My Kind of Town......

Chicago is........

the very best city in America. And it's just getting better and better.

The University of Chicago paid me with scholarships and fellowships to get my social work degree and so G'ma and I took off in Annabelle, my 1967 aqua Chevy Impala, for the mid-west. We drove through Ohio and Indiana and marvelled at the flat expanses of farmland and the friendliness of the inhabitants. We couldn't find the University and were appalled when the police officer told us we were right in the middle of it. I couldn't possibly live there --- it was just too scary. Dark, foreboding buildings and gangs of ruffians on the street corners were quite a change from Ithaca and the waterfall at the end of my block. I'd never locked a door in 4 years of college; now I was looking at 2 sets of security locks before I reached the elevator. We found me a studio at 53rd and Dorchester, a quick bike ride from my classes, and I protected myself with a whistle in my hand and Grandpaw's billy-club under the front seat of my car. I learned quickly - don't go home alone, park under a street lamp, chew grass so you can throw up if you are tackled by a nefarious stranger - and I became city-savvy and arrived at a certain level of comfort. Moving to the north side the following year helped a lot; though my neighborhood wasn't gentrified, the bad guys kept to the south side of Armitage and I was safe as long as I respected their boundaries.

Mayors came and went - Michael Bilandic and his inability to plow the streets during the blizzards of 1978, Jane Byrne moving into Cabrini Green to show the residents of the projects that she really did care, Harold Washington dying at his desk (wearing ladies undergarments) - and the city slogged along. We lived in Lincoln Park and Buena Park, in high rises and a greystone 3-flat and a single family house on a corner lot and we never stopped feeling like pioneers. We were committed to city living, but it wasn't always easy. And the city didn't do much to make it easier. Waiting for the bus was interminable, potholes wreaked havoc with our tires, and the school system ...... don't get me started.

Still, we loved it. The lakefront, concerts in Grant Park, the ethnic neighborhoods with their foods and fashions, 5 movie theatres within 10 minutes of every place we lived - there was no reason to leave. Then TBG got the offer he couldn't refuse and we were gone in a flash.

Now the Little Cuter and our SIR are making a home there, and that's only one part of what made it so wonderful last week. Richie Daley is 10 years older than I am, but he's still "Mayor Daley's son" and a kid to me. But the kid is doing a great job. Flowers adorn the median strips of the city's boulevards, and not just the ones in the upscale areas, either. Chain link fences are forbidden. The museum campus surrounding the Aquarium and the Planetarium and the Field Museum has morphed into a landscaped pedestrian paradise and has spawned a residential neighborhood on its western flank.

A safe residential neighborhood in the South Loop? When G'ma and I drove from Hyde Park to the north side in 1973 we came straight up State Street. The hotel doorman, upon hearing the route we'd taken, expressed his amazement that we had arrived alive. And now there's new construction - expensive new construction - right there.

There's a real restaurant at Oak Street beach, and acres of volleyball poles set in the sand at Fullerton and between the two are palm trees. Yes, palm trees in Chicago. Rooftop gardens as a means of energy conservation and pollution control was less surprising to me than the palm trees. Urbs in Horto is a city motto that is taken seriously.

Business was slow in the stores I ambled through, and the restaurants were less crowded than I'd imagined they'd be, but there was a vibrant energy that made up for that evidence of the economy's ailments. People were smiling at one another. The loud teenagers on the bus had the grace to look abashed when the grown-ups frowned. There was no trash on the streets and not much graffitti on the walls. Garbage cans are paired with recycling containers. Construction continues on the Ritz Carlton's hotel/condo project on North Michigan Avenue, just up the street from the (surprisingly not that ugly) Trump Tower.

Taxes are high but the living is grand.

Tucson is wonderful, but I'm feeling a pull.

Can I go home again?

Love

I was surrounded by love last week. It came in different packages and sizes and sometimes felt like more than I could bear, but it was all love. And it was all good.

Midway Airport loved me. It must have, to be so worried about my health and hygiene. What other reason could there be for their announcements - every 5 minutes - reminding me to keep myself safe by washing my hands and covering my mouth when I sneezed or coughed. I decided not to be aggravated by the mind-numbing repetitiveness of it all and to take it as a sign that they cared. A lot. Often. Loudly. But, they cared.

Old friends loved me - they drove me to and from the airport without my having to ask. Volunteering to wait in the cell phone lot, to battle rush hour traffic, to interrupt their daily activities so that I didn't have to take a cab or public transit were nothing compared to the fact that they fed me, too. I'm not pleasant when I'm hungry and they knew that and took care of me, because they cared. Love involves knowing your history, too.

The Little Cuter's doorwomen (that's even more awkward than "chairwomen" but it's accurate) poured love all over me. Where was I coming from? How did I like the apartment? They watched as I waited for a cab in the dark, and held the doors for me and my packages and my suitcases and my very tired self. Their smiles reflected my own as we shared "aren't they wonderful" stories about the Little Cuter and our SIR; the love was palpable.

Hugging my kids when I haven't seen them for a while is possibly my favorite activity of all time. The familiar smell of her shampoo as I bury my face in the Little Cuter's hair never fails to slay me. Her hug is a strong, solid squeeze that lasts for a really long time. And we purr and sigh and rock a little, side to side, then pull away, look at each other, and start it all over again. There are always some tiny tears from my side, and her semi-scolding "MOM' when she sees them completes the package. She's right - we're together and I am loved.

I arrived on Mrs. K's 95th birthday and was invited to the dinner party. Grandchildren and Grandparents share a special love, and every "Gram" I heard warmed the cockles of my heart. It was an unconscious reflection of the attention lavished on the child in days gone by; now Mrs. K needed to be kept safe, and her granddaughter was right there, attentive but not hovering, respectful and careful and vigilant. It wasn't patronizing or infantilizing or dutiful - it was just love.

A bridal shower is all about love. It brings together friends and family and teammates and babysitters and the bride-to-be gets to show off all the trappings of her groom's affection without worrying about bragging or boasting. She's surrounded by people who love her and who want to get as close as they can to the love she's creating. The spatulas and the serving bowls and the cutlery and the linens and the flowers and the lingerie, in all their meticulously wrapped boxes and bags, were offerings at the altar of that love.

And after a week, leaving that love was, truly, almost more than I could bear.

Girly Girl Stuff

I'm a wash and wear kind of girl. My "out the door" time can be 10 minutes from "when do you want to leave?" until I'm in the car with my seat belt buckled. I have cleansing products but no make-up in my vanity drawers. My favorite dress is a $9.99 special from Old Navy; I wore it to the Cuters' high school and college graduations, and it was an old dress even then.

I mention this because the Little Cuter and I are attending a wedding shower on Wednesday. Pink invitations, party favors, fancy clothes --- a real girly-girl experience. If they'd let me wear jeans and my cowboy boots...........

I didn't have any showers when TBG and I became engaged. It was 1975, and people weren't getting married, let alone having showers. Nannie and G'ma were peeved that I wouldn't let them plan showers. They'd attended so many - they felt like they deserved some shower gifts, even if I were the one opening them. But I was living far from anyone they'd invite, and I didn't know them, and I said "No, thank you" as politely as I could.

To this day, though, whenever I wish I had a stand alone blender, or matching china, or a set of Waterford champagne flutes, I regret that decision.

********************
On Wednesday we'll be drinking toasts to a bright future for a wonderful bride-to-be. I'll be in Chicago next week for the celebration and a visit with my favorite daughter in my favorite city. the Burrow will return to its daily posting schedule on July 13th.

Happy Independence Day to you all !!

Old Books

He asked about "old books" today, and it got me thinking about books and the Cuters.


I remember every detail of the Florida vacation that turned him on to reading; I was not that interested in descriptions of sword fights printed in 6pt type. But he was, and TBG was gone and what was a boy to do? So he read. And he read. And he read. When his high school friends marveled at his ability to finish in 1 hour what took them an entire night, his response was classic Big Cuter : "It's just like lacrosse, guys. If you practise, you get better at it." It was obvious to him, if not to them. And he loved the stories. Loved reading them and telling them and reading them again. And old books only get to be old books if the stories are good ones.


The Little Cuter fed her obsessions with books. Gymnastics books. Dog books. Horse books. She was the go-to person in the family for any questions appertaining thereto. The first chapter book I remember her reading is The Pink Motel - my hardback, pink copy printed by The Weekly Reader Book Club in 1960. I think that falls into the "old book" category, don't you? It's still on her bookshelf here in the desert; I know it makes her smile every time she comes home. Her handshake with Jimmy Carter is notable to her for the book she was reading at the moment. An English major, her "old books" include those she read for HOTEL* in Old English. (*History Of The English Language --- one of the all time great course names.) And now, I think, I've run this metaphor deep enough into the ground.


We have Nannie and Grandpaw's antique secretary in our library. No, not a Bob Cratchit kind of secretary; it's a chest beneath a drop down desk leaf (replete with blotter) beneath a glass fronted bookcase beneath a scalloped crown. The bottom shelf has Fireside Book of Fok Songs, published in 1947 and used by G'ma as she played the piano to her kindergarten students. It was an "old book" when I took lessons from it in grade school. On the other side of the shelf are Nannie's Tom Swift and Don Sturdy books, lovingly moved from Ashland to Cleveland to Tucson. A.A. Milne and The Wise Men of Helm were new books when I wrote my name in them in the 1950's, but they are worn and mussed now. The top shelf holds the green leather and gilt Koran given to Daddoooooo by a guard in the (deleted for security reasons) Embassy in the 1980's. And then there is my addition to the collection of soon to be old series books in hardcover - all the Harry Potters, read and reread already.

Old books. They don't need batteries. They always "work". They're quiet and unobtrusive and they feel good in your hands. It's like pulling a blanket right up to your chin on a cold night - it just feels right.

July in Tucson

There's a bunny in my courtyard. He's nibbling the leaves of the moorea lily. He's kind of scruffy looking; his ears have notches in them. Has someone been nibbling on them?

The monsoon has arrived. We don't say "monsoon season" because it's redundant - the monsoon is the season in which most of our rain falls. The monsoon start date is determined when the average daily dewpoint is 54 degrees or greater, according to NOAA. That is, it was up until 2008 when The National Weather Service decided that it would start, every year, despite the weather or the rainfall or the dewpoint, on June 15th. These people must be related to the fools who decided that George Washington and Abraham Lincoln were both born on the 3rd Monday in February, thus depriving generations of school children the pleasure of having two 4-day weeks happening two weeks apart.

A bobcat just strolled by. Happily, he was outside the gate to the courtyard.

Anyhow, back to the monsoon. It's bright and sunny most mornings and early afternoons here in the desert Southwest. But along around 3 o'clock things start to change. The weather begins to come from the east and the south. It swirls around the top of Mt. Lemmon (the southernmost ski area in the USofA) and sometimes the clouds get stuck for a few hours. Eventually, the winds pick up and the thunder and lightning begin. Lots and lots of lightning, going diagonally and horizontally and touching the ground and each bolt appears oblivious to those occurring at the same time in the same quadrant of the sky. You can watch the clouds crash into one another and see them make thunder. Very very cool. Sitting under the ramada, watching the gods argue.

Sometimes, it even rains. You can see the storms falling out of the blackest clouds onto neighborhoods nearby. Last night it rained on G'ma's Old Folks Home but not here, a scant 2 miles north. And my crepe myrtles are wilting. I ran a hose to each one this morning and let them soak for 3 hours. That was long enough to get to a depth of ~15" and they're repaying my efforts by standing up straighter and turning their leaves to the sky. It looks much better this way.

The rains are unlike Marin rains, or Long Island rains, or Chicago rains. Imagine a fire hose with enough power to reach a 9th story window. Now, lay that hose on the top of my roof and stand back. There are 2 feet of rip rap under each of the downspouts; without that protection the force of the rainwater would carve a hole half way to China. This year I'm creating a rudimentary rainwater collection system. I inserted a faucet near the bottom of one side of an old garbage can which I have placed under a downspout in the backyard. Once it's collected some water, I'll wheel it over to the trees and open the valve ever-so-slightly so that it can drizzle its contents onto the parched earth. (I AM the Recycling Queen!)

The sun is peeking through the clouds, turning the mountains white and the palo verde tops yellow. There's bright blue sky behind the clouds, and a rainbow just appeared over Summerhaven.

Now, if it would only rain...............

Out of the Frying Pan....

I saw no backlinks in the System Restore post..... but my McAfee Security Center is now telling me all kinds of things are unprotected. I'll run Scan and Update from McAfee and pray for the best.

I HATE this computer. I HATE this Operating System. I was browsing in the Apple Store on Sunday afternoon with G'ma. I can hardly wait to get my Mac........ being my own tech support is quite trying.

And anxiety provoking.

And nerve wracking.

And stomach ache making.

And ridiculous, because it's only a machine.

As I've said before, I wouldn't put up with this behavior from my toaster.

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

I'm Trying

I have taken the opportunity to remove the monetizing backlinks by using system restore.

I have embedded the words which created the unauthorized backlinks and will now post this blog and see if my first attempt at repairing the problem has been successful.

I'm nervous!

double warning

It seems that Blogspot is now linking MONEYMAKING in my warning post.

So, any DOUBLE UNDERLINED LINKS are NOT MINE.

Looks like I'll be looking for a new site for theBurrow if I can't get rid of these intrusions.

Stay tuned and stay away from their insertions ---- I refuse to be a lackey to the man.

WARNING

In the following post, Attics and Basements, blogspot has added its own link to a moneymaking venture.

Why, I do not know.

How, I do not know.

Removing it seems to be impossible.

It cannot be edited out.

So, until I can figure it out and return the post to its pristine condition - DO NOT CLICK ON THE DOUBLE HIGHLIGHTED WORD OPPORTUNITY. I didn't link it to anything.

The evil empire has invaded my blog. I'd better get my survival plan ready.

Attics and Basements

Houses with steps are lots more fun than houses without steps. This was pointed out to me by the Big Cuter as we were moving from a multi-level home where his window opened out onto one of the rooftops. How, exactly, did I propose to provide him with a similar opportunity in our new digs? Granted, the chance to scare your parents half to death while you know you are perfectly safe is one of the true pleasures of childhood. Still, I can't say I was all that sad to remove the temptation.



Houses with steps can have closets hidden underneath the staircases. Not front-hall closets or linen closets or clothes closets, but closets that hold treasures. Nannie and Grandpaw's was stuffed with carefully folded wrapping paper from celebrations held before the Cuters were born. But in and around those stacks of paper were board games we'd never seen before in boxes which had been repaired with glue and tape and string by Nannie's mother. There was a bag of marbles. The pick-up stix were made of polished wood and had a lovely heft within their slenderness. The smell of the musty toys and the wooden shelves was an instant smile.



Sometimes, houses with steps have attics and basements, too. Those staircases are often steeper and narrower than the others in the house. The stairwell is tighter, and there is always a railing. You might have to be careful walking up or down; these steps seem to accumulate things that need to be put away or brought up/downstairs. Laundry's tossed down the basement steps in a way nothing else is tossed anywhere else in the house. The attic might not have a full floor, and you'd have to be aware of where your feet were going or you'd end up like G'ma's friend, who, in 1960-something, took a misstep in the attic and fell through the insulation into the garage and onto the roof of her Cadillac. (It's ok to laugh - she was fine.)



A "finished basement" was a really big deal when I was growing up. One Sunday, while G'ma was out of the house, Daddooooo led a kids' painting party so that we could have one too. G'ma returned to a pastiche of colors. I learned about wainscoting that afternoon; that was Daddoooo's description of the fact that some of the painters couldn't reach higher than 2' from the floor. She tried, but she couldn't be very mad for very long. It was the basement, after all.



The attic held mysteries beyond comprehension. Portraits of scary old people in dusty oval frames leaned against army cots and old ice skates. There were stacks of Playbill 's and 78rpm vinyl records and clothes I'd seen in pictures of G'ma and Daddooooo but never in real life. The attic was a window into the past. And soon my past was ensconced there, too. A trunk held my costumes . The can can girl with the real ostrich feather, Robin Hood's green shirt and hat, my toga - they were all there, wrapped neatly but not so perfectly that we couldn't open them up and put them on. Or just look at them and remember.

I once asked an LA born and educated friend living in Marin what she did with the artifacts from her past. She showed me the shoebox which contained all her treasures. All of them. In one shoebox. OK, it was a pretty big shoebox, but it was still a shoebox. This, I learned, is what comes of living without attics and basements. You save nothing.

I'm glad I had both.

And I miss them.

Chores (pt. 4)

I cleaned the garage today. Yes, it is summer in Tucson. Yes, it was hovering in the low triple digits. But I was sweaty from the gym with Amster and it really needed to be done.

Garages are interesting in terms of cleaning. It's a matter of perspective. TBG looks at it as a shrine to the automotive gods. I look at it as a place that keeps my car marginally cooler during the day.

The recycling cart (thank you, Daddooooooo, for this homemade gem), the garbage can and a spare refrigerator (one of my all-time favorite Chanukah presents) must share the space with the vehicles. On this we agree. 12-packs of Diet Coke and flats of bottled water (I am the Recycling Queen..... judge me not!) are welcome to their patch on the floor by the 'fridge, too. Beyond this, Houston, we have a problem.

The fact that our garage has lots of wall space makes it a perfect spot for the overflow -boxes of "please don't throw it out but I have no place for it at this time in my life" stuff, the twin mattress and its collapsible frame, the ceiling light bulb changer (with attachments), the outdoor vacuum, the ladders, the plastic 3-drawer chests filled with batteries and maps and wrapping ribbons and picnic supplies, and enough packing material to send gifts to everyone I know every day for a year. If I had a basement or an attic I might be sympathetic to a complaint or two. But, I don't.

The downside of that equation is that TBG feels encroached upon and I gradually add to the contents with bags of donations, books to take to the used book store , all the frames from G'ma's house (pictures now in albums), the glass recycling which isn't allowed in the curbside pickup and must be driven to a collection point, and an assortment of detritus from my car that has to go someplace but not right now. I admit it. I'm incorrigible.

Home from the gym before noon, with plans for dinner with G'ma at 4, I parked The Schnozz in the driveway under the Palo Verde and started. All the tools were at hand - crucial for spur of the moment decisions like this one. If I'd had to look for the mops or the brooms or the vac's attachments I'd have gotten distracted and never begun the project. Trust me, this is a character trait and not one I can lay at the feet of my aging brain (a weird image, no?). Like right now I was almost on a tangent about the immutability of the character......

The bags, books and glass went into The Schnozz to be delivered to their respective resting places. The coir Christmas door mat went into the storage closet, the random plastic bottles went in their bin and it was time to sanitize. 2 brooms, a wet Swiffer handle and many drippy sheets, a string mop, 2 buckets, 7th Generation cleaner, a hose with a spray nozzle, 3 old bath sheets and that outdoor vac with its attachments later it was gorgeous. TBG had come home and gone right back out to bring me sustenance and by the time he drove back he could drive in and park inside his shrine.

Never mind that his tires brought marks onto my newly cleaned floor. His smile said it all.

Why Not?

So Phil only wants to coach home games. The screaming heads are screaming, predictably. "Who does he think he is?" (Uh, PHIL JACKSON ???) "No one has ever done that." "It can't be done." "What about continuity?" Phil, being Phil, didn't rise to the bait. It's being considered, talked about, looked at. Yawn.

I mean, really. What's the worst that could happen? He wants it, the Lakers refuse, and he retires with 10 championship rings and his angioplasties, hip replacements and gout. He'd be happy to do it, but walking away wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

I feel his pain.

After 3 phone calls, 5 email threads, and an in-person plea, I agreed to create the monthly newsletter for The Happy Ladies Club (actual name disguised to protect the guilty). Though open to everyone, the membership roster skews towards an older, technologically challenged demographic. One-third of the newsletters are printed and snail-mailed to members who don't do email. Finding someone with the requisite computer skills to guide the newsletter from submissions to publication was no mean feat in this age cohort. Reluctantly, I said I would take it on, and "Please, send me the job description."

I should've asked to see it before I said "Yes". It seems that newsletter editor is the one and only job of the VP of Communications. And VP's attend Board Meetings. Monthly board meetings. Lengthy monthly board meetings with no time limits on agenda items. It's my worst nightmare come true.

G'ma always laughed at my inability to sit through a meeting. From elementary school and Brownies, Girl Scouts and Leader Corps to adulthood and NCL, patient conferences, soccer leagues and PTA's the vanity exercises that called themselves meetings drove me crazy. 45 minutes on how to put the volley-ball nets into the gym closet (Leader Corps). Taking attendance when there were 5 of us and everyone could see who was there and who was not (Girl Scouts). Reading aloud every gain in Range of Motion and Strength - all of which was already charted and known to the other therapists (hospitals). I attended every local School Board Meeting while we lived in Marin, but I had to bring my knitting with me to stay sane. I could go on, but my pulse is racing.

Just get to the point. Say something original. Solve a problem or raise a problem but don't talk for the sake of hearing your own voice. I have other things to do with my life. And I have a hard time covering my impatience. I'll ask the question no one else wants to ask, just to move things along. I'll solve the problem and offer my suggestion just to be finished. I know there's a process involved. I'm just not very good with the patience piece required to be a good board member.

So, after reading the job description and noting that Board Meetings were mandatory, I called my Happy Ladies Club recruiter and said that I'd still do the newsletter but that I wouldn't be attending Board Meetings. Said that I'd promised myself when we moved to Arizona that I would never attend another Board Meeting again. I'd do the grunt work, eg create the newsletter, but I wouldn't go to a meeting and talk about it. Everything I needed to do the job was sent on-line and manipulated on-line, and personal contact wasn't necessary. Told her that if this was a problem, I totally understood and I'd withdraw my name from consideration as newsletter editor with no hard feelings. I was happy to be the lackey of a"real" board-meeting-attending VP of Communications, if they knew someone who wanted a Board position. But, I insisted, there was no way that I was going to be a regular attendee at Board Meetings.

No, it wasn't that I physically couldn't attend. No, I didn't have full-time employment or a disabled family member requiring 24/7 care. My reason was simple - I don't like board meetings. I'm not good at them. And I really don't like them.

Her silence was deafening (is that like jumbo shrimp?). I responded in kind. She finally said she'd work on it and hung up. The back and forth that went on between Nominating Committee members, Board Members and friends of them both went on for nearly a month. I received emails and phone calls from people I didn't know who tried to convince me that I had to/needed to/was expected to/wanted to attend these meetings. I listened politely, repeated that I thought the job could be done quite well my way, that I knew it was unusual but it was the only way I would do the newsletter, and that I wouldn't be insulted if they found someone else to do the job. Really. No worries.

But if you want me, these are my terms. Like Phil, what's the worst that could happen? I don't have the responsibility of putting out 12 monthly newsletters. I would survive, I'm sure.

Unable to find another member willing to edit the newsletter (or unwilling to begin the search again... I don't really know why....) the powers-that-be agreed to my terms and, so far, my lack of attendance hasn't hampered my ability to publish.

What's been interesting has been the responses of the members who are aware of the situation (a far greater number than I would have guessed, but that's women's organizations for you). They fall squarely into two camps. Half are absolutely furious with my wanton disregard for the policies and procedures of the organization and think I'm a spoiled brat who has to have everything her own way and "who does she think she is?????" The other half want to know where I found the inner strength to say no and to stick to my guns under pressure.

I'm sure this says something profound about women and rigidity and acquiescence and pleasing behaviors and the greater good. I just go back to the advice I was given on my 50th birthday on Mt. Tamalpais - No one can make you do something you don't want to do - you're old enough to say "No".

Compost

He's right. San Francisco is officially insane.

Didn't want to read the link? OK, in a nutshell, you can be fined if you don't compost your waste.

Compost? Urban dwellers composting? Exactly how much of my "waste"? What is compost, anyway? And how will they know? Princess Myrtle tells me that there are fewer and fewer journalism jobs available these days; perhaps those investigative reporters' garbage picking skills can be put to use once more.

Political and philosophical rants aside, the notion that apartment-types will suddenly begin to keep kitchen scraps under their sinks strikes me as ridiculous. For example: banana peels begin to smell while they're still on the overripe bananas. Saving them for compost isn't going to make them any more fragrant than unpeeling one before you leave for a week's vacation and coming back to a garbage can that announces its presence with authority. There are lots of trendy containers for storing scraps, but only gadget freaks (like me) will spend money to have one. Plastic bags? They are toxic for our environment in so many many ways; do we need to figure out one more use for them?

And who will do the extracting of the material from those bags? Recycling plants can be clean and interesting places (the one in Marin was a 5th grade field trip) but creating compost requires some gooey stuff, too. But not all kinds of gooey stuff. Meat products are unacceptable, and their inclusion could ruin an entire compost pile. Separating the green from the brown is just one part of the process. And it has to be done right.

Don't get me wrong for an instant. Compost is beautiful. I'm serious. I once compared TBG's flourless chocolate cake to the compost piles I'd seen the day before in Petaluma and he's still not over the shock. My Marin Master Gardener friends, though, totally got it. The stuff was pretty. It was textured and vibrant and smelled like growing things. The rows stretched out forever (are they turning some Golden Gate Park fields into compost sites?) and each one was different. Only in Marin (ok, Sonoma) - designer compost.

And compost is great for the soil. Vermiculture (worm castings) (ok, worm poop) makes a wonderful soil additive, but there's the little matter of dealing with the worms. It's fun to make compost, and you can do it on your patio with a home turner. Its a nice idea, really it is. It's good for the environment. It can't hurt you and doing it won't make you sick (though if you don't cover your scraps you may attract interest from other members of the animal kingdom). You were never going to do anything else with those used coffee grounds, were you?

But somehow I have a feeling that people who chose to live in The City are less likely to be composting than they are to be buying a riding mower.