On Overhearing A Neighbor

 Sunday was like summer in October for us, a light breeze and full sun, 87 for a high, a perfect day for those fall outdoor chores. We still haven't had our killing frost, or even a light nipping one. For me it was perfect for making and cleaning up fall cuttings by stuffing them into boxes. All I needed to do was move my folding chair a couple more feet to the side along a garden bed to grab the next batch of last week's dried clippings, break them into shorter pieces,  stuff the box for taking them for compost, and move on. I wasn't making any noise, so sound traveled perfectly from a few yards away.

Apparently some Grandmother had her granddaughter over for a visit, playing outside of course. There was another child there that  she was scolding, though I saw never of the children. I hadn't had even a  clue anybody was there until I hear one single, emphatically loud sentence from the girl:

"Stop that! This is my Grandma's garden and they love their tomatoes !" 

Hmmm, apparently somebody else didn't love tomatoes? What was their plan?

Oh, the thoughts running through my head at that. It's getting close to Halloween, and I can imagine all kinds of things kids can get into who don't respect tomatoes, not one idea among them that didn't involve mischief: picking and throwing them at... (where did your imagination just go? Maybe waiting for them to rot first? Were you thinking splatting another person? Messing with somebody's house? Car?  Would it involve breaking something? )

I love that the little girl defended Grandma's garden. It's rare to still have them on the vine this late in the season, so Grandma is likely thinking her unusual abundance is a blessing with food prices being so high these days... a very necessary one, especially if a young child is aware of them being valued. 

But the person being scolded, what was their plan? Where did it come from? Peers? Parents? Media? I never had the kind of upbringing that tolerated any of that kind of mischief, not with food, not with toilet paper, not with paint. I did hear of high school students using fertilizer on an unloved teacher's lawn that would darken the grass there for possibly years with some very rude words, but while laughing at the cleverness of it, I would never have considered it myself. I save much of my mischief for words on a page, while trying not to be hurtful.

How about you? Who taught you what's OK when mischief is afoot? What do you teach your kids? And who would you protect from it?

There's Always One!

Yesterday we drove down to southern Minnesota to visit a relative, doing a nice long extended bit of "leaf peeping" along the way. We have lots of fall color around home now, being much further north, though not quite at peak. 

There was much less color as we drove south, but Highway 169 there follows the general path of a major river, the Minnesota, after it turns north to join the Mississippi way up in the Twin Cities, so the wide valley is bordered by hills which bore tops much further along than all the fields in the process of changing color. As the driver, that meant glimpses caught here and there. Most of our way the hills were full of maples, so oranges and reds were well represented. There was a single beige-leafed tree in a yard next to the highway we passed while wondering why anyone would plant such a thing.

I'd added extra time into our route before we were to meet, due to a major construction project being in its second year in a town called Jordan. Last year the northbound side was expanded, with walls added to keep noise out of the residential area it passes through. From appearances the highway is becoming more freeway in places with bridges and ramps instead of left turns and stoplights, both for speed and safety. Meanwhile there are long delays. Two highways combine and cross the highway we were on, per the road signs, currently controlled by a light while narrowed down into one lane southbound with construction vehicles very present but inactive over the weekend.

As usual, signs warn people long ahead to use both lanes until you have to merge. It gets the most people through the merge point faster. As usual most people believe that means move over into the one through lane immediately so you can sit and stew for an extra ten minutes at being passed by all the vehicles who actually read the sign and are passing you and merging at the last minute, for some reason selfish enough to expect you to grant them room after they've sped by for so long. How rude! 

FYI I pulled over to merge about four vehicles from the single lane, right behind a truck towing a flat of some sort with vertical ladders sticking up from the back. I figured correctly that the following vehicle would be giving it a wide space instead of tailgating it, likely fearing either of those ladders could fall back and hit their car it they got too close. It's not that I wasn't more confident about how secure they were fastened, I just liked a nice space to move into, so I could give that vehicle plenty of space myself. I'm always more comfortable when not tailgating. Meanwhile there was more time for leaf-peeping during the long stops still ahead.

As slow as we were at that point, Steve rolled down his window. He asked did I hear the  sirens? In a couple minutes I did. While slowly approaching the light, noticing how all the different lanes were allowed through or stopped in their direction in sequence, especially noting that our single lane was still single at the light. Other directions had a turn lane with it's own arrows at the light. With no turn lane, anybody needing to turn after the arrow disappeared held up all traffic wanting to go straight, until the next cycle. No wonder our lines we so long! We both had plenty of time to note a police car heading straight through and past, lights and siren on.

Our lane eventually disgorged another few cars, and Steve noticed a collection of people in the intersection in the next lane over from us. It turned out they were preventing our access to a through lane as we wound up shuttled into the turn lane despite going straight, As we were stopped again, he pointed me to the action blocking forward traffic's lane. There was a motorcycle down, and people gathered around a very still person lying on the pavement, flat out. Since they were talking at the person, I presumed it wasn't a fatality, or at least not yet. The police vehicle had gone straight past, which I found weird, but apparently there was another crisis elsewhere. 

Getting our light to proceed, I did so while Steve maintained his view of the accident. He identified the victim as being female, and with no helmet in sight. Neither of those facts I'd had time to note myself, but it put into context the person kneeling at her head end holding her head very still, a hand on either side. I presumed they had some kind of training to know why/how to do that, even though no marked vehicles were stopping those lanes. As we passed through only cones had been set out, the same cones as earlier but now taking one more lane so only the turn lane had traffic. The room was needed.

Gaining our second lane as we continued on our way past the construction, we wondered why the cop sped past and no ambulance had appeared, but a mile later saw the familiar box shape of the ambo, and later its colors, heading our way from the other direction. All that was left for us to wonder at was why anybody would be out on a motorcycle through a construction zone - or anywhere for that matter - without a helmet?

But there's always one. Ouch!

Guillermo!

 Full disclosure here: I have never in my life watched "Dancing With The Stars". Until now it's never occurred to me that it would be worth my time, much less even checking out what channel it airs on. Snooty skinny athletic famous people in fancy dress moving in prescribed ways, presumably designed to push the typical viewer into being fat-shamed and clumsy-shamed, as well as supposedly envious.

I've already spent enough of my life feeling like that. I grew up being everything that wasn't attractive. I practically failed in gym class if it were possible. I never could do pull-ups, managed a few sit-ups, never climbed a rope.  My first time on a trampoline in class a forward drop turned into my head going down between the bungee cords and my legs continuing over and off the apparatus. Our teacher was terrified I'd have broken my neck, scolded me soundly thinking I had done it on purpose, and barely got around until that moment to scold the very distracted "spotters" and teach them their proper duty of preventing exactly what I had accidentally done. 

Dance? In school it meant square dancing, easy enough to do as soon as you understood the calls, but basically a brisk walk with turns, trying not to hit the other people who hadn't quite figured it out yet. Besides, it was something our parents might have done but our generation just wasn't into. Things like the jitterbug were appearing, and nobody gave lessons on that. Not in my experience anyway. I did manage the twist, privately and with nowhere to use it.  No, it didn't slim my belly.

After school I didn't do anything resembling dancing until about age thirty, where I learned one could sign up for lessons in beledi, better know as belly dancing. Most people's reaction to the name is it's all about sex. When danced in a bar by prostitutes, that's likely. But for the serious dancer it's about getting the body ready for childbirth by strengthening the pertinent muscles. It's also about sensuous beauty, which is not about an invitation to sex... unless for that specific special someone.

 Its basis is all about isolation of movements. Think the head slide for example. You stand straight (not still but that's part of choreography once you master isolation) while your head, also perfectly vertically straight instead of tilting back and forth, slides back and forth over your shoulders. It has to be practiced in a mirror, like most of the moves, which the classroom we were taught in had along one wall. We also had an excellent instructor, with six weeks of lessons followed by performances by the class and/or individuals. Those recitals were open to family and friends... for those not too shy to invite them. Costumes were made for them, while leotards and a veil were for class. The group performance was choreographed by the instructor, with moves we'd more or less mastered. Individual performances we choreographed ourselves, even picking our own music. I retain the flexible spine I developed, but knees and shoulders now prevent the more athletic moves. I had gotten to the point where, first time in my life, while on my knees I could do a back bend and come up out of it again without rolling over onto my side to stand from. I was strong and graceful for a few years. But there are few opportunities outside of a class to continue that, and once a single mom, no budget for classes. So that, and years of life later, I'm back to not being strong or graceful.

It is this experience I bring with me to judging the appeal of Guillermo on Dancing With The Stars. I'd never heard of nor seen him either, until Colbert was forced off late night TV. (For those worrying about him, he's involved in some project (movie?) about the Lord Of The Rings universe, something he's long been fascinated by and expert in.)

I looked for replacement late night humor programming and settled on Jimmy Kimmel. I never watch the interviews of famous people, on either program. I need a few laughs before I sleep. Here of course I became aware of Guillermo, announcer and sometimes comic relief. If you're not familiar, he's short and pudgy, always smiling a lot. Not what one typically thinks of as the ideal dancer, stereotyped by being slender and athletic, what passes for glamorous.  Contestants are "stars" and he doesn't fit the standard bill. Apparently he's not a particularly experienced dancer either. Like most of the world, he likely danced for fun in social settings, if at all.

His partner is a star, also somebody I'd never heard of until I started watching Jimmy Kimmel's show and the talk turned to the dancing contest. Her name? I can't remember. The two of them started on the contest for fun, making do with putting on a performance to entertain us, even if that entertainment was laughter. The judges hated them. The online audience loved them, or possibly just hated the judges' attitudes. Their votes after the show have kept the pair from being eliminated despite the judges' rankings. Each week the same. Dance moves could be as funny as Guillermo rolling on the floor or even falling splat on it. His partner is beautiful, graceful, dramatic. Did I mention she is currently 5 months pregnant? They are there to have fun. Guillermo has been working hard at becoming a better dancer. The audience loves it! 

The judges scores keep going lower. From what I see on Kimmel's show, the judges keep getting more acerbic every week. This pair is dancing their way into the world's heart. I'm not sure which combination of motives they have for putting the pair through. Do they hate the judges? Do they see the standards imposed as a putdown on every average person as never good enough? Are they just rebelling at being told what to value? Do they simply need some humor in trying times? There are certainly enough needs for humor that doesn't put average people down as worthless. Times are tense. People need a break. 

Give them a voice - or a vote - and find out just how loud they roar!

Hopefully in more ways than one!

Fall Cleaning

 I know, it's spring cleaning that's supposed to be the tradition. But that's indoor cleaning, and frankly, I always figured the regular cleaning, if kept up, pretty much eliminated the need for it. The only spring cleaning I've done for decades has been going through all the paperwork I save throughout the year before I file income taxes. Sometime around mid April a whole lot of paper gets into the recycling bin.

Fall cleanup around here is the outdoors kind. Most of it never needed to be done, but where we live these days, the management is fussy. Take the six old, wide hosta clumps around the outside. At the old place those always just stayed put, not clumps but long rows serving as garden borders. The flowers are ordinary until you shoot them from ground level.

The first hard frost always  killed them, and what was left just kind of turned into hosta soup that filtered its nutrients into the ground to nourish the roots the following year. Here, I'm required to cut them back, with the presumption that all the pieces go in the garbage.

 OK, I cut and pick them up, but just two of the clumps fill a large box or a huge garbage bag. So when I have something filled, scrunched down over and over into as small a size as possible though heavy, it gets transported over to my son's yard. That hole in the ground left when the fish pond was emptied and its liner removed got repurposed as a compost pit. A really BIG compost pit. A tiny handful of pulled weeds aren't worth the bother and hitch a ride in the weekly garbage truck. The boxes and bags get emptied into the compost pit, ready to be filled again as often as necessary. 

The long abandoned raspberry patch has been put back into use for raspberries again, which get turned into jellies and given out as presents in December. Well-composted refuse keeps them well nourished and productive. Not all the dead plants or plant parts go to his house. On a good note, there is no actual tree in this yard, and the handful of leaves which blow in are left in place for the weekly mowing to chop. 

 But the 28 foot patch of asiatic lilies, once they turn brown, are supposed to get cut back and removed before winter. They get pretty woody, though not too woody to decompose somewhat over winter. Ignored stems look like grey twigs the next summer and simply get in the way of any weed control. But once they feed their bulbs and die back, they're cut to the ground. They are gathered, broken/bent and packed into containers to go to the compost pit. It will take them longer to break down, but it will happen. For one thing, all the weeds suddenly revealed by the tall flowers getting cleared are still tender and full of water,  ready to spread seeds, easily pulled where reachable and packed along for the trip.

Earlier this week I started that long process. The lilies went first, while I had the most energy, enough for half the bed, but since we've not actually had a frost yet, only the ones that turned brown on their own were taken. That resulting selective cutting made the job more "interesting". There was a lot of bending over from outside the bed between plants with the clippers, avoiding stepping on others still feeding their bulbs. Eyes needed to also be protected from stalk tips, slowing the process even more. Only closer stalks to the front are gone through. They've all grown dense enough this last year that there's not room for feet, so it's all reaching in, grabbing, cutting, and removing. There's a chair I mostly work from for the close stalks, since these old legs haven't gotten this use for a long time. I haven't gotten a long handled pruner - yet - so with a raised bed it's all legs for the heavy stuff (meaning me of course), the up/down from the chair. The shoulders have gotten lots of light exercise earlier in the year, thus were well  equipped for their part of the task.. How do I know for sure? For the last couple days those legs have been reminding me they've been abused... every time I stand up. Shoulders to fingertips just feel normal.

At least the hostas are where I can sit next to them while cutting and collecting. There are still four mounds to go, but the three containers are back now ready to load up again. Those will be the easy exercise. Just grab a handful, clip through green stems and leave those 3 to 4 inches long. The balance of the asiatic lilies will wait till either we get a frost or they dry out on their own. Since I'll be finishing the bed then, effectively clear cutting, I can set the chair on one end since it fits within the width, and work my way steadily down, taking everything. It will be much easier. Maybe next year I'll wait for a good frost and do it all that way, easy peasy.

After that, of course, is the big job: cutting the huge flower heads off both huge hydrangeas and shaping the branches a bit. They were a bit slow changing color this year, only now in full glory.  I wonder if we'll have a few nice days left the end of this month... after my legs recover. That will need to be done regardless. The way those heavy flower heads bend over, the ground under them has grown full of weeds that can't be seen, or if seen with much trouble, can't be reached to pull them out when pulling could do any good. I'm talking early in the season before they spread more seeds all over.

A long Ago Bluebird Summer

The house was built in '91, finished in late July. It was up to us over many coming years to make what we would of the yard, from a screen house, deck, and shed to gardens to trees, to sunken fish ponds, metal ground supports for window wells, a driveway, and lowest priority (except by everybody else's standards) a grassy lawn. We were required immediately, however, to seed it with at least rye grass, the lowest quality we could get away with, to which we immediately added white clover, blue violets, scillas, and a huge variety of other things. Garden flowers spread out and baby trees came up everywhere, still requiring much attention.  More plants seeded themselves, like patches of creeping charlie. Taller plants included a variety of trees, lots of mid-sized and short trees and bushes which provided any combination of flowers, fruits and nuts, vines wound through the chain link and between weeds in the yard, grapes grew on an arbor.

The back yard was chain-link fenced for dogs and visiting children, none of which should be allowed to get lost. By the time in late summer it was move-in-ready, the weed grass was six feet tall. We were required to mow it. It did keep the wood ticks down and made walking easier at least. Large boulders dug up in digging the basement were buried until I caught them at it one day, and the final one - as far as I was informed - was left on the surface in the back yard.  Free sitting space, right? I got an offer from a neighbor some time later to help bury it. I guess then was when they figured out we were a little different. It should have been obvious well before.

When dandelions and creeping charlie covered the lawn, we were expected to poison them. Instead we grudgingly mowed them along with uncounted other plants when enough reached the mandatory mowing height of 12 inches to irritate somebody into a complaint to the city. Most had bloomed and dropped seeds by then. We added trees and bushes over the years, our emphasis on fruits and nuts that would do their own thing without attention, and had the same plan with perennials, be they flowers or ferns. A few of the latter, planted on an unmowable north slope, tried to fill a quarter of the yard. Still trying last I looked. When one thing didn't thrive, it got replaced, sometimes by us, sometimes by a bird dropping. We still presume that's where the wild strawberries recently growing near the street are from. Teeny, tart, and delicious is the pronunciation.

Grass was a reluctant nuisance.  One rigid form fish pond which cascaded into a second one grew a combination of yellow iris and cattails, after hosting tadpoles and dragonfly nymphs. We tried lotus the first year, which was about how long it lasted, but the flowers were exquisite. They were replaced by water lilies and water lettuce, both of which moved into the basement in stock tanks for wintering. Papyrus was tried, enough said. Fancy stuff gone, natures supplies a new tenant. Occasionally money changes hand.

The huge vinyl-liner pond was filled with koi at first, along with waterlilies and water lettuce. Koi were rapidly replaced by similar looking shubunkin, three species of local frogs and toads, and whatever insects needed it.

It became a rich habitat, and nearly all visitors of any size were welcomed. Even if they had to climb down their tree.

 

We differed greatly from most of our neighbors. They looked around them at their borders and saw a lawn. We looked around and saw a yard.

 
Where else could you enjoy your now pink dandelions by shooting them at sunset from on your belly because you were young enough then? Even if the neighbors saw and thought us nuts, they were polite enough to remain silent ...in our earshot.

We had regular visitors when the yard was deemed empty,

 

And plenty of larger visitors to entertain and cook for on a summers eve. Firewood was forever plentiful, just needing collecting and sizing. There was always somebody to cook and more people willing to eat.

We put in a huge raspberry patch which performed well at producing a bounty of large vines and berries, all needing a protective wire fence around it with a gate on one end. Compostables were simply dumped in there to keep the soil rich and the workload lighter than bagging and hauling curbside would have been. It was one of my favorite parts of the yard .

The fence posts quickly got decorated with wooden bird houses. Occasionally the houses had occupants. At first we had tree swallows. After that we hosted wrens. We had just bemoaned not being right for bluebirds when ... guess who showed up?

I was thoroughly surprised, but had time to dig out a lawn chair and camera and plunk down across the yard a ways to try to catch some of the action with maximum zoom. Usually if I take enough pictures I can get a few good ones.

Mama promptly showed up on what looked to be her favorite perch aside from one of the the birdhouses, a fence post.

Usually with both of the pair out and about, not busy towing building materials to the house, it meant feeding was necessary. It likely meant at least one hungry chick in the box. Since this was our first sighting of either in our yard, we were last to the party.

I just kept shooting while I could, thoroughly enjoying what we never thought we'd have in the yard. By the time there was a chance to watch them again the parents were gone, the box empty. I prefer to think the babies fledged safely and the family was off somewhere in an even better habitat learning how to survive.

Ending September

September has always been a special month for me. Summer is often uncomfortable, between heat, humidity, and bugs... and when growing up, often lonely. September meant the return to school, teachers who mostly praised me and my accomplishments, people my age who, if they didn't necessarily notice me at least mostly weren't mean to me. Being back in marching band and choir meant fun activities, and with rare exceptions the classes meant new things to learn. Mosquitoes started dying out, thank goodness as I didn't reciprocate their "affection." Frosts might arrive a bit early, their tannins making the whole world smell different in a very welcome way. The uncontrollable curl in my hair would start to relax... just a bit, and while it would never be fashionably straight, at least it was less frizzy. Mostly September was freedom from home. All the rest was a bonus.

It announced itself in colors in northern Minnesota. On the resort there was an endless supply of oak trees, and if they turned brown quickly, at least there was some color before leaf drop.  But the real signal the universe sent was the arrival of two things: sumac leaves turning red, and little wild asters blooming blue. September was here again!

Now, being further south in the state, the color bonanza is more of a hail to the ending of September. But it still starts with the sumac plants putting on their Joseph's coats of colors, challenging the other plants to follow suit.

It can begin with noticing  single hanging branch, its leaves individually and as a group a riot of color. Eventually the whole slides into crimson and off into magenta, ending in deepest red-brown covering the banchtips, just a seed spike left, crowning woody branches.

Long before they have a chance to slide away into sleep the tiny blue asters are up in their last hurrah of tiny blooms, pushing up between spent leaf litter one of the last good snacks for the bees to bring home before winter.

Other plants aren't common enough for you never bother to learn their names before they add their glory into the mix, a last chance to try to ensure a next generation before snow covers them again.

While many others went through that stage when nobody noticed, aside from pollinators, and now...

hang around waiting for conditions to knock seeds loose in amounts large enough...

that a sufficient quantity reach the perfect spot on the ground, like this field clover, that next year's bounty is guaranteed.

Others provide abundant fruits for whatever will eat then and drop seeds to the whims of fate with a light coating of "repelling fertilizer" as a parting gift...

while other just weave themselves into the understory and scratch inquisitive passers who might disturb their chosen winter homes, from which they'll emerge the next spring.

Many oaks seem to go straight from green to brown-and-down before they sleep, while others are more thoughtful about leaving us a show. They've already given an abundance of acorns reminding us that it's well past time to quit wandering barefoot underneath their branches.

. There are vines with the sole aim in life to climb trees as if to leave us a show. They are the most dependable show around, whatever the summer has been like.

At the end of September, many sumac plants have lost a large number of leaves, or turned a washed-out red aging towards burgundy, with dark seed pods poking up above the branches, soon to be all that remains on the branches. It's still declaring fall is starting, if not fully started, even with the occasional brand new occupant in the batch just getting into shedding its green. This year there still has not been a frost. But October will provide one, and during the next month every tree in the state will wear it's Joseph's coat of many colors. 

Some have already started. It's looking a bit pale so far, thanks to the drought. But I'll have pictures.

It Rained!

 It rained! I heard it! 

I woke up early this morning, looked out the window, and all was dry. Mind you, I couldn't see much that early, but the streets do deflect the lights ever so faintly from the neighbor's porches to our window facing the street, even in the darkest night. Especially in the darkest night, where aside from the shine of wet pavement all is black except any lights left on overnight.  With no street lights here, barring a passing car those porch lights separate us from solid black. The doubled bright lights signify wet roads. They work even better once it snows, unless, of course, those neighbors decide to become snowbirds and head south over the winter, like we used to, and set their porch lights to "off".

But there was no glow, and I needed to hit the bathroom, the next first thing on my morning list. Now two bathrooms in a two-person house may seem a luxury. Try it yourself when both are near or past 80. Patience is a memory. Neither bathroom has a window in it, which affords us both privacy. Both have a skylight in the ceiling, which affords us their use without turning on a light to inform any nosy sleepless neighbor about our very personal habits.

Aside from privacy, those skylights also give us enough light to find our way around those two tiny rooms in complete safety. It's never completely dark here with a square sheet of glass allowing light in from the sky. In the right conditions I can see stars. (I do have to stand half in the tub and look straight up, of course. Nobody thought to put them in a more practical place for stargazing.) Even in cloudy conditions there is still light coming through since there are no real Dark Skies here, five blocks from downtown, tiny as it is, and 40-50 miles from some location in the Twin Cities. We finally found real Dark Skies a few years back, dark enough to see the actual galaxy instead of a very occasional fuzzy home hint of ... something... even when we also could make out the Big Dipper and Orion on our "clearest" nights. I remember taking pride once in being able to count nine stars in Pleiades, not just seven. That revealing, mind-boggling, actual galaxy-the-way-the-serious-photographers-caught-it spot was over 1200 miles away from here as the car flies. 

FYI that's not the way I drive, of course! Honest, Mr. Policeman!

This morning in the wee hours, when the house is as silent as a house can get with two clocks that tick each second and with two humans in it who have achieved that point in life where sleep never arrives on a schedule, much less each other's schedule, I heard raindrops hit the top of my skylight. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Silence, such as it is here, resumed. WE HAD RAIN! So it was only five drop hitting a skylight, so what? It was rain! I poked my head out a door a few minutes later. Streets and sidewalks were dry. That didn't matter. 

WE'D HAD RAIN! 

I'll be heading out later in the morning to put the hose on the gardens. The flowers need it before a frost eventually arrives. They wouldn't believe me if I told them it had already rained in the night. They keep telling me we're having a drought.