Year of our discontent or the pan-damn-demic blues.

By Posted in Nostalgia, Where to go 2 Comments

Creature of habit that I am, when the days turn crisp, the nights, blanket-worthy, I put my summer clothes away and take winter things out of the cedar closet. And then, when the earth tilts towards spring and daffodils bloom, I reverse the process. When I stashed my summer things away last month I realized what an absolutely futile exercise it was for this pandemic-tortured year.

Except for a pair of blue linen cropped pants and two white shirts, I hadn’t worn any of my nice summer clothes. Day after day April through September, I wore my work-in-the-yard, clean-the-basement, scrub-the-kitchen scruffy stuff. Keeping safe from Covid-19 includes not just wearing masks, but staying away from crowds and such frequent hand-washing that I could now sand my old kitchen table with my 60 grit sandpaper hands.

So when the temperature convinced me to dig out jeans and sweatshirts, long-sleeved tees and socks it hit home how senseless my biannual rituals were this year especially. 

Who knew that masks — such necessary, if controversial, protection against Covid-19 — would become fashion statements as well as, sadly, symbolic politically? Even though the so-essential medical community has endured shortages of appropriate masks and other personal protective equipment, hundreds, if not thousands, of clever designs are available for the mask-wearing public.

Virginia’s early voting began September 18. I wanted to be among the first to be counted. It took me 45 minutes to decide what to wear, another 20 to get ready to leave the house, 15 minutes to drive to the polling site and less than ten minutes to vote thanks to a very efficient process. At last I went somewhere, somewhere that counted in more ways than one.

On October 15 I went into Krogers, rather than into the pickup lane as I’d been doing exclusively since March. Quite a step for super cautious me. There were few people in the store and nearly all were wearing masks, but still I worried. One reckless woman, about my age, was mask-less. She careened around the store crashing into people with her cart like a car weaving in and out of traffic on I-81. I steered clear.

Little did I know last spring that there would be no place I could or would go in the summer or even now that fall is forging ahead to winter. If something miraculous occurs and life returns to something resembling pre-pandemic normal, my cold weather wardrobe is ready. But I won’t hold my breath.

  • About this time last fall I found this jacket on sale. Perfect for our July '20 family trip to PEI Canada. Covid-19 cancelled!. Maybe I'll wear it someplace next summer.
    About this time last fall I found this jacket on sale. Perfect for our July ’20 family trip to PEI Canada. Covid-19 cancelled!. Maybe I’ll wear it someplace next summer.
  • My go-to summer shirt sat on my rocking chair in the bedroom since April awaiting a new button. I'll do it next April!
    My go-to summer shirt sat on my rocking chair in the bedroom since April awaiting a new button. I’ll do it next April!

She’s an imp, she’s a scamp, she’s a joy.

By Posted in dogs, Fun, Gardens Tagged , , 10 Comments

Pippa, my little Westie, has lived with me for two months. I can say without any exaggeration at all, that she is the sweetest little dog in the world. She is a joy!

She lives up to her title too: Senior Scout. She takes searching out annoying chipmunks and squirrels very very seriously.  She leaves no leaves unturned, no dark hole unsearched, no scurrying in the underbrush uninvestigated.

Evenings, she stares fixedly at the corner of my old dry sink to tell me it’s time to play fetch with her favorite toy. No matter that the raggedy purple thing doesn’t live there. No matter if that very toy is right next to her on the floor, it’s my job to get up, pick it up and toss it for her to capture and kill. And kill she does, growling and shaking it as if she were a wild animal. Sweet little Pippa Joy is a ferocious beast who has removed squeakers, ears, and tails from two wart hogs, a whale, and a rhinoceros.  She is fearless.

Now for all her tough behavior she is very fussy about going out at night. She does not like to step in wet grass to perform her before-bed rituals, so I’ve learned I must take her outside before the dew settles. She’s a princess.

I think she’s disgruntled that I’m an “early to bed, early to rise” person. Her foster mom was the opposite. When I say “Bedtime,” she pokes along, hides under something if she can get away with it, then finally climbs the stairs head down, dragging her feet. I have a feeling she rolls her eyes behind my back.

Duffy and Lily, Pippa’s Westie “cousins”, sent a gift to welcome her to the family. Pippa took a shine to Lamb Chop, a squeaky toy almost as big as she is. She totes it around and lugs it, with difficulty, up to bed. When I walked into the bedroom the first night of Lamb Chop’s residency, Pippa was nowhere to be seen, but there was a telltale bright pink foot visible under the bed. Carefully, I bent to grab it, but that little lamb was pulled back quicker than I could say ba-a-a. Just as I was ready to climb into bed, I saw Lamb Chop’s foot sticking out again. I tried, but—swoosh—she disappeared. I laughed and laughed. A rascal, my Pippa.

Say “walk” and she’s a dervish, spinning happily until I put her harness and leash on. She’s keen to get out the door, but her first choice is to go in the car. Still, she trots along when I remind her we’re going to walk. Occasionally she decides she doesn’t want to go very far. I’ve learned to pick up a dead leaf or pine cone and toss it a a few feet ahead of us. She fetches it and, after a couple more tosses, she walks along contentedly. What an imp.

She’s 18.4 pounds of imp, princess, scamp, rascal and love, my fearless Senior Scout Pippa Joy.

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2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

 

Tales that wag the dogs.

By Posted in Family matters, Fun, Nostalgia Tagged , , 20 Comments

There were 200 days between December 23, 2019 and July 10, 2020. That’s 28 weeks and four days when there was no dog in the house. For the first half of that period I wouldn’t even consider a replacement for Nobby. He was irreplaceable anyway. Nobby really belonged to my husband Peter, but after he moved into dementia care, Nobby and I carried on. He was a big presence, 90 pounds of gentleness who had served, early on, as a therapy dog at nursing homes.

Midway through the period I decided I needed another dog. Easier said than done. COVID precautions meant that adopting a pet from the SPCA is quite difficult. I found several that suited my requirements—20-35 pound range, preferably terrier-like, young-to-middle aged. But all of them—Silo, Toto, Abby, Marvin and Bently to name a few—were either adopted by someone whose meet-and-greet appointment was earlier than mine, or weren’t really suitable for me or, in one case, the owner decided against giving up her pet.

Daughter Leslie shepherded me through most of the choices and disappointments while her sister Carolynn coached me on from afar. She even found a likely candidate, Lucky, who was rescued near her, albeit 596 miles away from me! It was Carolynn who discovered Carolina-based Westie Rescue Southeast had rescued several West Highland Terriers. I’ve loved those little dogs since I met Ben in Yorkshire years ago. He was son-in-law Martin’s family dog.  Carolynn and Bill have two Westies now.

I’ve never had a dog of my own, a dog I chose, named and trained. Quite often Carolynn had a hand in the arrival of the dogs I fed and cleaned up after through the years.

“Mo-o-mmm, please can I keep her?” Carolynn, 18 or 19 at the time, came home from classes at community college, a puppy in her arms and tears in her eyes. “They were going to use her in the lab for vivisection!” Her tear streaked cheeks, hard sell and my guilt were persuasive.

Cupid, the only female we’ve ever had, matured into a sweet dog. She did snack on the weatherstrips around my car windows when she was confined to the garage though. She moved out with her mistress, but returned several years later when Carolynn relocated to an apartment where dogs weren’t allowed.

Cupid’s life and residency overlapped with a shaggy, white terrier-mix. Carolynn and Leslie rescued him from the SPCA. They brought him home as a present for Peter and I two nights before our wedding. They’d already named him PJ…Peter…Judy. My lips said yes, but it had to be Peter’s decision—he’d never had a dog. He nodded his head and said, “His name is Fred.”

Fred was so easy-going he never would have gotten in trouble if Cupid hadn’t led him astray. Even though our back yard was fenced she flew over it as if she had wings. She was a gazelle in Lab-mix clothing. Fred, not an athlete, waited for the four-foot snows common to upstate New York then walked over the fence to join Cupid cavorting around the village.

Years on—Fred was an only dog by then—Carolynn called to ask me to come to her apartment one Sunday morning. She had something to show me. I insisted she come to us since her sister was home visiting. She arrived with a wiggly black bundle under her jacket. “Please, Mom, please keep him. Bill rescued him. They were going to drown him with his litter-mates.” Her eyes overflowed. “I’d keep him but you know I can’t have a dog.” I knew Peter would like this little guy whose outsized puppy feet were a sure sign he’d be a big adult. And he was. Decker was a smart, energetic Border Collie/Golden Retriever mix who, at his heaviest, weighed 118 pounds.

When Fred left us Decker was glum. Months later we met a woman with a little dog who, at distance, resembled Fred. Decker revived. As age crept up, his main ailment, the autoimmune disease pemphigus, led to him being a case study for our local vet, Cornell University and ultimately Virginia Tech Veterinary College. “No more dogs ever,” Peter said when we returned home from our last goodbye.

And so it was for nearly five years. Then, a chance meeting with two Goldendoodles while visiting friends near Seattle and Peter forgot his vow. Around that same time, dementia began to tighten its grip on him. My gift for his seventieth birthday was to suggest he rescue a dog from the SPCA or pick a Goldendoodle puppy from a local breeder’s newest litter.

He chose the calmest, shyest little Goldendoodle in the pen. Nobby. Though I’d hoped for a smaller dog, Nobby weighed in at 90 pounds. He was a gentle sweet-tempered and beloved pet for nearly twelve years.

By mid-April I began an exhausting, frustrating search for my dog. I lost count of how many I almost got, how many sites I trolled searching for size, temperament, cuteness. I really wanted a Westie.

My luck finally changed when Westie Rescue Southeast contacted me. Pippa, an eight-year-old female, was ready to be adopted. I’d sent in my application and names of three references weeks before. Next I was asked to send photos of my fenced yard. Promising! Leslie drove me to a meet-and-greet in North Carolina. Two days later her foster mom delivered Pippa to me.

My dog! Pippa. Leslie suggested “Scout”  for Pippa’s middle name. Because was instrumental in helping me get her, and since Pippa loves to “scout” for chipmunks in my flower beds, Scout is her title, Joy, her middle name. She is a joy, a funny, smart scamp, all 18 pounds of her. And she was so worth waiting for!

I washed Nobby’s best toys for a new dog.
Pippa watches while I collect the newspaper.
She loves Nobby’s squeaky warthog
Adopt me pose.
She decides when she’ll come down in the morning.
The stair-mistress.
Pippa Joy ‘scouts’ for chipmunks.

 

 

 

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Kiss your toilet paper goodbye.

By Posted in Fun, Hilarity, Nostalgia, Shopping Tagged , 7 Comments

Like so many people in my age group I’ve barely gone anywhere this year. Oh, I’ve ordered groceries on-line to pick up at Krogers. I’ve been to the pharmacy and the health food stores. I’ve visited, masked, with a few friends outside and at distance. It’s neither news nor unexpected that now, when states have started to open up, COVID-19 cases are on the rise again thanks, in part, to so many refusing to follow the safety precautions.

Me? I’ll stay isolated as much as possible. Most of us elderly folk remain cautious. I don’t mind being secluded for, well, for as long as it takes. I’ve always been a loner so staying behind my closed doors isn’t difficult.

Early on in this siege I busied myself cleaning kitchen cupboards inside and out, clearing closets, tossing old files, gardening with more enthusiasm and more free time than in recent years, burying my nose in books, and binge-watching Netflix and BritBox series. Um, and I’ll admit to watching hours of dog and baby videos too.

The one thing I haven’t done that I always longed to have the time to do is write. This is my first post here since August 2019. I’ve done very few posts on my other blog either — “Dementia isn’t funny” — because I haven’t been able to visit the reason for my blog, my husband Peter. He still keeps the funny in our lives, even though we’ve lived apart ever since I had to move him to a memory care facility two years ago.

During this virus-enforced confinement — in my case solitary confinement — I haven’t worn my pajamas until noon, left messes throughout the house, or eaten popcorn three meals in a row. I do, however, kiss my toilet paper while it’s on the roll! Heck, no one is coming to visit so who’s to know I blot my lipstick without tearing a square off? That 4″x4″ bit of tissue does double duty. Thrift in in a time when hoarders control the supply.

Grandma was putting on her makeup in the bathroom. Her little granddaughter watched her as she often did. After Grandma put her lipstick on she started to leave the room. “But Grandma, wait, you forgot to kiss the toilet paper goodbye,” she said.

I’ve never been much of a shopper, but I do enjoy a TJMaxx fix every few weeks. With shopping not even pencilled in on my calendar these months, I’ve scratched that itch by shoe-shopping on Zappos.com. Their free returns and easy return process makes it a pleasure. Other online retailers would do well to follow their example.

Since late April another kind of shopping binge kept me occupied: dog shopping. Our Nobby died last December and it was spring before I could think about another dog. I’ve shopped on-line until my eyelids drooped. Adopt a Pet, PetFinder, local SPCAs and Angels of Assisi all know my name, but that’s a post for another edition. Let’s just say it’s a tale with a happy ending.

 

 

 

 

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

 

Walk around the block.

By Posted in Beautiful, College, Fun, Natural beauty Tagged , 4 Comments

Sizzling heat crisped the grass this summer until it resembled shredded Nabisco Shredded Wheat biscuits. The sun baked my head, because more often than not, I’d forget my hat. The dog refused to walk and instead lay near an air conditioning vent in the house. But yesterday’s soft breeze encouraged him to walk around the block. He actually trotted further than his usual one block or two. That’s how pleasant the morning was.

Nobby invites smiles.

Wherever we walk people smile when they see Nobby and often stop to pet him. Yesterday was no different. We were going along a tree-lined trail when two women approached. “What ‘blend’ is he?” one asked. She cradled Nobby’s head in her cupped hands. He loved her instantly.

“He’s a Golden…”

She finished my sentence, “…Retriever and standard Poodle?” I nodded.

She bent down and passed her hands along his back gently, then she stepped back and said, “Mmm, nice comportment….”  Obviously she knew dogs and probably had a bit of dog-show judge in her DNA.  “What’s his name?”

“Nobby.”

She laughed. “Is your last name Clarke?”

“Yes,” I said, surprised.  I wondered if she’d seen Peter walking Nobby?

“In England,” she said, “anyone whose surname is Clarke is called ‘Nobby.'”

“Yes, I know! You’re the first person to get that. We named him after my father-in-law.”

“I’m from England,” she said, “and Australia.”

It was my turn to laugh. “I could tell.” I would tell Peter about this when I visited later.

In this university town, old-timers grumble when the slow summertime pace screeches to a stop with the return of students, this year some six thousand more than ever before. Cars race along the main thoroughfares, stores are packed with incoming freshmen and weepy mothers, while
dads look forward to the empty nest back home.

So I wasn’t surprised to see a herd of students running full tilt along the sidewalk toward us half a block from home. I decided they could bloody well go around us rather than forcing me to step off the curb into the street. Nobby and I stayed on course even though I got dirty looks for not stepping aside. As the group, maybe 30 strong, pounded past, one runner stepped into the street, smiled at me and said, “Excuse us, please.”

Ah-h. “Thank you,” I said. What a nice young man.

Yesterday turned hot after the pleasant start, so I stayed inside with the dog. Today, though, was quite cool and London foggy. Nobby was only too happy to go for a walk this morning. We were nearly back home when we startled a flock of chickadees feasting on echinacea seeds in a neighbor’s garden—sunshine on the wing, a yellow watercolor wash, the perfect end to our walk around the block.

 

 

 

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Once upon a time.

By Posted in Beautiful, Coffee break, Fun, Gardens, Hilarity, Music, Natural beauty, Nostalgia, Travels Tagged , , , , , , , 13 Comments

For my fortieth birthday 40 years ago my then-significant other, now husband Peter, surprised me with a trip to England. He’d planned the trip in minute detail. All I had to do was get a passport and bring my own spending money. A lifelong Anglophile, it was a dream come true.

This year, for my eightieth birthday, daughters Carolynn and Leslie planned a special weekend in Washington, D.C.  Granddaughter Samantha, who lives there, was tour guide, arrangement-maker, Uber-getter, personal chauffeur and laugh-inspirer. The three of them planned everything perfectly. All I had to do was pack my bag. I wasn’t even allowed to spend my spending money for anything!

From Friday check-in at a pretty boutique hotel to check-out Sunday afternoon the weekend was perfection. While my daughters got the room keys at the desk, I made friends with a miniature golden doodle named Bronx on the opposite side of the lobby. Suddenly, Look at our mom. She’s eighty today! echoed across the marble clad lobby. My raised left eyebrow didn’t shush them, but they are now 57 and 55. My evil eye hasn’t worked in years.

Our room, indeed the entire hotel, was sleek, sophisticated and so comfortable. I felt like a princess sleeping in a bed so soft. The bathroom mirror even seemed to have similar properties to Snow White’s magic one. Such luxury was a far cry from the motels we stayed in years ago where we shared towels and took our own soap.

Our early dinner, at the Kennedy Center’s Rooftop Restaurant, prior to seeing the New York City Ballet, was golden. No, really, I swear, the light was liquid gold infused with pink. Helped that Carolynn and Leslie, unbeknownst to each other, both wore shocking pink. They glowed. Our waiter, a sweet little man with an eastern European accent, took special care of me, probably cued by Samantha. Not only did we get an extra bottle of champagne, but he brought me a chocolate confection with a candle.

The curtain-up lights were blinking as we dashed through the crowds to the Opera House and our third row orchestra seats. The performance was an eclectic program that featured music from Bernstein to Chopin to Kanye West and Jay-Z. I loved “The Night” danced to Chopin. Though I am a traditionalist balletomane, I shocked myself, my daughters and granddaughter when I actually enjoyed “The Runaway,” featuring the two rappers’ music!

Carolynn and Leslie glowed
One candle, quite enough.
Intermission photo op.
Carolynn bought us cozy robes, but we couldn’t stay awake to chat. Sam, Gram, Les, Carolynn.
Sam and Gram.
Cheers!

Saturday morning during a walking tour of the D.C. neighborhood near our hotel, we ogled beautifully refurbished old houses, strolled quickly across Meridian Park, then zipped off to a tasting and tour at the Guinness brewery in Halethorpe, Maryland.

Nearly ten years ago, I developed a taste for Guinness when Peter and I were in Dingle, Ireland. Samantha, who loves Guinness too, organized the trip to the brewery. That creamy delight, stored and poured the way it should be, was the perfect accompaniment to my brunch entree, avocado toast with a poached egg. Carolynn enjoyed the same entree, but with a tiny glass of Guinness Garnet, an experimental brew.

That evening the four of us, plus four of Sam’s good friends,Lydia, Clare, Hannah and Bridget, met for an earthy Ethiopian meal in Georgetown. Carolynn and I opted not to join the others for after dinner drinks at a nearby wine bar. It was already after eight, nearly my bedtime!

DuPont Circle home.
Meridian Park.
Post sized gardens.
Gates weren’t open when we arrived.
I felt fine!
Carolynn and me.
Barrels of fun.
Mother-daughter smiles.
Mecca for Guinness lovers who can’t go to Dublin.
Taste-testing.
Gram and Sam with a jolly replica of the famous Guiness advertising agent John Gilroy.

A cherry blossom pink Sunday.  After brunch and books at one of my favorite places in the D.C. area, Kramerbooks & Afterwords, we “Ubered” to the National Mall to bask in warm pinkness. The cherry blossoms did not disappoint, nor did seeing the Martin Luther King monument for the first time or one of our favorites, the Franklin Delano Roosevelt memorial,again. Goosebump-making! We were four among thousands enjoying the perfect April spring day.

That once-upon-a-time fairy tale April weekend had a happily ever after vibe. Turning 80 wasn’t so bad after all.

Cherry pink.
Outside Kramerbooks & Afterwords.
Washington Monument.
An imposing Martin Luther King.
Mom and her girls.
Birthday organizers.
Sam’s first visit to the cherry blossoms was in 1990.
Jefferson Memorial.
Quiet spot amidst the crowds.

Thanks to Carolynn and Samantha for the photos. For a woman who has always taken hundreds of photos on trips, I was too agog, and possibly too old, to take many on this adventure. Thanks, too, to grandson Miah who called, as he’s done for years, to sing “Tommy Turtle” to me. Maybe you’d need to be there, but he makes my day.

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

All mushrooms are edible, some only once.

By Posted in Beautiful, Environment, Natural beauty, Seasons Tagged , , 7 Comments

Conditions have been just right this autumn for mushrooms to…mushroom. Southwest Virginia has been sauna hot, steam bath humid and deeply rainy.

As far as I know, only one type of the mushrooms pictured below is edible— the Chanterelles, shown at the very bottom. Photogenic as they all are, I wouldn’t touch any of the rest of them with a fork.

What’ll they be when they grow up?

I’m not a mycological expert by any means, but I do trust myself to identify a Morel, wash it, dust it with flour and fry it in butter. Yu-um!  However, Morels are springtime ‘shrooms and I haven’t seen one in the wild for years. A lifetime ago my dad took me along when he searched for them. He told me I should look under May apples’ leaves. I don’t remember if I found any there or if that was a ruse to keep me out of his way.

A few weekends ago Chanterelles were the centerpiece of an evening meal at one of my very favorite places, above a river, in the mountains. We had fresh local tomatoes, local corn, and pie made from local apples. Really, a meal doesn’t get any better. (I must confess I’ve made better crust, but the apples were good.)

The National Audubon Society Field Guide to Mushrooms says, “Mushrooms are among the most mysterious life forms. Ancient Greeks believed they came from Zeus’s lightning because they appeared after rains and reproduced and grew inexplicably.” The Guide goes on, “Though mysterious, mushrooms often appear suddenly and often in places where they’ve never been seen before. They have been out of sight, growing underground or beneath bark.” And they disappear quickly too. Yesterday there were a gang of little ‘uns huddled together under my downspout. They’re gone today.

Indeed, these fantastical-looking life forms are nothing if not bewitching. And their names add to their allure—Big Laughing Gym, White Dunce Cap, Lawn Mower’s Mush, Fading Scarlet Waxy Cap, Sweating Mushroom, Emetic Russula (emetic?!), Pinecone Tooth, Old Man of the Woods, Jack o’Lantern, Hen of the Wood, Saltshaker Earthstar.  If any of these are shown below, I don’t know it. I’m a mushroom admirer, not a mushroom professional.  For the real low down on mushrooms read Gloria’s posts. She writes “Virginia Wildflowers,” a beautiful, informative blog. Mushrooms are included.

She had a part in ‘Fantasia.’
Budding romance, perchance?
Still life with ginger and hickory nut.
Leaf gobbles mushrooms.
This is a neighbor who lives in a tree.
Eeny, meeny miney, moe and moe. Look closely.
Fairy’s table and chair.
Piece of jewelry? Design for fabric?
Mushtroom trail leads to my door.
Safety in numbers.
Jiffy popped.
Evil lurks darkly.
Embarrassed, she hides amidst pine needles.
Eewww, if this is edible, I’druther eat my hat.
Menacing sulker.
Infantile chanterelles?
Chenterelles, a lovely dinner make.

Click on photos to enlarge them.

 

2016 National Society of Newspaper Columnists’ contest finalist. 

Dog days of summer.

By Posted in Forget, Fun Tagged , 8 Comments

Our summer in southwest Virginia had more than its share of dies caniculares, dog days. And none more so than Labor Day weekend at one of my very favorite spots, Leslie and Martin’s river house.

Granddaughter Samantha and three friends, Hannah, Clare, and Bridget, were there for the long weekend with their dogs, Huckleberry, Gooseberry and Hopper. Peter, Nobby and I went for a few hours on Sunday. Peter lives in a memory care center now, so the outing was a treat for him…for both of us. When we arrived he remembered having been there before.

The day was gorgeous though bloody hot. We arrived in time for brunch and feasted on Sam’s veggie frittata, as well as mixed fruits, mimosas and coffee. All I had to do was remember to bring the champagne. The girls—to Gram they’re girls—zipped down to the river after we ate, while we four of certain ages played dominoes and cards.

The best part of the day was the laughter Sam always generates, enhanced by her friends’ asides. You’d never guess from these photos that Peter no longer knows the names of anyone pictured except Nobby’s and mine.To be fair, he’d only met Clare once, and had never met Bridget. But he plays dominos as skillfully as ever, and still offers up one-liners to make us chuckle.

The blinding storm on our return trip up the mountain turned the curvy road into a slick river strewn with rocks and branches. We dodged one monster limb that would surely have crushed a car had it landed on the roof. Peter helped drive by clutching the armrest and yelping when I punched the wrong button for the emergency blinkers, opening sunroof button instead! We were quite damp before the thing slid back in place.

But the skies cleared by the time we got to the Floyd Country Store for ice cream cones as luscious tasting as the fluffy clouds above looked.

It was a good day.

What good dogs they are. From left, Nobby, Hopper, Huck, Goose.
A family photo with three dogs didn’t work out.
Front, Sam’s friends, Clare, Hannah, Bridget. Back, Mart, Sam, Les, Pete, me.
Hopper.
Sam, Martin, Leslie, Peter, me
Everyone smiles except Huck.
Nobby supervises.

The ancient Romans called the hottest, most humid days of summer dies caniculares, dog days. Such days were associated with the dog star Sirius, the brightest star in the constellation Canis Major.

Augusts past.

By Posted in Family matters, Fun, Natural beauty, Travels, Where to go Tagged , , 3 Comments

It’s been eight-and-a-bit months since I posted here. Tsk.  On January 17 I wrote about a favorite trip we took in August 2017! Thirteen months have passed. Tsk tsk.

Time flies.

In the 12 years following husband Peter’s retirement and before dementia tightened its grip, we were lucky enough to have a lot of wonderful trips—to Norway, Africa, Netherlands, to Mexico, Alaska, and Canada, plus several trips to England. But the August trip in 2017 was his last to a favorite destination—upstate New York where daughter Carolynn and her husband Bill live, and where we’d lived for 17 years. Not that Peter remembered we lived there, nor the house that we lived in all that time.

Last month I visited on my own—Peter is now in a memory care facility. I’d thought I might drive the 596 miles, stopping halfway like we did in previous years. But Leslie convinced me to fly. “You’ll be so tired, Mom. That’s such a long drive by yourself.”

I argued I’d been doing all the driving for several years, though Peter was along for company. He couldn’t help with the driving, but he was there, not talking, but there. That did help.

So I flew. I was nervous. Silly, really, because I traveled alone when I worked, plus all the trips Peter and I took involved long flights to unfamiliar places. Still, I managed to get myself to New York even though I overslept because I’d set my alarm to 6:15 p.m. instead of 6:15 a.m.

Carolynn was waiting in Syracuse and she whisked me eastward across the NYSThruway to home away from home.

The miserable hot weather didn’t do us any favors that week, nor did the almost daily drenchings, but it was all good. A pretty hike at Chittenango State Park, shopping and, best of all, I helped process honey. In truth I couldn’t spin the honey fast enough or for very long, so I sat on a chair and held a heat gun at the side of the stainless steel drum while Carolynn and her honey of a helper, Robin, turned it.

Duffy and Lily welcomed me.
Carolynn provides B&B-like accommodations.
Ready for a day trip.
Chittenango Falls, NY.
Mom and Carolynn at the falls.
Carolynn fall gazing.
Coffee on the village green.
Duffy is all go.

The buzz.

Last year Carolynn finally realized one of her long-held dreams when she bought the equipment needed to raise bees and gather their honey. With the bees came a Bill-built shelter for the hives. This year he outdid himself when he built a honey house that is part she-shack, part bee-shack. Seeing it for the first time was enough to make me think about keeping bees too.

Nearly all the materials and most of the furnishings were reclaimed from garage and builder’s sales, from the side of the road, and from Peter’s workshop. It is such a “bee-utiful” space where the Queen Bee hosted me, Robin and her mom Pat at a relaxing, scrumptious lunch—puff pastry quiche, fresh fruit, and honey cupcakes—plus hotly contested rounds of canasta.

So, would I go there again? You betcha.

Queen Bee gets charged here.
Business end of her she-shack.
Carolynn in her she-shack
Hives in the distance.
Season’s first run.
I helped scrape off the excess
Honey-helper Robin
Sunshowers Apiary.
Who’s who?
Bill, Carolynn and Robin. Thanks to Robin for the two wide-angle interior photos.

Light last August.

By Posted in Age-old, Beautiful, Gardens, Seasons, Travels, Where to go Tagged , , 1 Comment

New York State’s snow belt is known for its winter white layered look, wind-driven drifts, and lake effect snow. We lived there 17 years and I loved every minute of those deep, cold winters. But the miracle of that region’s brilliant summer days reside in my memory too, like the summertime pages on a new calendar.

Last August, when we visited daughter Carolynn and husband Bill for a week we lucked uponone perfectly stunning day — warm with a whiff of autumn cool. Carolynn had planned the day trip to western New York for Peter and I and her friend Robin. (With Bill at work Peter had to put up with three gabbling women by himself.)  The day was so August-bright that our eyes hurt. Our destination was Sonnenberg Gardens and Mansion State Historic Park in Canandaigua.

Now western New York State is as unlike Mississippi as a moose to an alligator. Yet, when we arrived I thought immediately of William Faulkner’s Yoknapatawpha County even though that’s a fictional place and I’ve never been to Mississippi. I’ve read Faulkner several times over but can’t recall any connection between Yoknapatawpha and Canandaigua Counties.

Certainly Sonnenberg Gardens that day had nothing in common with steamy Mississippi in summer. It was so cool in the shade that we popped in and out of the sun to warm up. Who would have thought to bring a sweater in August?

1903 Nectarine house
Carolynn examines succulents
Robin, wisely, brought a sweater.
Magnificent jade plants.
Crown of thorns
Snake plant, a Victorian favorite.
Best friends, Carolynn and Robin.
Juniper berries…gin awaits.
Dancing Ladies orchid
Ferns, Victorian favorites.
Mississippi swamp critter?
Japanese garden Koi
Japanese gardens fascinate my husband.
Denim is the new organza.

The enormous mansion evoked what today would be called “shabby chic.” It invited lingering, but it was the gardens that captivated me. The early Victorian glass houses hadn’t been modernized. There were no automatic windows or sprinklers, no obvious plant maintenance, or  new plantings. Everything looked decades old, plants way overgrown, yet all healthy enough and lush. The horticulturists and groundskeepers were attentive to their jobs even with diminishing funds to pay them.

Genteel privilege overlay the grounds like a scent, lavender perhaps. I could imagine Victorian ladies strolling the paths, then settling on the mansion’s enormous porch with mint juleps, laughing and gossiping the afternoons away. I envisioned myself in an organza gown — pale blue — tripping the light fantastic in my silvery satin shoes. Peter, a ballroom dancer in his day, would wear linen trousers with a white shirt and collar starched so stiffly that he couldn’t turn his head.

Snow falls outside my window today. Just enough to make me happy, and light enough to shovel easily. People in the snow belt up north have likely had enough of winter for this season. Now is the time to sits by the fire and plan a summertime trip to Sonnenberg Gardens, or even to Mississippi.

In The Tangled Fire of William Faulkner (University of Minnesota Press, 1954) William Van O’Conner wrote that Faulkner borrowed a sense of everything in decay from Victorian and  fin de siecle literature. Did that thought rub off on me when I read his books? I may have to read Light in August yet again.

How cold is it when the hot tub freezes?

By Posted in Beautiful, Fun, Hilarity, Natural beauty, Seasons Tagged , , , 9 Comments

Below the window and down the hill, the river was a silvery ribbon threading between steep banks of dormant rhododendrons on one side and stands of tulip poplar, oak, hickory, sycamore and wispy pines on the other. Frozen wintery beauty without snowy highlights.

A Friday afternoon at one of my favorite places to be, just be. The river.

Oh, there’d been hiccups for the four of us — Leslie, Martin, Peter, me — in our attempt to get an early start to the weekend. A weekend, I should add, that will go down in weather history as one of the most frigid ever in this country, especially in the southeastern states.

The results of the extreme cold for us began when Martin discovered that their furnace at home had stopped working on that 7° morning. And my quick quarter-hour to set up medical appointments went to 90 minutes because the facility had suffered burst pipes, plus many staff hadn’t made it to work. At the river getaway, a mouse rampage forced sweeping, vacuuming, scrubbing and trapping detail even before the wood stove began to pump out enough heat to warm the little house above the 40° thermostat setting…all before Peter and I arrived.

Order restored, the absolute bliss of sitting snug by the fire with books to read, cards to play, puzzles to work, movies to watch, and football and ice skating to enjoy on TV, was a joy. What could be better than going to sleep blanketed by stars outside the window beside my bed, and tucked under a covers striped with a brilliant moonbeam in the middle of the night?

As she always does, Leslie launched herself into the weekend in the kitchen with a pot of tomato soup and toasted sandwiches for lunch, followed by lentil soup and salad for supper, vegetable soup for Saturday lunch, and our customary New Year’s stuffed cabbage good luck dinner that night.

Few people share my enthusiasm for winter’s cold. I’ve always been the odd one out in a roomful of warmth-seekers. Admittedly, the wood stove’s comfort and Martin’s determined stoking, made the weekend cozy. All part of a package that would have been better if we were snowed in.

How cold was it last weekend? Cold enough for icicles to form on the leaky wood-fired, wood-clad hot tub, and cold enough to freeze my new mattress topper that spent the previous night in the back of my car. Laid in sun coming in the dining room windows, I managed to thaw it before bedtime.

That evening, the loft’s railing was the perfect place to warm my pajamas in the air rising from below. Sweet dreams? Ah, yes.

Hot tub icicles
Smith River.
Autumnal look above frozen river.
Shadowy bright.
Not safe for walking
No skaters here.
Color on a cold winter day.
Sycamore Creek flows into the Smith.
Glacial-like melt.
Nobby chilled.
Usually too hot, Leslie hugged the fire while Martin lugged logs.
Tillie could be a marshmallow.

Mead high and caffeine buzz.

By Posted in Coffee break, Fun, Nostalgia, Where to go Tagged , 6 Comments

In recent months, I’ve developed an almost unquenchable thirst for good coffee. Even though I long ago stopped drinking it after midday, I still crave it. Wakeful nights? Yes, but!

In August, I drove all the way to Central New York to find, coincidentally, some of the best coffee I’ve had. Better than the Starbucks Morning Joe I brew for myself at home, and on a par with Our Daily Bread’s coffee.

Peter and I arrived at daughter Carolynn and son-in-law Bill’s home in Clinton early afternoon on a Friday. (We now split the long drive into a two day event, going and returning home. I’m the lone driver now, and 596 miles is more than I can manage in one go.)

By Saturday morning I’d revived enough so that when Carolynn suggested the two of us go to the Farmer’s Market at Utica’s revitalized train station, I was ready. Gorgeous morning, lovely offerings by various vendors — vegetables, soaps, breads, jewelry — but none more so than the Heartsease Hill mead we found. We tasted a number of owner Joe Kappler’s varieties, too many as it turned out, because by 9:30 we were tiddly.

“Coffee,” Carolynn said, “we need Utica Coffee. Bagg’s Square Cafe, you’ll love it, Mom,” she said. And I did. Aging, long-declining Utica is coming back, and Baggs Square is an example of that.

Luckily for me, Utica Coffee has a cafe in Clinton, smack on the corner across from the village green. We went there three more times during our visit.

Coffee drinking isn’t all we did on our annual trip north, but it created the most buzz.  The final morning, when Carolynn suggested iced coffee with an espresso shot, I agreed, never dreaming I’d “go to the moon” like “The Honeymooners'” Alice!  To say I “woke the hell up” is to understate. I could’ve driven back to Virginia fueled soley by caffeine.

Gritty Utica, NY wakes up.
Decorative remembrances of an old city.
Mead high led us to cafe.
Perfect blueberry scone and coffee. Yum.
Wake-me-up orange dominates downtown cafe.
Carolynn and Mom.
Clinton cafe on the green..
Sleepyheads, wake up.