The Burrow

Miss Vicki and I were in the presence of a legend last night. No, it wasn't the aging hippie birthday boy with the blown out greying locks above his too tight plaid shirt. It was the bass player Miss Vicki saw toting his instrument into the theater as we arrived downtown for a before the show dinner.  It was also Dr. Ralph Stanley, 87 years young. True, there was the occasional wandering around the stage when he was supposed to be singing at the microphone. A padded chair was center stage, and the whole audience exhaled in unison when, half way through the set, he managed to lower himself safely down onto the seat.  He looked frail and fragile and uncertain, until he opened his mouth. His voice has always been high and reedy. There's none of the roundness his son, Ralph Stanley the Second, carries. There's a mournful, verse-repeating, church-like quality to it.  He told us that he learned to sing in his old Baptist church , a capella, praying to the Lord . ...

Apparently, my sugars are high. How can this be true, I wondered, as did my little girl who emailed this query: How are your sugars high? Genetics? You eat like, NO junk… That's an affirmation I can get behind.  I don't like candy or chocolate.  I'll eat a piece of cake if it's yellow and your birthday, or a cookie or ten if JannyLou brings me her home-made goodies, but, in general, I'm a fruits and veggies, bread and cheese, kind of girl. Yet, the numbers don't lie.  The blood was drawn in October and then, again, last Thursday.  I was properly hydrated, I'd fasted the requisite number of hours, and the truth was in the digits on the page.   Pre-diabetic  is a frightening phrase. The doctor was wonderful and reassuring but I was bummed.  Peeved.  Annoyed.  Scared. Luckily, TBG was able to ride to the rescue. "Pre-diabetic" isn't like "incipient cataract," you realize. No, I hadn't thought that deeply.  I was stuck on...

I got a speeding ticket today. I was the only car on the road, in either direction.  As soon as the cones started I slowed down to the speed limit.  Apparently, that wasn't enough for the nicest Sheriff ever, who didn't cite me for criminal fastness nor for going so quickly through a construction zone. That was kind and I'm not taking anything away from the gesture, but there was no danger to anyone because there was no one else around, the speed which inspired the ticket was the posted limit,  there was nary a construction worker on the scene, and I was finally going home after eight hours away. I'm too aggravated to think through more than a paragraph at a time.  My brain refuses to let go of the angst. TBG tried to talk me down, reminding me that it's over, I can't make it not have happened , which is what I asked for when he offered anything at all , trying to put a smile on my face. He's right of course, but the aggravation has taken hold and is in ...

The most surprising answer on the pre-test during my first Master Gardener class here in Arizona was this: The most frequent cause of plant distress in the desert is overwatering. Yes, denizens, there is such a thing as too much of a good thing... and I have the photos to prove it. Apparently, too much perlite... old perlite... improperly stored perlite... leads to situations like this as the extraneous pellets flee the saturated soil in the shallow pot, and this  as the soil clumps together in impenetrable clods making it impossible for the roots to pick up any nutrients at all. They are waterlogged, drowned, soggy, sodden, sorry things. They're not much good as decorative plants. And so, I was back at it yesterday. I rescued what seemed salvageable and repotted it with brand new soil. I tried to ignore the fact that the two containers I had not improved  were doing just fine as was the succulent I transplanted into the dirt on ...

My baby is having a baby.   She's gone from "looking like I ate too much for dinner this weekend"  to having a small protrusion in the middle of her body.  Growing in size from a lentil to a grape to a plum to a kumquat, the baby is making its presence known. Everything smells weird.  Her pants don't fit anymore - "not even close." She's over the super-exhaustion that accompanied the start of the adventure - "It's not that I wanted to sleep; I needed  to sleep." Her 36 hours of nausea abated, and she's stopped wondering how anyone could be that sick for more than a day or so.  I try to keep quiet about the three or four months I spent hurling and napping while she was establishing herself in my body; she's already apologized. SIR is proud and happy.  TBG and I are still searching for the words to describe our joy.  We find ourselves looking from one end of the couch to the other, grins plastered on our faces, grins havi...

They aren't teaching it anymore. I find that fact to be extremely upsetting. And no, I don't think I'm over-reacting. I am merely reporting another tear in the fabric of the cosmos, an earthquake in the course of civilization.   How will my grandchildren sign their job applications, their loan documents, their love letters?  Will we revert back to the X?   Printing does not lend itself to flourishes, although Daddooooo did manage to embellish his otherwise illegible scrawl with the most beautiful g 's imaginable.  They looked just like the ones this keyboard is sending to you.   Those gardening tools I mentioned yesterday are still talking to me, it seems. My paternal unit is as upset as I am. Some grown ups do not use cursive. G'ma was one of them.  Her printing was small and even and precise, just as one would expect of a woman trained as a kindergarten teacher.  Almost til the end of her life, that handwriting was a constant.  When...

... as in gardening, not politically or issue driven.  Titles are funny things, sometimes. On the other hand, I do feel as if I am standing in front of an army of readers like theoretically-Anonymous , who are watching the snow fall while wrapped in blankets, frozen hands gradually un-thawing after shoveling snow. TBG and I decided long ago that we were too old for frigid winters, no matter how many family and friends we left behind.  Days like today reinforce the rightness of that choice. It's sixteen and seventeen degrees in Chicago and Foxboro as I type in shorts and a t-shirt... I'm just sayin'..... Once again, I implore you not to hate me.   ***** When I left you  yesterday , I was exhausted from improving the back patio.  The following afternoon, my belly full of cheesy pizza, I tackled the front courtyard.  Bending and grease are unfortunate companions; I did a lot of stretching and belching.  This is what was left  ...

Don't hate me. I spent Sunday afternoon with my hands in the dirt, the warm sun on my back, the plants juicy and ready to be embedded in their new homes. I know that it's freezing cold where you are.... so I offer this as a salve for your senses. There are places in the country where the sun shines and the ground is ready for new offerings. It just doesn't happen in Chicago or Foxboro or Bloomington right now.  I'm sorry. These plant feet were the first items of business.   The huge container which once held the now dead fan palm managed to keep the hibiscus alive and almost well throughout our short but noticeable winter. Unfortunately, the weight of the soil and water had pushed the original feet deep into a crevasse.  I lifted the pot, all by myself thank you very much, and found a small grey spider with a black dot on her back. I recoiled.  She stayed still. I decided to ignore her as I settled the bigger feet under the pot's edges. I added anot...

It's easy to see why angels play harps in heaven.  On Saturday afternoon, some of them were in the apse of St. Mark Catholic Church. With strong fingers and graceful wrists they plucked and strummed and caressed the strings. With a sharp pull and a graceful release,  hands up, curved fingers freeing the vibrations,  the audience silent, the leader, raising her hand in triumph, as the music died. It was something to behold, something to treasure. I was there because a friend from The Happy Ladies Club extended an invitation. Her church was throwing a party for its new building  and The University of Arizona's HarpFusion was playing.  Auntie Em played the harp in her youth.  I wished she were by my side on Saturday.  I wanted Christina-Taylor, too, so I lit a candle, just in case her spirit was wandering in the neighborhood, looking for a pleasant afternoon respite. I was in church, after all. Harps are beautifu...

This is a pretty good weekend, if you like football.  If you don't, perhaps you want to come back tomorrow.  Harp Fusion  might appeal to you. ***** "Since we're going to be home all afternoon, would it be okay to ask if you want to make cookies?" The fact that Brenda Starr and I had pancakes at IHOP an hour ago did not deter me. ***** The boys think this first game, Peyton Manning vs Tom Brady, is boring.  Watching between stirring and weighing and scooping cookie dough, it looks no different than usual to me.  I watch different colors run up and down the field, and sometimes I am even able to figure out which team is on offense before CBS superimposes an arrow on the field. Think about that arrow.  It's not really there, yet it is. It's the same thing with the blue line of scrimmage  and the yellow first down marker. How do they appear on the field, under the feet of the players?  It's a mystery... the kind of place my mind wande...

Chicago Booth Magazine, the alumni rag of the University of Chicago's Booth School of Business, has a cover story on women in banking and finance.  Their balancing acts brought tears to my eyes. "..her younger son... in first grade suggesting that she change her career so she wouldn't have to travel."   "..she...worried that she was an absent mother, since her job took her away from home three or four days a week, to a different city each day." Time passes and nothing changes.  Social work and school teaching were good professions for young women when I was growing up.  You could take a few years off, raise your family, go back and continue to do the work you loved, and still be available for kith and kin.  Unless you are special enough to be one who "requested a yearlong sabbatical" and are able to live her next sentence: "When she returned to work....," most young mothers have neither the flexibility nor the financial resources to ...

I just don't get it.  Republicans are still furious over the deaths of four grown-ups in Benghazi while evincing no concern for 26 children and teachers mowed down by an automatic weapon wielding young man. Those grown-ups assumed the risks associated with their jobs. The kids did the same. The grown-ups wore bullet-proof vests and carried weaponry. The youngsters wore logo emblazoned t-shirts and carried back packs. The only similarity between the two situations is the universal agreement that there was bad intelligence.  No one knew what was going on, no one shared what little was known, concerns were ignored. Decisions were made by generals and assistant secretaries and parents who were operating within their own little silos of information, hurtling down the road to disaster, thinking they were smarter than the facts would reveal... like a mother who taught her son-who-was-battling-mental-illness to shoot... and provided the armaments, too. Fingers are pointing in al...

I admit it. I'm slacking today.  I slept until 8:45, not budging when TBG kissed me goodbye while sticking a note to my clock. My pilates instructor is on vacation, I canceled my group session because the teacher is no longer holding my attention, and there was nothing on the calendar except a morning visit to Ms. Levine's kindergarten class.  Sleeping in was acceptable, although somewhat disconcerting. I'm used to watching the sun turn the hills pink. Today, they were brown against a blue sky when I sat here at the desk to check my email. I made a pan of brownies and headed off to school with Mousetronaut Goes to Mars  tucked under my arm.  Reading aloud to the most well-behaved class of kindergarten students on the planet is a treat.  Sharing special words from my friend, the astronaut, sent especially to the three little boys who insisted that they, too, would be space travelers.... well, that was quite wonderful... quite wonderful, indeed. We shared our ...

Amster and The Firefighter surprised their children by getting married this afternoon.  It was perfect.  Totally and completely appropriate for the least pretentious couple I know.  They were surrounded by those who loved them, by those who share their lives, by those they see every day. Several dozen of us gathered in the courtyard as the judge conducted a simple, short, thoughtful ceremony and Ms. Attorney-At-Law took photographs.   There was prosecco and sparkling cider and chocolate cake with whipped chocolate frosting and ice cream on the side.  The wedding party wore blue; the kids wore nicer-than-usual school clothes, the guests dropped in for thirty minutes or so in the middle of the work day.  The planning occupied pieces of one week.  I spent some of it writing my toast.  I went to three stores, one of them twice.  There was one phone call to a vendor. The bride's dress was purchased on-line; as Matron of Honor I wore ...

It turned out to be a party for my friends.  Some came to help, some came to stroll, some came to bring their kids and their grandkids, sometimes they brought both at once.  Lots of people brought their dogs, all of whom seemed delighted to meet one another. There were little ones who got their pictures in the paper while existing totally in a world of their own, snuggling VIP Pets  or showing sisters how to draw on the sidewalk just so . Parents stood by, smiling, unconcerned, feeling the sun's warmth and the glow, standing around, watching their kids and the dogs and feeling the love. The Nicest Couple on the Planet organized the Cornell Cares volunteers, who stamped and greeted and gave out sidewalk chalk and hustled donations disguised as raffle prizes. They raised several hundred dollars, a little bit more than last year, and everyone seemed satisfied with the goodies received. A few t-shirts were sold, many were given away, and everyone agreed that the  s...