second-grader's failing attempt at printing legibly), I was escorted to a treatment room, seen by a doctor promptly, and given an IV of steroids. (There goes the weight-loss progress, sigh...)

Then they wheeled in the ultrasound machine. "Wait a minute, I don't need that!" I sputtered. Once again, I was being the uncooperative patient. The nurse ran to get the doctor, who came in and lectured me that, because I had a history of breast cancer, and because I was on tamoxifen, and because I could have a clot in my arm, that would break off and lodge in my lung, causing heart failure, or travel to my brain, causing a stroke--well, against my better judgment, he scared me. He went out of his way to scare me. And I caved.

I should have said: "Okay, if you're right and I have a clot, I'll pay for my ultrasound and double it to pay for someone else who doesn't have insurance--and if I'm right and it's just an insect bite, the ultrasound is free!"

I should have said: "Would you order this test if I had no insurance and you knew the hospital would have to eat the cost of it?"

Instead I meekly said, "Fine. Whatever."

I hate it when I get this way. And he did scare me. I hate that too. And I'm really going to hate it when I get the bill.

Because, it was just as I said--a bite, with my over-reactive immune system. Hundreds of co-pay dollars later, no clot.

Grrrrrrr...

This morning, the steroids they infused me with and the continuing Medrol Pack of Pills are slowly reducing the swelling. I can bend my fingers. I can type. My arm and hand are only 3 times normal size instead of 5 or 6 times.

Next time, I'm sitting in that doctor's office until hell freezes over, and I'll tell them exactly what meds I need, so they don't have to hurt their brains figuring it out for themselves.

Peaches & Pears & Apples, Oh My!

I finally remembered to take my camera with me on our foray down to the pond last evening. I was dismayed to find that one of my two peaches had fallen off the tree.

After retrieving it (and brushing the ants off on the grass), I decided that nature had determined that they were ripe, so I picked the remaining peach too.

Then, I was shocked to see that I DO have a few apples on the too-aggressively pruned tree:

And, because I promised photos of the prolific pears, here they are:

I had one of the peaches for breakfast this morning, and it was delicious!

And, just because no joy comes without a little pain and suffering on the side for balance, I discovered that something bit me in the night. Yes, I used insect repellent when I went for a walk, but this happened while I was sleeping. Do I have to wear bug juice to bed now too?

For your sympathy, I present "The Claw:"

Pillsbury Dough-Boy Hand. Hamburger Helper Oven Mitt. It itches like the Dickens (now there's an interesting expression, where did that come from?), and is ballooning ever larger as I type. So I also had 2 Benadryl with my peach. I should be tottling back to bed for my diphenhydramine nap any minute now...

Kingsport Day

I'm off to Kingsport this morning, for my monthly commutation with Mr. Acupuncture. Life without pain is such a wonderful thing! I continue to be amazed and grateful for the pain relief these monthly appointments give, with the added benefit of abating the hot flashes and providing a general sense of well being. The skeptic in me is humbled.

I am also going to brave the Land of Car Salesmen today, as I have an appointment to test-drive a VW wagon. I have had Volkswagens in the past, Beetles and Dashers, and have liked them. With Obama giving away $ for clunkers, and the little red Focus getting up there in mileage, it seems like a good time to trade in the van, collect the cash and replace the family "tripster."

I like compact wagons. Very few manufacturers make them anymore. I don't like SUVs, "Crossovers," or sedans. Once again, I am out of step with what the free market has decided is the vehicle of choice. If Ford continued to make the Focus in a wagon body-style, I would buy another in a heartbeat. But they don't. Old Red is the second Focus we've owned, and it's been reliable and economical to operate.

But now I have to change; find something to replace my old friend. Subaru? VW? Something weird from Chevy called an HHR? The process of schlepping around, gearing up to say "no, no, no" to salespeople--the whole idea makes me tired and edgy.

But it must be done, so off I go...

Berries, Taters, Corn & Other Agricultural Marvels

I've got crops!

I am SO glad I took a bucket with me on our walk down to the pond yesterday! I had a sneaking suspicion that the big rainy day may have spurred the blackberries to plump out and ripen up, and I was right! I came home with several stickers that needed to be removed with tweezers, red-stained fingers and about 2 quarts of berries!

What a difference from last year's dried up tiny blackberries! I am amazed at what our over-abundance of rain has done. This year's berries are big and juicy, and they're just getting started. The chore of picking them will have to be added to my daily routine from now on.

On our way down, Echo and I also spied germinating corn:

I still find it amazing that one can put a seed in the ground and consistently get results. I mean I know it's supposed to work that way, it's evolutionarily designed to be that way, but I'm always over-abundantly thrilled when I see those shoots poking up through the soil.

For instance, here's what happens when potatoes get forgotten in the kitchen and start getting all soft and sprouty. Instead of throwing them out, I went outside and stuck them in the ground. Three months later, a handful of new, free potatoes appear! Amazing!

The tomatillos are starting to form. I love their little Chinese Lantern-type shapes:

The tomatoes are fruiting:

Anaheim chiles are starting to produce:

And bell peppers too:

I am such a dope about stuff like this. To me, gardening (or just gathering, in the case of the blackberries) is all magic and delight. Even with the stickers.

And wait until you see the PEARS!

To be continued...

Hermit Time

No, the blacksnake did not return to swallow me whole. I did not fall down the stairs, break an ankle on a trail, or perish from heatstroke. I've just been holed up, being solitary.

The tyranny of the blog is that if I don't feel like writing (or there's simply nothing to write home about), people start calling, worrying that I've fallen down and can't get up. Or something similarly dire.

The truth is that the summer days just melt into each other. I get up and do my little routines--coffee, computer, then the huff-and-puff on the elliptical, rewarded with a shower and brunch. Then it's time for dog-walking, weeding, watering the thirsty container garden, knitting while watching a few NCIS episodes, household chores (dishes & laundry--it never ends), then reading, followed by an hour-long nap on the couch. When I awake, it's time to start thinking about dinner, and while it's cooking, I usually go out again with the dog and work on digging up the raised bed, getting ready to plant another crop of something.

But today it's raining, so my routine is a little disrupted. Echo got her Frontline this morning, so she's racked out, not feeling like going anywhere. I'm gleefully contemplating the corn I planted this week, hoping that it will sprout after this precipitation.

Consumer news: I tried the new OFF! clip-on insect repellent device. Don't waste your money. I suffered through another rash of bites, all in the name of research. Also, I'm not so thrilled with the idea that I'm inhaling a chemical fog, which doesn't seem any less toxic than applying it to my skin. And the point is moot--the darn thing doesn't work at keeping the bugs at bay.

Family news: Mom is off galavanting with the cousins on the Russian River in California. Alex is now officially a homeowner--the last time we spoke, someone was power-sanding the hardwood floors in the background, and he had just come in from weed-wacking his lawn (he doesn't have a mower, so this will have to do for the time being). Juli has a new job at an upscale Kimpton hotel called The Monaco.

Wildlife news: I found another snakeskin in the other lettuce tub. Do these things come in threes? Bunnies abound. A big buck tried to commit suicide in front of my car in my own driveway a few days ago. There is something in the woods that makes a strange distress call at sunset, that I haven't figured out yet.

You see? I told you there wasn't anything momentous going on...

Who's been sleeping in my (lettuce) bed?

Wildlife abounds. On my way back from the dump a few days ago, a big buck leapt in front of my car, in my own driveway. And now, this morning I awakened to signs of an interloper, right by my front door:

So who's been molting in my pathetic little lettuce tub? A three-foot Blacksnake, that's who! I have pretty much been ignoring this paltry, heat-stroked lettuce, as I have much tastier greens growing inside in the hydroponic AeroGrow unit:

Out on the porch, the tomatoes and peppers (and eggplant and artichokes) are taking over the railing, hanging over the deck and waving at passerby. Well, okay, there aren't any passerby, but you get the idea:

It just seemed easier to tie the plants to the railing than to stake them. I am all about the easy when it comes to gardening. I have baby green tomatoes and little nubby peppers appearing!

And yes, down in the lower level, the beans continue to outpace my picking motivation. I'm getting about a pound per day, with no signs of slackage in bean production.

Ah, summer!

Nature vs. Nurture

Posting Alex's baby pictures yesterday had the unexpected consequence of making me think about all those years of child-"raising," and brought about some self-examination, something I usually try to avoid.

Motherhood did not come easily to me. I was great at being pregnant, happy and strong, eating my 100 grams of protein daily, researching the whole project to death. But upon their actual arrival into the world, the reality of tiny, helpless humans, totally dependent upon me for survival and care, was daunting and humbling.

It was as if everything I had learned up until that point in my life was totally useless for the task at hand. Poor Juli got the brunt of my supreme ignorance--in one notable example, she wore her diapers backwards for five weeks before friend Molly took pity on us and shoved me aside, showing me why the diapers leaked constantly, and why I was doing six loads of laundry per day!

In the great hormonal miasma of post-partum life, I seemed to be incapable of comforting a crying baby (indeed, becoming highly agitated at my own incompetence), dressing a squirming infant, or cajoling a stubborn toddler into doing anything. Eventually though, I learned from other mothers what to do at every developmental step, and I relaxed somewhat. Yes, I managed to keep them from killing themselves, but I don't think I ever got over that insecurity that I really didn't know what I was doing.

On the plus side, I really enjoyed being with my children, playing with them and teaching them. Their curious, bright minds intrigued me, and I delighted in the way they approached the world. But I was also highly frustrated at my own perceived lack of maternal instinct--nothing came "naturally" to me, it was all learned behavior.

From the start, Juli was high-maintenance and Alex was easy-going. One could argue that my lack of self-confidence with my first-born transmitted itself to her, and so I created the conditions that made Juli who she was. But upon later-life reflection, I don't think so. I now come down squarely on the side of Nature, rather than Nurture (maybe because I was so bad at the Nurture part, my mind tickles at me?)

All parents have regrets, of course. I wish I had been more patient, less insecure in myself. But I can't regret the people my children have become. Whatever I did as their mom, positive or negative, they grew to become independent, interesting adults. I now look at those years as being more of a companion and caretaker, rather than a molder of their personalities. They are who they are, and they were from the start.

Maybe it all really does come down to keeping them safe, keeping them from killing themselves as they encounter all the physical dangers of the world, until they can take care of themselves on their own. Maybe all the rest of it is just another exercise in learning how little we actually control in life?

Happy Birthday Alex!

Twenty-three years ago today, my son Alex was born in Vallejo, California. He is the only baby I know who arrived on his exact due date, after a whirlwind labor of 2 1/2 hours.

As an infant, Alex was an unusually happy, contented baby. He went to sleep when we put him to bed. When awake, he was very active, but always seemed to be smiling, enjoying everything that went on around him. At six months, he was chubby and delightful:

He was physically precocious--crawling and sitting at 4 months, steady on his feet and walking at 8 months. At 2, he suddenly started talking, in full sentences--up until then, his extremely verbal big sister had anticipated his every thought and spoke for him. And wow, he was really cute too:

He continued to be an active, interesting and easy-going child, making friends with his calm, sunny outlook and smiling attitude. He was also a bit of a quiet rebel--he was the only kid in school with long hair, and after finishing 9th grade, he decided to "double-up" his classes and graduate a year early. He spent his senior year at the local community college, taking only band at the high school in town, and graduated with his AAS degree when he was 17. Here is his graduation photo:

Now he's a grown-up man, with a job and soon (in the next few days), a house of his own. He is still compassionate and kind, talented and interesting, optimistic and happy. And he makes his mom very proud.

(Photo taken June 13, 2009 in Danville, Indiana, at Aunt Mary's birthday party and family reunion).

Happy 23rd Alex! Love you!

Don't scratch!

Thanks to all who sent their best ideas for avoiding bug bites in the future. Being a tasty insect-snack has been a lifelong handicap, although I must admit that everyone I know loves having me along on a camping trip. I am everyone else's bug repellent!

When I was a child, I often felt like the Peanuts character Pig Pen, the little kid who walked around with a cloud of buzzing insects surrounding him. Whatever pheromones I give off, I am irresistible to biting, stinging, flying creatures. I suspect that the same mechanism is at work when I attract the lowest-life reprobate losers in airport bars. And you wonder why I hate to fly. But that is a story for another post...

In NY, I actually ended up in the hospital several times the first year after we moved there, during "black fly" season. Black flies are a peculiar type of "no-see-um," also known in historical literature as The Scourge of the Adirondacks. There are early recorded accounts of explorers, trappers, hunters and voyageurs being driven mad by swarms of the biting insects. For about 6 weeks in early summer, I had to stay indoors (not an option), wear a bee-keeper's hood whenever I did go outside (yes, people pointed and laughed at the Little League field), take baths in Off! before any outdoor social event, and suffer the indignity of explaining that my fat jaw, lumpy arms or swollen-shut eyes were not the result of spousal abuse, but an allergic reaction to a bite I never realized I had gotten while I was walking to the garage.

Whatever Tennessee creature is feasting on me now, I will have to remember to take more major precautions in the future, whenever I venture outdoors. Why do I have to keep learning this? You'd think that I'd figure it out after a lifetime of sensitivity. You'd think that as soon as the weather warmed, I'd be spraying myself down and carrying that green can with me wherever I went. Middle-aged memory loss? Stubbornness? Hope?

In the meantime, I itch. I have 8 bites on each thigh (ah! symmetry!), 10 on my back, 12 on my stomach (including one inside my belly-button!) 6 on my caboose, a dozen or so behind each knee, and a particularly odd one in my right armpit. It is strange that this one itches the most, in a place where I have no feeling because of the surgical scars. How is it possible to feel an itch when all else is numb? It is a mystery.

I've tried it all, of course. Benadryl, Calamine, Ivy-Dry, Aveno, alcohol, peroxide, baking soda, vinegar, nail polish, ice, ad nauseum. The only thing to do is to try mightily to avoid scratching (but it feels so good!) and wait for it to go away.

What Price Green Beans?

I know I do go on (and on) about my "Magic Beans," but this is photographic proof of profligate bean production! I spent yesterday morning combing through the foliage for a kitchen sink half-full of these bad boys, then blanching and freezing 5 ziplock bags full.

Then I spent the afternoon and evening scratching myself silly from about 50 bug bites all over my body. Some of the bites are in really inconvenient places. If I didn't know any better, I'd think I was out there doing my farm work in my birthday suit. I was clothed, honest. They are not mosquito bites, but some kind of invisible insect that either bites through clothes or flies up pant legs and down shirt collars. Itch, itch.

Does this mean I need to slather myself with repellent before I get dressed? Deep Woods Off! is my usual summer eau de cologne, but this is ridiculous!

The Jungle

I have succeeded in my goal to do absolutely NOTHING this week, except for puttering in the "garden" on the deck and taking several naps per day.

The torrential rains we have had this week have really gotten things growing on the porch. The tomatoes and peppers and eggplants that were hanging over the rail crying "Water!" when I got home, are now screaming "Enough!"

And the beans down by the driveway are doing their magic-beany thing:

I am going to be inundated with beans again. While I am contemplating filling the freezer with French filet-type green beans, I'm also looking at the available space in the freezer for said beans. It might be time in the next week or so to clear things out and make some room. Or fire up another freezer.

Because there are also going to be several thousand ziplock bags of berries to deal with. The blackberries down by the pond are daunting--it looks like I've got another summer of blue-stained fingers in my near future. While I despair at the labor-intensive chore of picking all those berries, I can't help but be thrilled at all the "free" food. And despite my protestations to the contrary, I will probably be making blackberry jam again. And blackberry pie. And blackberry cake.

I am also in the process of ripping out the peas, which all perished in the heat while I was gone. I'm actually thinking about planting some corn there. Crazy, I know. But I have the space, and I might as well use it. I can get a crop in about 70 days, I think. It also means I might have raccoons underfoot if I plant tasty corn. Or deer. But I think I'm going to try it, despite the likelihood of failure.

I also need some space for cucumbers, because Jean is coming in the fall for "Pickle School." I have seeded cukes twice, without success, in the raised bed. I may give it one more attempt before I give up and buy my cukes at the Farmer's Market.

In the pots on the porch, I will have the aforementioned tomatoes, peppers and eggplant, along with herbs, artichokes and nastursiums. The lettuce is not doing well--I think it's just too hot, and something is nibbling on it besides. Rabbits? Possums? I have seeded the hydroponic indoor AeroGrow in the house with greens and lettuce as a backup.

So, while it hasn't been a very productive week, it's been a pleasurable one.

Home...SO Sweet Home

I don't think I've ever been so happy to return to my mountain top as I was yesterday. After living through EXTREME STRESS WEEK in Illinois, Echo and I walked in, turned on the A/C, and collapsed!

I accomplished all of my goals for the trip, had a wonderful visit with son Alex, had a great time at the Indiana family reunion/Aunt Mary's 85th birthday party, and made it home in one piece.

Today, I'm off to the acupuncturist to bleed off the residual effects of the trip, then to the post office to pick up mail. I plan on doing NOTHING after that!

Roadtrip Time!

I'm off for the dutiful-daughter-in-law visit today. My plan is to check in at Knitting Group, then hit Walmart for some last minute traveling needs, the bank, the post office, etc. Then back home to throw everything in the car (including Echo) and leave around 2 pm.

MaryAnn reminds me I must be patient--PATIENT!--with my father-in-law. I must leave my own ego on the shelf, and do this cheerfully and generously. I will try my best to step outside my world of self-absorption, and be NICE!

I will be out of touch for about a week, as computers are beyond the ken of the people I am visiting. Maybe I can sneak out to the public library to post sometime next week.

Even though this trip is not a happy anticipation or a vacation, I still have a little bit of excitement at getting on the road again. I do love to drive the roads of America, with my faithful and furry traveling companion.

Happy Birthday Bill!

My old-man-of-the-sea is 51 today (just a youngster)!

Happy Birthday Bill, wherever you are! I hope you are having some fun!

Summer Food

Ray, Elaine & Betsy arrived back from Vermont last night. Now I have people to cook for again! As I took out the frozen ribs I cooked last week (on sale at Walmart!), I suddenly got to hankering for some real summer food for tonight.

To me, summer means corn-on-the-cob, fresh peaches and plums and berries, sliced homegrown tomatoes, and macaroni and potato salads. I make quite a few variations on potato salad, but the one I wanted to go with the ribs is this one:

Three-Potato Salad

6-8 Red Potatoes
3-4 White Potatoes
1-2 Sweet Potatoes

6 stalks of celery, including leaves, chopped
1 Vidalia onion, diced fine
4 hard-boiled eggs, chopped

2 Tbls. cider vinegar
Juice of 1 lemon
1/4 cup Dijon mustard
2/3 cup fat-free mayo
1/3 cup real mayo
Salt & Pepper

1. Peel sweet potato(es). Chop into 2" chunks and microwave along with other potatoes until just fork tender. (Microwaving keeps the kitchen cool and doesn't waterlog the poor things like boiling them). When done, place in a bowl and let cool until you can handle them without burning your fingers.

2. Cut all potatoes into 3/4" to 1 " chunks. Sprinkle with vinegar and lemon juice.
Add celery, onion and eggs. Gently fold in mustard and mayo, then salt and pepper to taste. Chill.

I love the combination of flavors, with the sweetness of the yams, the tang of lemon and vinegar, and the smooth mellowness of the white and red-skin potatoes (don't peel those!). The fat-free mayo is for virtue, the real mayo for flavor.

I have gotten to the point that whatever I put in my mouth has to be absolutely delicious. I spend so much time on the elliptical, huffing and puffing to get rid of those excess calories, every bite has a price. It's a price I'm willing to pay, as long as I get some pure pleasure out of it!

Sunshine Optimism

Somehow, things always look better when I wake at 7 instead of 4:30. To awaken with clear sunshine streaming through the windows (but not so much sunshine that it's 9 or later), to hear the birds doing their birdie thing outside, to lie abed for a few moments anticipating what to do today is a powerfully positive feeling.

I don't think I could live in a place where gloom and overcast were the norm (Seattle?). Light affects my mood too much. I can stand a few down-days of rain, and enjoy the reprieve of curling up on the couch with a book for a day, but I live for my life in the sunshine. It makes me happy.

Dawn Musings

I'm up early this morning...oh-dark-thirty early. It's been awhile since I lay abed for a half-hour in the dark, and decided I might as well just get up. It's like revisiting an old, forgotten friend.

This time of day always reminds me of the year of post-surgical Pam, who couldn't sleep comfortably for more than four hours. I'd slip upstairs quietly to write on the computer in the pre-dawn stillness, trying to quell my fears, regurgitating my experience, trying to make sense of it all and struggling mightily for calm and grace.

Now, it's hard to remember the raw-emotion-barely-controlled of that time. The veil of blessed amnesia, the simple passage of time, has healed most of the emotional and physical wounds of that lost year. I have passed the year and a half mark. I am well. I actually have days where I don't think about it much, other than the momentary grimace when I catch a glimpse in the mirror after a shower or when I dress, or the underarm tightness I feel at night when I'm tired.

Still, to be honest, I think of myself as a "cancer patient." I am in the limbo of "Cured...But," always monitoring, always on the lookout for something sinister lurking underneath the obvious outward appearance of recovery. I'm having a hard time letting go of the inner invalid, afraid to celebrate too loudly, lest I offend the random gods like a character in a Greek tragedy. You know that character will be punished for her hubris, you just know it.

I worry about my flatline of emotions. Now that my inner calm matches my outward calm for the most part, I find I miss feeling passionate about something, anything. I am adrift, and I recognize that it's a self-protective mechanism, a method of trying to escape notice by Fate, so it will pass me by this time, without throwing another lightning bolt my way. Maybe if I stay really still and quiet, nothing bad will happen again?

I know this is ridiculous. None of us is in control of what happens to us. I am mildly surprised that I've somehow chosen this small-child-under-the-covers approach, rather than fiercely fighting for joy, wringing every last bit of experience out of life, (the "Living Each Day to the Fullest" model), that my past personality would predict. I feel humbled, chastened. Still afraid, I guess.

But then, the sun comes up. It's time to put all that garbage in a box, tie a big, fat red ribbon around it and shove it to the back of the mental storage closet, to be misplaced and forgotten until the next time I decide to clean out old stuff.

Hemming & Hawing

Good news! Well, sort of...as good news is never definitive, just a temporary postponement, a hedging of medical bets.

The right mid-lobe spot and the right lower-lobe mass appear to be 2-3 millimeters and "stable," meaning they haven't grown since the last CT scan, 3 months ago. They are most probably benign granulomas, scar tissue left over from a past infection, or exposure to histoplasmosis or tuberculosis. And, because we can't just leave well enough alone, the protocol is to repeat the CT scan in 6 months and then again in a year.

Luckily, I have the world's most absent-minded oncologist. Don't get me wrong, I love the guy. But I'm always the one who has to remind him that it's time for the 3-month Search-For-Lumps exam, remind him that I had a test and he needs to look at the results. My guess is that 6 months will pass, and if I don't say anything, I won't have to subject myself to more pointless CT radiation. As I said before, I'm done, and I'm comfortable with that. I don't need to go looking for trouble anymore, at least on the lung front.

He did the whole-body palpation yesterday (after I reminded him that it was time), and I am deemed cancer-free for another 3 months. Yippee!

On other fronts, Juli continues to improve. She was making meatballs last night, so I guess her appetite is back.

So, live moves on.

Juggling Much

I feel as though I've got 27 eggs whirling overhead, and it's a full-time job keeping them aloft.

The weekend was especially stressful, with daughter Juli in acute distress and hospitalized, no one seeming to know what was wrong with her. It was the return of the irregular heartbeat, non-stop vomiting, and dehydration that landed her in the hospital in February, 2008. Again, they checked her out, scanned her whole body, pumped her full of fluids and drugs, and sent her home with a shake of their collective heads. Intestinal virus? Anxiety attack? Nothing really fits. At least she is home again now and resting, starting to eat, and regaining strength. She calls me everyday, which is something I could really get used to!

We have also been living with the knowledge that Bill's dad is not doing well. His jaw cancer has returned, and is aggressively growing. He has started chemo treatments to prolong his life and quality of life for the time he has left, but this story is not going to have a happy ending.

I will be traveling up to Illinois next week to be with him, and help him get his affairs in order. It's all complicated by the fact that Bill is at sea and not due home until mid-August, which may be too late--his dad may be too drugged out to be lucid, or the cancer may spread to his brain, or he may be gone by then. No one really knows how this is going to play out.

Part of my trip will be to ascertain when Bill should come home, so he will at least have an opportunity to see his dad one last time and say goodbye. Another goal is to get clear on the arrangements for Bill's mom, who has been declining in a nursing home for the past few years. All in all, I am not anticipating a pleasant trip, except for the fact that my son, Alex, has decided to meet me there for a few days and help me handle the stress.

Alex and I will also travel to Danville, Indiana at the end of our trip, for a family get-together with all the cousins and to celebrate Aunt Mary's 85th birthday. That, at least, should be fun.
Alex and Echo and I will get a hotel room in Indianapolis on the 13th, and he will fly back to Seattle the following morning. I will then come on home to TN, while Bill's sister will drive back to Illinois to be with her father.

The logistics are the juggle-eggs. There are appointments with lawyers and social workers, bringing family and friends up to date, and dealing with Dad himself. There's dog boarding. Car maintenance. And a million other things.

Today, the car goes back to the hospital in Kingsport for the annoying "Check Engine" problem that has re-emerged, and an oil change. And then there's that pesky lung CT--I get the results at my 3-month oncology follow-up today.

It's only 9 am, and already I feel like taking a nap!

Coyote Calling

Saturday night at sunset, the unmistakable call of a coyote came floating down off the mountain. I do love the fact that there are predator mammals on the mountain. But I also worry that my dog looks an awful lot like a coyote, because there are hunters in the woods who would think nothing of shooting them.

Still, it feels like a wild place, a primal place, when you hear that sound. Not a wolf-like howl, but more like a yipping puppy with a resonant warble in the throat. There's nothing like it in the world, other than "coyote."

I first heard the sound in the Guadalupe Mountains in West Texas, in March of 1979. Dave and I spent a cold, windy night on those upper plains, listening to a whole community of them, conversing back and forth. Coyotes are solitary animals, unlike wolves who travel and live in packs, but they do let each other know where they are with their calls. I haven't heard them since--until we moved to Devil's Nose. Bill had never heard them until this winter here, and he was as enchanted as I.

The more I live here in the arms of the forest, the happier I am.

Peaceful Saturday Morning

I'm up early this morning, enjoying the dawn. Ray and Elaine are visiting from California, so I gave them my bed downstairs, while I am sleeping in the alcove in the upstairs loft on the airbed. It's comfortable, but when the sun rises, it comes through that window and awakens me.

Thursday was a long, tedious, boring day. I sat in so many waiting rooms, I got an entire hat knitted before I even got in the car to come home. The acupuncture treatment continues to amaze me. There is simply no way to describe how wonderful it is to go through my days without pain. To be able to use my arms without thinking about whether it's going to hurt...well, it's just the best thing ever.

The CT scan was, of course, really nothing. Just a bunch of forms to fill out, a long spate of sitting around waiting for my name to be called, and then a quick lie-down on the table, hold my breath 3 times when the machine told me to, and a goodbye. I didn't even have to change into a gown. I don't know why I get so excised about it.

Well, actually, I do. It's the mental game that gets me so upset. When the radiology tech cheerfully asked, "so we're here to check out some spots," I replied "No, we're here to cover my doctors' a***s." I am really not a very good patient anymore. Surly, in fact.

Then it was off to the muffler shop to find the cause of the Check Engine light glowing on my dashboard. The owner's manual said it could be caused by exhaust leaks, and since we've never had any work done on that in 107k miles, it seemed prudent to check it out. It was determined that one or maybe two oxygen sensors were bad--at $116 each + labor--or maybe it was just the indicator light, because after driving it around, they couldn't get the light to come on again. I decided that since doing nothing wouldn't harm the engine, I'd pass on replacing the expensive sensors.

Then, just as I was about to leave, as they were bringing my car down off the rack, they noticed my muffler was about to fall off (rusted out mounting bracket) and a heat shield was loose. So they welded everything together again, charged me $0, and I was finally on my way home.

Observation: All over this great land of ours, women complain that men don't talk. Well, I'm here to tell you that in East Tennessee, the men will not shut up. I endured two hours of mindless blather while waiting at the muffler shop. War stories, intimate medical histories (do I really want to hear about his PTSD?), bragging about their cars, tales about their wives. MEGO people! (My Eyes Glaze Over). So, I paid for the car repair, just not in dollars.

Like I said, I'm downright surly.

Ray and Elaine arrived that night around 2 am, having driven in from Nashville and Thursday was blessedly over. We all ran separate errands yesterday, and then met up for supper at the Pig 'n Chick. I had one of the best pieces of salmon I've ever eaten! Grilled (not fried!) fish in Tennessee. Who would have ever thought?

Off to See the Gizzard....

Well here I am, feeling sorry for myself yet again. Today I deliver myself into the arms of the Medical Machine once more, in its continuing quest to cover its collective behind. Today is my second CT scan of the "suspicious spots" on my lungs.

I know--whine, whine, whine. It's what I do best. Railing at the fates, bargaining with divine powers, generally plodding forward with a sourpuss face, a chip on my shoulder, and an inner child who is whimpering in fear. I hate the way these continuous medical tests make me feel--like a cancer patient.

I want to be SO DONE with all of that. For the last few months, I've felt like I've been on the verge of turning a corner, actually forgetting some days about where I've been, and almost forgiving my body and the random universe that turned my world upside down and changed my life forever. Trying to get past it all, not so much as to go back (because that just isn't possible), but to go forward without carrying so much resentful baggage.

It is what it is. And I'm just so gosh-darned lucky to have skated on the edge of the mortality pond without falling through the ice and drowning. I've been existing somewhere between gratitude and guilt, relief and resentment. Every time I think I'm getting a handle on it and mastering my emotions, it's time for another reminder that it's not so distant after all. The possibility of it is always lurking, just waiting for another test to reveal that I didn't get off relatively free.

I have already decided that this is my last CT scan on this particular quest. I don't feel like being an enabler forever, and I'm tired of subjecting myself to still more hefty doses of radiation that feed my fears. I'm still not convinced that it wasn't the constant mammogramming back in the 70s that gave me cancer in the first place, back in the days when the doses were inordinately high compared to now.

So today's test is my line in the sand. No more poking and prodding and no more looking for trouble. I've started to feel like a healthy person again, and I'm not going to let the medicos' fear of litigation rule my life.

Foliage

Rust never sleeps, Dad used to say. And the trees that didn't block the TV satellite last year, will certainly grow enough the following spring to do so this year.


Thanks to a contact through Renne at knitting group (she knows everyone!), two strapping young men came yesterday to remove the offending branches for the nominal fee of $30. With ropes and crampons, chain saw and courage, Ragen scampered 50 feet up my giant ash, while Renne's friend Renn stayed on belay. Fifteen minutes later, I had a patch of blue sky and TV reception again!


And an added bonus--a big bunch of mistletoe to dry, hang and admire (and maybe smooch under, when Bill comes home?):


Surprise! Last night, we had a late (Mid-May? Very late!) freak frost predicted, so at 11 pm, I ran out and covered all the seedlings on the porch:

There's always something that needs to be done around here!

Chicken Redux

I have had such a hankering lately for that most pedestrian of dishes--chicken salad. Since a distressing quantity of my Super Easy Lemon Chicken was still hanging around in the fridge, I came home from knitting group on Friday, and made this:

Addictive Chicken Salad

4 cups cubed cooked chicken breast
2 cups diced celery
1 medium-sized sweet onion (Vidalia)
1/2 cup chopped, toasted pecans
1 Tbls. pickle relish
Enough Mayo to bind loosely
Salt & Pepper to taste

I've been living on this for the past two days. I eat it on lettuce leaves, or ciabatta bread, topped with sweet-hot mustard, or mixed with a Tablespoon of barbeque sauce. I firmly believe that our bodies crave what they need, so what is in this humble chicken salad that makes it so compellingly delicious?

Soon, it will be all gone...and then I'll have to find something else to eat compulsively.

A Plethora of Plums, One Peach, and Other Marvels

There is something so satisfying about growing food for personal consumption. Subjecting oneself to the vagaries of "home farming" requires several acts of faith--that spring will come again, that the rain will fall and the sun will shine, that the pests and the birds and the vermin will leave enough to harvest for the human table, and that the cycle of life will go on.

I never lose my sense of wonder when my annual gardening hopes are rewarded with tangible signs of success.

A single peach (on a tree that was not supposed to bear fruit until 2010!) and my magic bean patch bring me joy:

And look at all those pears!

The peas, beaten down by the torrents of rain, are blooming:




Nature provides both the sublime and the annoying, as other signs of spring abound; yes, that's an American Dog Tick on Echo's fur:


Echo is on Frontline, so the ticks don't bother her at all--but she carries them into the house, where they must be found and destroyed before they jump onto us. (I am not on Frontline, and there's nothing pretty about scratching my head and finding a tick on my scalp!)

Dump Day

There's just no getting around it, I must go to the county landfill today.

I am reminded of a poem I used to recite to the kids when they were little, something to make them giggle, with just a touch of didactic "and the moral of the story is..."

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out!
She'd scour the pots and scrape the pans,
Candy the yams and spice the hams,
And though her daddy would scream and shout,
She simply would not take the garbage out.

And so it piled up to the ceilings:
Coffee grounds, potato peelings,
Brown bananas, rotten peas,
Chunks of sour cottage cheese.
It filled the can, it covered the floor,
It cracked the window and blocked the door
With bacon rinds and chicken bones,
Drippy ends of ice cream cones,
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel,
Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans and tangerines,
Crusts of black burned buttered toast,
Gristly bits of beefy roasts. . .

The garbage rolled on down the hall,
It raised the roof, it broke the wall. . .
Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,
Globs of gooey bubble gum,
Cellophane from green baloney,
Rubbery blubbery macaroni,
Peanut butter, caked and dry,
Curdled milk and crusts of pie,
Moldy melons, dried-up mustard,
Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,
Cold french fried and rancid meat,
Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.

At last the garbage reached so high
That it finally touched the sky.
And all the neighbors moved away,
And none of her friends would come to play.
And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said,
"OK, I'll take the garbage out!"
But then, of course, it was too late. . .
The garbage reached across the state,
From New York to the Golden Gate.
And there, in the garbage she did hate,
Poor Sarah met an awful fate,
That I cannot now relate
Because the hour is much too late.
But children, remember Sarah Stout
And always take the garbage out!

Shel Silverstein, 1974

Okay, it's not that bad yet. But today is the day.

My Bug-Killing Dog

This 2-inch long, monstous stinging insect found its way into my house yesterday:

Echo loves big, stinging insects. She spends many happy hours out in the backyard, snatching wood bees out of the air and chowing down on hornets and wasps. When they enter the house, she goes into full-hunter mode.

It only took her about a minute from spotting it before she snapped it up and rendered it dead.

Having that dog around is better than owning a fly-swatter.

Chicken

I get so bored with eating poultry. On the one hand, chicken is the most versatile of protein sources--on the other, it always tastes like chicken. Last night, I decided to do something different and came up with this:

Super-Easy, Super-Lemon Chicken

Preheat oven to 475.
Grate the zest from 2 lemons onto waxed paper and mix with 1 tsp. salt and 1 tsp. sugar.
Loosen the skin on 3 large, bone-in chicken breasts, and rub 1-2 tsp. of zest mixture into meat under the skin of each breast. Place in 9 x 13 roasting pan, blot dry with paper towel. Season with salt & pepper.
Juice the 2 lemons and add to 1 can low-sodium chicken broth; add remaining zest mixture; pour into bottom of roasting pan.
Roast for 30-40 minutes, until skin is very brown and crispy, and internal temp of chicken is 165F. Let rest while making sauce:

Pour off liquid into saucepan, skim off fat. Cook juices on medium-high heat until reduced to 1 cup, about 5 minutes. Add a cornstarch slurry (1 tsp. cornstarch to 1/4 cup water), a little at a time, until sauce thickens.

Eat. (I remove the skin and don't eat that, as tempting as it is--but leaving it on during the high-heat roasting keeps the meat moist and juicy).

You could also do this with a whole chicken--just remove the backbone with poultry shears, open up (butterfly) and press to flatten. Use 3 lemons instead of 2, and stuff 2 Tbls of the zest mixture everywhere, including the thighs and legs. Roast 45-60 minutes, until thigh internal temp is 170-175F.

I Am a Big Red Flower

Yesterday the rain let up for a few hours, allowing me to finally transplant the last of the seedlings--rosemary, basil, fennel, parsley, spinach, more tomatoes (I mean really, does one ever have enough?), tomatillos, poblano peppers, and eggplant. I played in the dirt until I was as muddy as the porch, but since the clouds started blowing over again, I figured the coming rain would wash my mess on the deck away.

Standing on the porch and admiring my finished project, and while I was talking to my mom on the phone, a tiny hummingbird flew up to check me out. It hovered about a foot away from me, at the level of my stomach. I could see its facial markings and individual iridescent body feathers.

I was astonished that it would come so close and hover for so long. It was staring at me. Then I must have imagined seeing an imperceptible shake of its head, and it zipped away.

It was only later that I realized I was wearing a bright red shirt. The hummingbird must have thought it had stumbled upon the biggest feast it had ever seen.

Time to Build an Ark?

The deluge from the sky that started a week ago seems to have abated this morning. Last night, as I was wandering around in my constant version of unbearable nightly body heat, the sky was flashing and booming--a real shaker in the pantheon of "scattered thundershowers."

My transplanted seedlings are drowning. Tomato and pepper leaves are turning yellow. Tiny mushrooms are springing up in the pots. Gutters overflow and water pours from the sky. And the forest? It's a jungle out there! Hopefully, it will dry out today enough to mow soon, or this place is going to start looking like Sleeping Beauty's overgrown castle.

Stomach Sleeping, Not Sleeping, & Who Stole My REMs?

I have been a walking Zombie this weekend. It reminds me so much of what it felt like being the mother of infants, staggering around, strung out and nerve-shaky, never really sure what was real and what was weirdness, perceived through a fog of fatigue and seeming like a bad re-run of Night of the Living Dead.

I love to sleep. I was not able to get to sleep, stay asleep, or get any kind of brain recharge for 3 days. I'd go to bed at 11 and lie awake until 2; then I'd be awake again at 4 and unable to get back into the Arms of Morpheus. I'd drift off on the couch around 3 in the afternoon, and be up fidgeting and jittery again at 4:30. Repeat cycle.

And I've been waking up and finding myself sleeping on my stomach. Not the full-on "swimmer's posture" which was my only way of sleeping before my surgery, and a position my chiropractor despaired of and deemed harmful to my back. I haven't been able to put any pressure on the bionics at all for so long now, and I had to learn to sleep on my back (only when completely exhausted) or my side. But somehow in the middle of my snoozing, now I'm turning more onto my tummy than I have in 17 months.

Last night, I went to bed at 1 am, stayed comatose until 4, got back into the slumber until 8, when I awoke refreshed and feeling normal. It was such a delight, I just laid there and savored the feeling of having reset my brain function to standard operating procedure again.

Whew. Let's not do this again anytime soon.

It's a Luna Moth!

Look at this amazing creature I found attached to my door frame yesterday!

It is a "Luna Moth," about the size of a deck of cards. These forest denizens are very shy and rarely seen. I first read about them in The Prodigal Summer by Barbara Kingsolver, one of my all-time favorite books about the Appalachian Mountains.

I have only seen one other, about a year ago, flapping around in the outside flood lights at night (hence, "Luna" -- they come out by the light of the moon). That one was larger than a big man's hand, and it made me wonder if I was hallucinating.

When I see something like this, I can only marvel at the infinite variety and beauty of nature all around me.