Sixty Little Milestones

No, I'm not celebrating my 60th birthday; my 50th is not until November. But, I am celebrating the loss of 60 pounds!! Speaking of birthdays though, I was contemplating how people tend to commemorate a birthday's importance by its number, and how those numbers compare to weight loss milestones.

A baby's first birthday is always a big deal: balloons, gifts galore and a huge candle on an over-sized cake. When I lost my first pound, there was no cake, obviously, but standing there in my bathroom in my birthday suit, I did emit a barely audible "yes", that I had finally started my journey down the scale. After the first birthday, the ages 2, 3 and 4 seem to get some attention, but not as much as the next big number, five. For the fifth birthday, invitations go out, gifts are more extravagant, a clown is hired and the cake is even bigger. After I lost my first pound, the second, third and fourth were nice, but, I couldn't wait to see my fifth pound disappear into thin air. No clowns in attendance at this shin-dig, except for me getting on and off the scale a few times. Once again, "yes" escaped my lips. Now on to number ten.

The tenth birthday is probably more important to the child than anyone else. Fifth-graders feel more mature than fourth-graders, and the passage from being a 9-year old to a 10-year is a giant leap for kids' self-esteem. My scale took a leap from 5-10 pounds in a week, and there was little maturity on my part when I hit that 10th pound and squealed my "yes" loud enough to scare my cat. On to fifteen. But, dare I skip thirteen? According to Jewish Law, when Jewish children reach their age of maturity, the big number is thirteen. This is when B'nai Mitzvah is celebrated, and the former 12-year olds, now become responsible for their actions. A Mitzvah is a blessing, and when I lost 13 pounds, it was indeed a blessing worthy of a resounding "yes"! Still, the number 15 was looming in the not-too-far distance.

In Spanish-speaking cultures, young girls celebrate Quniceanera at the age of 15. In American culture, girls celebrate Sweet Sixteen. Quinceanera is not just a big birthday party. It's more like a debutante ball. There are rituals and traditions. The Quinceanera enters the room in an extravagant gown walking arm-in-arm with her father, or she goes down a set of stairs and meets her father at the bottom and they dance the first dance together, usually a waltz. The party can go from sunset to sunrise, and at the end, the Quinceanera herself, tosses one of her baby dolls to eagerly awaiting girls, as a sign that her childhood is over. When I lost my 15th pound, I tossed out an old pair of pants to an eagerly awaiting dumpster shouting "yes, yes, yes!"

Important birthdays after 16 tend to be 18 and 21. More importantly, my scale seemed to skip those numbers and went right to 25 in a short amount of time. This was a major milestone for me not because of the number, but because people finally began to notice something different about me. Most commented on my new hair (not), or my new glasses (not) or my tan. Someone said I looked more like a rectangle than a circle. I think that was a compliment. YES!

Speaking of circles, birthday milestones are all about the zero as in 30, 40, 50 and 60, and I can attest to that when it comes to the scale. Losing thirty pounds was fabulous, the dress sizes were coming down. Having lost 40 pounds was an amazing feeling; the equivalent of losing 160 sticks of butter! If my 50th birthday gives me the same thrill as when I lost 50 pounds, then, I'll be a happy camper.

Now that sixty pounds have disappeared from my body, I sometimes look at my hand and wonder whose it is! Those skinny fingers are mine? Yes! That thinner ankle is mine? Yes! Wait! Those are my thighs? Yes! I'm not thin by any stretch mark, but I am thinner. I guess the next milestone will be 70 pounds, and then on to 83 pounds. Eighty-three? In Jewish tradition, a second B'nai Mitzvah can be celebrated thirteen years after one reaches 70-years old. The logic being that a "normal" lifespan is 70 years, so that an 83-year old can be considered 13 in a second lifetime. If I can lose 83 pounds, I may as well go for the granddaddy of all milestones and reach 100. That would be pounds and birthdays, I hope. YES!

A Nest Egg..or Two.

This mama Muscovy duck has chosen the drive-through of my credit union as its place to nest. Last week she was sitting on seven eggs. This week there seemed to be too many to count. Patrons and employees of the credit union are making sure she has enough water and food.

Originating from Brazil, Muscovies are the only domestic ducks not derived from mallard stock. The males can grow to be quite large, weighing 10-15 lbs. Most of the females are 5-7 pounds, but can reach up to 9 and sometimes 10 lbs. Their feet have strong sharp claws for grabbing tree branches and roosting. Muscovies are unique because of their bright red crest around their eyes and above the beak. They do not swim much because their oil glands are underdeveloped compared to most ducks. Muscovy hens can set three times a year, and the egg clutches can vary from 8 to 21 eggs. The egg are incubated for 35 days.

An unlikely deposit at a bank..don't you think?

Michigan Blues

It's blueberry season in Michigan again. Since we visited Michigan early this year, we not only missed the yearly raspberry picking, but the blueberry frenzy as well. That would be the picking, the cleaning, the canning and freezing and baking of everything blueberry. Oh, and let's not forget the eating of everything blueberry, too! Here's a Haibun* I wrote last year about the blueberry pickin' season in Michigan.

Michigan Blues

This Michigan morning is bone-chilling. Blueberries shiver to shake off their jackets of dew drops and puff their purple bellies toward the sun. For some, this will be their last tanning session before the pickers come. Errant blackberry bushes push their way between blueberries, tempting the bees. If the sun hits the patch just right, it's like looking through a kaleidoscope of dripping purple, pulsing blue and nipple-hard red orbs.

rows of braided arms

offer sun-sweet blue droplets

tempting teased taste buds

From behind the bushes, straw hats form a conga-line bobbing up and down like horses on a merry-go-round. As if the blueberry bushes were barbers, conversation flows sweet as creek water. Grandmothers exchange pie and jam recipes, swap stories about their grandchildren and complain about the crops while popping one berry after another off the bushes. Before the pies rise and bubble, and before the jams are canned, the berries hear an earful. While grannies pick handfuls for their buckets strung by rope around their ever-expanding waistlines, a few land on their salivating palates, just for good measure.

weighing blueberries

farmers grin at the grannies'

purple stained smiles

This Michigan morning, the sun has won its battle with the moon. The grannies go home to their kitchens where their straw hats are replaced by recipe-stained aprons. No measuring cups are needed in these kitchens. A pinch of cinnamon by frail, translucent fingers. A dash of salt by trembling, age-speckled hands. A bi-focaled eye knows exactly how much sugar, and strong loose-skinned arms knead the dough. Blueberry pie that only a grandmother can bake will bring a family together tonight. Oh, sure, there are recipe cards in the cupboard, and they all have the same ingredients: equal parts of love.

hair white as flour

her apron spans a lifetime -

her heart, a harvest moon

*Haibun:

A Haibun is a combination of prose and haiku poems. Its focus is often on everyday experiences, but sometimes it focuses on a journey, keeping in the the style of the originator of haibun, a Japanese monk named Basho, who kept travel journals.

Silence in a Still Life

Having lived in New York City, I'm used to homeless people. There, subway stations, church steps, and apartment vestibules are peppered with lost souls. You need to visit the bowels of Underground Manhattan to understand the complex living system homeless people have established. I've seen it once and it brought me to tears. Multiply what you see above ground by ten-thousand, and that's what's living below ground in utter silence.

When commuting, I made it a habit to fill one pocket with what I called "mercy money" and the other pocket with my daily spending money. By the end of the day, my mercy money was usually gone, and what was left of my spending money, I'd turn into mercy money for the next day. I favored certain homeless people; they were usually the ones with dogs or the women who fed the pigeons in park. Once a month, I'd go through my pantry and fill plastic Path Mark grocery bags with canned foods and cereal, and leave them at the cardboard entrances homeless people called home. On Sundays, the local fire company would hand out bars of soap and turn on their hoses for homeless folks to bathe. One year, my friend Wendy and I even made "Squeaky Clean Hygiene" kits. They were baggies with travel size soap, shampoo, safety razors, shaving cream, mouthwash, tooth paste, tooth brushes, tampons, condoms and diaper wipes. We'd give them out instead of money sometimes and the look of appreciation on their tired, sun-worn faces was priceless. There's a lot to be said in the silent thank you of someone who is truly thankful.

There was a drunken homeless man who took up residence in my apartment's foyer. He figured out if you ring the bell, someone would inevitably buzz you in without asking your identity. There, he was safe from the rain and cold and was so happy, he would sing himself to sleep in his cheap-whisky-laden, delirious voice. Mostly, he was benign, but he wasn't the doorman we all wished for, either. After months of his serenading us into the building, I decided to play a cruel trick on him. Once I got safely inside my apartment, I pushed the intercom and had my roommate bellow in the deepest voice he could muster..."This is GOD! You must stop drinking NOW! I command you go to to a shelter NOW!.." We peeked out the window and saw the poor fellow frantically staggering away from our apartment building while scrambling for his few precious belongings; awestruck in all his drunkenness that God had actually spoken to him. He never returned to our building, and our foyer rang with silence.

When I moved to Florida, the homeless population, although apparent, wasn't everywhere; street corners mostly, and downtown. On my way to a craft convention with Wendy, we saw a homeless family: a young pregnant woman, two small children and a man. They were panhandling from corner to corner. Convention Center security had moved them away several times from the front of the building. Their faces, filthy, their shoes were lace-less and all hope had been drained from their souls. We approached the family and told them to wait on that corner, and that we'd be back in under an hour. Our request was met with mistrust, but a lingering thread of hope. Wendy and I went to the nearest supermarket and bought everything we could find that could be made with water including powdered milk, oatmeal, pasta, and Ovaltine. We bought canned goods and a can opener, bread, Pop Tarts, Hi-C, some socks, a ball and Frisbee, and filled up ten grocery bags with portable food. When we returned to the corner, our family was gone. We drove for two hours around and around downtown until we finally found our family on the green of the public library. We parked illegally and waved to the family. They were wary of us and kept their distance. We unloaded the van with the brown paper sacks filled to the brim with food and left it on the sidewalk. As they approached, the little boy squealed... "Oatmeal!!!.." They each took some bags and walked across the grass, where in a storybook ending, it would look like they were going on a family picnic. The mother turned to us and gave us the slightest nod of her head, and with glistening eyes, she turned to catch up with her family. We drove home in a grateful silence.

Later that year, Wendy and I invited a group of students and friends to dinner who didn't have a place to go for Thanksgiving. We cooked enough food for an army, but knowing college students, they'd relish a home-cooked meal. Plus, they'd all take home doggie-bags. Having re-filled our plates several times and stuffed ourselves past our waistlines' limits, we passed around paper plates for them to take home leftovers. We told them to fill their plates high. We then topped their plates with plastic knives and forks and bounded them tight in plastic wrap. Then, we took the students on an unexpected field trip. Nine of us loaded ourselves into Wendy's van, each with a plate on our laps. We drove a short distance to a corner where there's always a group of homeless people. With no explanation needed, one by one, we got out of the van and offered our Thanksgiving feast to empty eyes with empty bellies and shaking thankful hands. We drove home in a powerful silence.

Yesterday, while mailing a package at a convenience store, a homeless man held the door for me as I entered. Although it was already ninety degrees out, he was wearing several shirts and a jacket. His brown hair was wild and tangled. His beard was long and densely matted, but he stood tall and nodded to me when I passed him. He made eye-contact with me and his eyes were intelligent. When I left the store, he was curbside organizing his sleeping bag, clothing and plastic bags. He had everything perfectly folded and balanced. His sleeping bag and clothes were in a multi-layered rectangle. Four plastic shopping bags hung heavily from each corner. He had made a cardboard backing to keep it sturdy and it was all wrapped tightly with odds and ends of rope. As he hoisted his life across his back, I thought about how hot he must be. I had just been grocery shopping and had an 8-pack of water in my back seat that I could easily give him. When I approached him offering the water, I felt silly. Why give him more to carry? So, I apologized for adding more to his load, but since it was so hot, I really wanted him to have the water. He smiled and said thank you. I counted five teeth; two on top and three on the bottom. I only had five dollars in my pocket, so I gave him that, too. He told me he was going to walk to the U-Save and buy apples, that he really wanted some apples. How ironic. What I really wanted was to take him to the barber for a shampoo and shave, but I knew no barber would take him no matter how much I paid. I looked at him for a moment wishing I could do more. He said, in the nicest voice, "You know, ma'am, you are very kind. Thank you." Then he turned and left in silence.

I sat outside and had an apple and a glass of water for lunch that day, wondering what his life is like.

Eight-Thirty-Nine

I'm all about road trips. No set agenda; just get in the car and drive. You can get out at a yard sale, or a ratty old bodega or take a dirt road while following a sign that says Raw Honey. You never know what bizarre things you'll find, and you get to meet the most interesting people. Plus, you get to buy things you wouldn't normally find in your grocer's freezer.

Going to different places brings up unexpected conversation as well. While we were in Michigan, we passed a yard that had llamas in it. Granny said.."Hmmm, I wonder what llama meat tastes like?" That lead to a conversation about all the different delicacies Granny has dined on, from turtle soup to venison to wild boar. She looks forward to a special night once a year called "Wild Game Night" where people bring dishes of food the Flintstones would eat. When she originally said she was going to game night, I assumed she was playing Euchre (pronounced yuker). I had no idea she was dishing out turtle soup with a side of rabbit! While she was talking about what llamas might taste like, I said something stupid like.."I wonder if they raise those llamas for their eggs?" There was an odd silence in the car followed by an outburst of laughter. "Llamas don't lay eggs", someone pointed out. In my mind, I got them confused with ostriches, thus eggs came to mind, and I blurted it out without thinking. The laughter was a bandage for my embarrassment, but people are used to me making these kinds of musings.

When we visit Michigan, Jayne's dad invites us on what he calls his "Cholesterol Tour". It's a road trip that I look forward to because we get to drive through a dozen different Main Streets and go to flea markets. The Cholesterol Tour generally starts with a bacon-laden breakfast, but we skipped that this time. It then heads to a flea market in Armada, which leads to another flea market in a big red barn, but this time, the red barn took a back seat to a road-trip-in-a-road-trip, when we headed off to Cousin Johnny's to buy delicious cookies. One goal of this trip was to buy Italian Sausage. The place where Dad goes is supposedly the place to get sausage. When we got there, I got out of the car to see how they make them, only to find a store-front office that could have doubled for grease-monkey's waiting room room. The next stop is every one's favorite. We head over to Utica to visit Erma's Original Frozen Custard stand to get homemade custard that is absolutely to die for. Jayne's Dad has been going there since it opened in 1942. Having lingered over the most delicious vanilla/chocolate twist, it was time to find some treasures in the big red barn. I saw a bird house I wanted, but it was already sold. Finally, we stopped and had Coney Dogs at a little Greek diner. Stuffed like little cabbages, we drove home and and could truly attest that this was indeed, a cholesterol tour.

The day before the Cholesterol Tour, I asked Jayne what time we'd be leaving in the morning. I wanted to make sure to get my 2-mile walk under my belt before I loaded it up with cholesterol. She said "8:39" and "don't be late because Dad has it planned out so we get to the flea market by 10:00." So, I started planning my morning, thinking I'd get up to walk around 7:00, have my oatmeal by 8:00 (to help move along the cholesterol) and be showered and ready by 8:39. I figured he wanted us out the door by 8:40 so we'd get to Armada by 10:00. I actually pondered the relevance of 8:39 and was thinking..wow, he really has this down to the minute! One of my many endearing habits is to ask the same question several times..just to make sure. So, I asked Jayne again, this time, in front of several family members. "What time, again, in the morning?" And again, she said "8:39". So..without thinking, and in front of everyone, I innocently asked, "what's the significance of 8:39?" Gen, Jayne's sister, who had obviously heard me ask this before, very calmly, as if explaining the concept to one who's entirely developmentally delayed, slowly said..."Nancy, EIGHT-THIRTY, NINE, as in between 8:30 and 9 o'clock. Get it? 8:30, 9:00?" Five us us roared with uncontrollable laughter, worthy of a dozen Depends. All knowing full-well, that I really, really thought I had to be ready at 8:39 on the dot. And, in fact, I did, and was.

So..What's in Your Mail Box?

I've been home sick for a few days with a "summer cold", as my mother used to say. My legs feel like lead tree-trunks and my head feels like a bouncing balloon ready to explode. My scalp hurts, I've completely lost my sense of smell, and my hearing wavers from one ear to the other; opening and closing like solid oak doors. I've tried laying down, but if I lay on my left side, I can only breathe through my right nostril; likewise, if I lay on my right side, only my left nostril opens up. Laying on my back offers me a double whammy in that both nostrils close up and I have to breathe through my mouth. Go figure. Having used up all my Kleenex, I've resorted to using my t-shirt as a hankie. Don't say "ewwww"...I know you've done the same thing yourself. I may just become a fan of hankies after this illness passes. Tissues are so fickle, whereas I can now see monogrammed hankies have more nose-appeal.

I decided to make chicken soup in hopes that the Jewish Penicillin would help bring me out of my misery. I smashed 10 cloves of garlic and chopped an entire Vidalia onion and could smell neither. When the soup came to a boil, I used my imagination to muster up the memory of its rich aroma, and frankly, when I tasted it, I couldn't tell if there was one clove or 10 cloves of garlic in it. Obviously, my taste buds are vacationing with my sniffer. With Felix at my heels, I paced from my bedroom to my office and back, each time adjusting my thermostat to accommodate my temperature, and since I've taken my temperature about 19 times today, the air conditioner must feel like its owner is bi-polar (no pun intended). Felix flexes his ears straight back as he has no idea what to think when I sneeze horrifically loud, but he is a great foot-warmer and a loyal companion.

Having run out of websites to chase link-after-link, and adding unnecessary plastic and electronic objects to my multitudes of wish lists, I decided to make my weekly visit to my mail box. For some reason, collecting my mail everyday has never been important to me, except for when it's my birthday or when I'm expecting something important, like money. This has been my habit for decades: to retrieve it maybe once a week when it occurred to me, or when I think I've annoyed the postal carrier long enough. I did this in college, too, where the kind folks in the mail room would have stored my mail in a box on the floor and then send me nasty-grams via the Resident Assistant pleading with me to either collect the week-old cookies my Nana had sent me or they'd enjoy the biscotti treats themselves. When I lived in an apartment, I did the same thing. You'd think visiting the mail kiosk would be a social event, but to me, it was just another chore on my mental list to be scratched off. Now that I have my very own mail box in my front yard, I still ignore it. At the college where I teach, I get email reminding me to collect my "very important" mail from my box as it's overflowing. And at work, I have several mail boxes, which get my attention about once a week as well. I much prefer electronic mail. I'd never think of letting my email box overflow.

Now I know why I only go once a week. Today, I collected a coupon for free Gas-X tablets, an AARP magazine and anti-aging soap and eye-cream samples from Dove. Those three combined offered me the best medicine money can't buy: Laughter. There I stood curb-side, bra-less, in my snot-covered t-shirt, in bedroom slippers akin to the kind old ladies wear while shuffling around K-Mart, laughing my stuffy head off.

So, what's in your mail box?

Fifty Pounds Of......

Losing weight is an expensive venture. One reason, is you find yourself spending more money on better nutrition; fresh veggies and fruit, leaner cuts of meat, whole grain breads and cereals. Do you remember the last time you saw a coupon for .50 cents off a head of broccoli, or a whole melon or a bag of apples? Have you seen any coupons lately for fresh salmon or tilapia? If you look at the weekly coupons in the Sunday paper, you'll notice they're mostly for food like .75 cents off a 5 pound bag of sugar, and that you won't find on the shopping list of someone who has committed to a lifestyle of healthier eating.

Buying new clothing is also an expense, unless I decide have my old clothing altered, but, there's no fun in celebrating a new body with old clothes. Besides, who gets their underware altered? I still have about 45 more pounds to lose, so why bother buying new clothing when they'll look like I'm wearing sacks of potatoes by then, anyway.

Speaking of sacks, today, I reached my fifty-pound goal. Imagine lifting a 50 lb sack of potatoes, or a 50 lb sack of sugar or flour. How about a 50 lb bag of dog food, or a 50 lb container of kitty litter. That's how much I've lost. If I were to carry those sacks up my steps, I'd be winded. Come to think of it, I used to carry those sacks up my steps, only in the form of fat on my body. That 50 pounds is the equivalent of 200 sticks of butter, and at $4.99 a pound, I've lost $250 worth of butter!

If that were a 50 lb sack of Hawaiian coffee, at $30 a pound, I've lost $1500 in coffee beans!

There are approximately 454 dollar bills to a pound! That means I've lost $22,700!


The cost of weight loss is well worth its value. Don't you think?

Some Place Else and Back

Routine is comforting. We get up at the same time because our internal clock goes off; shop at the same grocery store because we know what's on the shelf in every aisle; see the same people in our neighborhoods watering their lawn at the same time everyday, or think something must be wrong; eat the same breakfast because it's just easy; watch the same shows on television because those characters belong in our living rooms like house-guests who ring the doorbell at the same time every night; dine at the same restaurants because we like the servers and not necessarily the food; wear the same style clothing year after year because it's comfortable, albeit out of style, and don't realize we haven't "colored outside the lines" in what seems like forever. We're bored and we don't even know it, and we're probably boring because of it. But, there is comfort in the same-old, same-old, until it changes.

Recently, we went on a road-trip to Michigan. Twenty-four hours up (not including the 8 hour hotel break), nineteen hours back (no hotel break). On the way, we saw goats grazing, donkeys dining, lightning bugs flickering about the forests, corn fields aiming high, farms shaven and shorn, and a sunset in Georgia reflective of the peaches they grow. While rounding a bend, the setting crimson sun rose between two purple mountain peaks and was our beacon for miles until it nestled into the horizon. That was not part of my routine and the change was comforting.

We stopped and bought Vidalia onions in Georgia, and in Tennessee we passed an old truck with wooden rails bursting at the sides with ripe green orbs of watermelon just waiting for a Sunday picnic. As we traveled north, the humidity dropped with the temperature and the winds picked up in Ohio, so much so, an American flag blew straight as a starched sheet; not a wrinkled stripe or star. At a gas station in Ohio, I challenged the wind to blow me over by putting my back against the prickling rain and defiantly leaning in to her blows. With arms outstretched as if I were making butterflies in the snow, I noticed a man at another pump doing the same thing, and we both laughed like children. That was not part of my routine and the change was comforting.

Michigan was rolling and green, unlike Florida's parched flat lands. Family members welcomed us with a Thanksgiving feast, and before we retired in unfamiliar beds and were lulled to sleep by the sounds of unfamiliar birds and unfamiliar trains, we watched moon flowers unfold their buttercup yellow petals. At dusk, deer graze and the sun leaves the sky alight until ten at night and retires only until five or so in the morning, which gives new meaning to day-break. Dawn brings temperatures in the fifties, sun on a glass lake and birds' beaks peaking out of their wood houses. Granny and I walked the lake in mornings to the tune of nature and stories of her ninety years. Turtles, rabbits, annoying flies, and a stray dog joined our journey which I looked forward to every morning. Birdhouses, the white Victorian five-story variety, and paint-worn wood boxes anchor every property. Neighbors and strangers alike waved hello. That was not part of my routine and the change was comforting.

The longer days, cooler nights, brighter mornings, friendlier folk became part of my routine. I found my way around Michigan grocery stores and knew every aisle; woke up earlier looking forward to walking Elk Lake, and went to bed earlier to the trains' roar, now familiar. I checked the moon flowers when they opened at night and closed in the morning. I now waved to the neighbors, no longer strangers and even know the stray dog's name, Rough. Leaving this place was not part of my routine and was not comforting.

The drive home started in the early evening and went through the dark mountains of Kentucky overnight. There were deer sightings, lightning bugs and the corn was a little higher. The old watermelon truck was replaced by a cantaloupe toting Toyota. Soon, the hills came to a rolling stop outside of Gainesville, but the goats reappeared. The smell of humidity brought sweat to my forehead and a sign for Publix reminded me of my routine. I went right for the roses once we got home, pruning their dried blooms and watering their thirsty thorny stems. Ironically, the rhubarb shriveled like the Wicked Witch of the West for lack of water. I shopped at my familiar neighborhood store and the same butcher sold me the same cut of meat I always get. I took Bebe on our same walk and we visited the same couple who always give her a treat. They had missed us and looked for us the same time every night. I retired at the same time I did in Michigan, only it was darker. In the morning, I looked out my bedroom window at the same time I usually do, to see the same aging Asian man shuffling in his pajamas up the street, cane in hand, hat cocked slightly to the side. It started to rain and I was worried about him. When I looked out the window for him again, this time I saw he was walking with his wife, who was worried about him too, and had brought him an umbrella which they shared on the walk back. That was not part of his routine, but the change was comforting, to both of us.

Michigan's Beauty

If you look closely, you'll see a bunny sitting in the morning dew.

This female Tree Swallow is protecting her nest. She resides in Aunt Kathleen and Uncle Bob's backyard.


These three bird houses are at the beginning of Elk Lake Road where I walked every morning.

Pictured below, is Elk Lake where Granny and I walked in the mornings.

This painted turtle wandered across the road on one of my walks.

Growing Like a Weed

Summer growth spurts are popping up all over. Bebe is about 10 pounds now (so much for a 5 lb Chihuahua), and is still growing like a weed. Her hair is getting longer in the oddest places like across her rump, under her belly and in little fan-like patches down her back like golden sea shells. Take a look at that tail! In this picture, she's ready to play fetch; one of her favorite pastimes.

Some folks say you can't grow rhubarb in Florida. Pictured above is my attempt at growing rhubarb. I'll never catch up to the incredible rhubarb that Granny grows, but, I'm trying. So far, so good and it's growing like a weed! Pretty soon, we'll be making rhubarb pie and strawberry rhubarb jam!

The roses are all growing beautifully, including the root roses we added (Marilyn Monroe and Joan Fontaine). The red bed, (a portion of which is pictured above) is just stunning. The pink and white rose above is really big, and it's not even finished blooming.

What is also growing like a weed, is of course, the weeds. If I had a nickle for every weed I plucked everyday, I'd be as rich as the dirt they grow in. I guess that's why they call it filthy dirty rich! For now, I'm just filthy dirty watching the summer growth spurt unfold before me.

After The Rain

painted grasshopper
sips dripping dew drops
drinking red rose petal tea

A Sunset Treat

Tonight was one of those Florida nights when the breeze had a bit of coolness to it and the humidity was almost absent. It's when you wish every night was just as like this one. As the sun was setting, casting a pinkish glow, and the moon was settling in for a watchful night, a bat scurried across the sky and an owl decided to visit my yard. If you listen carefully in my neighborhood, you can hear the "who-who-who" bantering calls of owls. While chatting with my friend and neighbor, Karen, who has experienced lots of owl-sightings in her yard, one landed on my phone wire above my bedroom window. She just happened to have her camera handy and snapped a few shots of one of our neighborhood owls.

Barred Owls I think this is probably a Barred Owl. If you click on the link, you can hear who was calling at my bedroom window on a glorious summer night at sunset.

Hitting the Trail

Recently, walking has been my zen. At first, I walked to a DVD (Walk Away the Pounds with Leslie Sansone). One mile one day, then two, then three, until I could do 8-9 miles a week. I'd barely be awake, and barely be dressed, but I'd cross the finish-line sweating along with the super-fit models on the screen, and with the encouraging lilt to Leslie's voice. With one month under my belt and twelve pounds no longer under my belt, I decided to get fully dressed and hit the streets.

With Bebe wagging her tail like a metronome to the beat of my steps, we'd walk up to the corner, back home and then up to the other corner. Not quite a mile, but a milestone nonetheless. Soon, we ventured further with a goal in mind (well, I had one goal, and she had another). My goal was to walk to the newspaper stand and get the Sunday paper. Her goal was to sniff out any and all cat droppings along the way. What a duo; me marching, still to the encouraging tone of guru Sansone, while tugging on Bebe's harness to get her nose out of the dung. Eventually, we ventured to the Post Office, then to a store and now, we have several neighborhood routes which total a little over a mile each outing. More miles under my belt, less inches around my belt-line. Forty-two pounds later, we've discovered a different walking experience: The Upper Tampa Bay Trail.

When I first discovered the Trail, it was a good seven miles away and the path, although pretty, was short and unpaved. It did lead to a lovely and peaceful body of water (Tampa Bay), but we had to walk it twice to work up any kind of sense of having walked at all. It actually took longer to drive there than it did to walk the path. And, to top it off, the path was lonely and dry. Recently, I discovered a longer paved path, which I'll try the next time, and, at this particular leg of the park, a huge field where people were letting their dogs off-leash to run themselves silly. I made a mental note of buying a 50-foot rope to tether to Bebe for such an adventure. Knowing her, she'd smell some horse manure and take off into the depths of the trail and I'd never find her.

The Upper Tampa Bay Trail has many trail-heads, though, and I discovered one much closer and much nicer. Now, we've become regulars and I recognize a lot of other regulars, too. It's like a community in a way; an anonymous community, one similar to a group of smokers standing outside in their designated smokers' gazebo. Strangers sharing a similar addiction. Although smoking and trailing seem antithetical, I did see an old geezer on a beach-cruiser yesterday, huffing and puffing along while puffing on a huge Stogie.

The trail attracts more than characters chomping on Cuban cigars. There's the elderly man who rides a bicycle with a basket much like that of the Wicked Witch of the West, and in it, a white bedroom-slipper-of-a-dog sits like a princess on a pea with her tongue hanging out like a red wash-cloth. The Sunday sunrise brings out the Hispanic couple who appear to be empty-nesters. They walk just past the first quarter-mile, find a green metal picnic bench along the canal, break out their thermos of cafe con leche and share their aromatic brew with the new sun's reflection on the water. He talks to Bebe in Spanish and calls her a "he". She calls Bebe "muy linda", so I know she knows she's a she.

The sunrise also brings the horses out of their stables. Their massive muscular bodies send Bebe's tail tautly between her legs. She plants herself still, her hair stands on end like a bristle brush and she refuses to go forward. As if to tease her, a horse whinnies and Bebe lets out a little cry in return. Then, a bike will pass, and Bebe snaps out of her trance and gallops in the wake of the racer.

Joggers with iPods pound the paved path with a passion I'll never understand. I tried jogging and it wasn't pretty, nor was it passionate. Then there's the Asian couple on roller blades who swing their arms like pendulums on a grandfather's clock; she always follows him. While Bebe chases the squirrels as far as her 16-foot lead will let her, speed-cyclists shout "to your left!!", which causes Bebe to chase their skinny bodies on their skinny bikes with their skinny shoes clamped into pedals propelling skinny tires. There are families with tots on training wheels, and Sunday husbands pushing elaborate baby strollers made specifically for jogging parents.

There are casual sunset strollers like the two gay men who walk easily with each other. From behind, they both have the same balding spot, the same size dry-cleaned and creased khaki shorts, the same mid-shin white socks and the same affection for each other. They stop at the same time, point to the same bird and start on their stroll again at the same time. The African American woman with the toothpick legs and big buttocks and even bigger uni-bosom, wears a blue t-shirt which was probably too tight five sizes ago and now slips off her shoulders showing a booster-shot scar like a sunburst tattoo. There are women who speed-walk and talk at the same time three abreast; whose spandex shimmy and shine as they twist their size-2 hips.

Then there's me and Bebe. She's now the official trail greeter. She smiles at every walker, biker, blader and jogger no matter how fast they pass. Her tongue flying in the wind like a big red sail, she'll lick anyone who will stop to admire her unusual coloring, her fluffy ears, her black orbital eyes and her contagious enthusiasm. Solitary walkers lost in a deep mood are momentarily lifted, speed-walkers slow down, old men smile that "isn't she cute" smile even though they'd never say it aloud, the Asian woman cracks a grin breaking her pace, and I, well, I am happy walker. Another milestone under my diminishing belt.

Signs of Roses

Everything is coming up roses! Literally. On the last night of my ASL II class, my students marched into class one-by-one in a parade of roses; each carrying a rose bush in their arms. I was stunned and could barely see through the tears in my eyes. In my 30 years of teaching, I have never had such a wonderful community of students in one classroom. As I expressed in a letter of gratitude to my students, "If you are the last class I ever teach, I am totally satisfied..."

So, here's thanks to:

Lisa and Jeryme for the gift of the Geraldine Ferraro rose last week, and especially to Lisa for signing my poem; Laura for coming up with the rose bush idea; Christina & Jessica for being my computer geek tech-heads; Bruna and Theressa for being "my girls" who sign like the wind and will one day make a great interpreting team; Debbie and Charlene for being the best cooks, best room-moms, best sisters, ever;

Isabelle for her humor, her accent and her lovely way of being; Pat for always being there for me in the front row cheering me and everyone else on regardless of what's going on in her life; Lynsey for putting up with the "teacher who taught her teacher" and for making us roar and hoot with her final; Nelson and Kari for adding just a little sensuality to sign language; Lisa for being my ASL 1 TA and for sharing her children with us; all the newbies: Tara, Cristin, Margo and Karen, for putting up with an unconventional classroom and especially to Karen who shared with us her passion for life and the love of her life, her son, David; Jessica B who is always willing to take notes for us; "the other Lindsey" for her constant smile and enthusiasm for signing; Sarah for sharing her family with us and her willingness to always help someone and participate; Ray for just putting up with us; Kristina for her perseverance and her stunning final poem; and Susan for supporting my obsession with weight loss and, who could not be with us in person, but, who through the tech-heads in class, got to see our finals virtually. Lastly, our TAs, Michelle and Kirsten for sharing their time and expertise with us.

I'll be busy digging up a new rose bed for Chrysler Imperial (red), Hedge Rose (red), John F. Kennedy (white), Shrub Rose (red), Color Me Pink (pink), Goldilocks (yellow), Honey Perfume (yellow), and my favorite last three names, Sheer Bliss (pink), Knock-Out (red) and Simply Marvelous (purple). Here's to you, my simply marvelous class, I'll think of you with every bloomin' rose.

Springing Into Spring with Violets

When I was growing up, Nana, my grandmother on my father's side, raised African Violets.

Nana had a long and narrow sun room which overlooked a busy street in Atlantic City. During the day, she'd sit in her rocker and watch what she called "shady characters" spill into the street and dot the city like chicken pox on a child. Her English was limited to a few words as she only spoke her native Italian.

At night she could be found knitting in the dark. We'd follow the sound of her bone knitting needles up the steps which lead into the sun room. Her needles, which she held onto by tucking them up under her massive bosom, were round and flexible and clicked like a metronome. In the dark, by the light of the moon, her rocking silhouette kept the beat of her needles. And, along the windowsills were the shadows of her blooming violets. There were six giant windows eye-balling the pre-casino town; all of which held four to five violets in various stages of bloom and in a cacophony of colors. I never once saw Nana dote over her plants except to pour warm water, which had been steeped with egg-shells, deep into the soil. She never picked the blooms and she didn't have those fancy African Violet pots that are self-watering. She used, instead, an odd lot of ceramic containers, that today would probably bring in a pretty penny at an estate sale. She used her index finger as a barometer of dampness and a keen eye for turning them like sundials with the light of day.

I don't think there's ever been a time in my life when there wasn't an African Violet close by. In college, I had them on my windowsill when everyone else was growing other worldly plants. When I moved from New York to Florida, they traveled with me in an open box on the back seat. And now, I have several on my desk in my office and on the windowsill in my kitchen (some of which are in dire need of care).

I had an author who is a psychic visit me in my office one day. He immediately stopped at the door and said "Your grandmother is here, she's always here." It gave me the chills, and at the time, I didn't realize the connection between the violets and my Nana.

There's one violet in particular, pictured above, which is just phenomenal. This one grows perched on an antique dry-sink near a window in the dinning room. I've never given it egg-shell water, but it does have a special African Violet pot which is self-watering (when I remember to fill it up).

Today, this purple violet invited me to spring into Spring with its fullness, its life and vibrant color. Thanks, Nana. Here's to Spring, and here's to you.

What a Difference 30 Pounds Makes

One of my goals for 2007 was to lose 50 lbs by my 50th birthday. And, for those of you who know me, my life has revolved around my bathroom scale for the past 70 days. I thank you for your patience in humoring me during my weight loss journey. Today, I am 30 pounds closer to that goal!! That thirty pounds was blatantly evident on my face, my mid-section, my buttocks, my hips and my ankles. Now that it has disappeared, apparently, into thin air, I wonder where it's gone? I've considered what 30 pounds of fat could potentially look like when it's not saturated on my body. Take four sticks of butter (1 lb) and multiply that by 30, and there's thirty pounds of fat. But, where did it go?? Does it just melt into thin air? I'd rather it melt in my mouth in the form of a butter cookie, or on a buttered bagel or on a baked potato. I'd really prefer butter melting with onions and garlic, getting ready to be joined by prosciutto, heavy cream and vodka for one of my favorite dishes, Penne Vodka. Dream on. There are still plenty of pounds left to melt before I reach my goal. But for now, I'm doing a happy dance, that somehow, 120 sticks of butter has disappeared from my face, belly, hips, ankles and butt(er).

Lemon Tree Very Pretty

Can you believe the size of this lemon? This tree is in its third blooming year. The first year, the lemons were few, but still gigantic. The second year, only a few more came to fruition. This year, about 40 grapefruit-looking lemons weighed down the mighty arms of this tree. In case you're wondering, the tree is called a Ponderosa Lemon tree - not a Meyer, as I previously thought. This year's crop contained a lot of seeds. Granny made that Lemon Meringue pie (pictured below) with the lemons from this tree.

Lemons are great:
In hot water as a tonic in the morning;
Squeezed into ice cube trays for later use in drinks, cooking, pies, etc;
As a deodorant mixed with a little alcohol;
As a hair lightener in the sun;
As an antiseptic;
And here are other ways:
http://www.electriclemon.co.uk/101/index.htm

If you're in a pinch for fresh lemons, I'm hooked on this great crystalized lemon product called True Lemon. I use it in water, tea, or just pour some in hot water. It's great for cooking, too. Click on www.truelemon.com and check it out!

Being Stoned

This is not about Marijuana, but, now that I have your attention, let's discuss the word "stone".

The Bible says "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone"...and if that's the case, well, there will be no stone-throwing in my immediate future because "people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."

Leaving no stone unturned, I thought I'd come up with as many uses of the word "stone" as I could muster. Here goes:

Things I've done once: gotten stoned, hiked Stone Mountain, listened to The Rolling Stones, read Rolling Stone magazine, visited Stonehenge, skipped stones.

Food: I like stone crabs, but not stone fish; MSG makes me feel stoned; The Stonewall Inn in Greenwich Village, is now a bagel store. As a stepping stone, I'm eating more stone-ground flour so I can fit in an old pair of stone-washed jeans, and what with this diet, that may be just a stone's throw away.

People: stone-faced people are miserable; I'd like to find a good stone cutter for some gem stones I own; I've worked with both stone-blind and stone-deaf people; stone butches carry a big stick but have soft hearts, the first Harry Potter book was Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone (in the US, but in the UK it was called Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone; Of course, nothing is written in stone and I'll be stone-cold dead by the time I think of every use of the word.

Expressions: "a rolling stone gathers no moss" and "sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me". Which leads me to kidney stones which hurt me.


I lived a peaceful, stone-less existence for 40 years when all the sudden, I felt like someone was firing a machine gun into my back. Several years (and kidney stone attacks later) I was told I have a congenital kidney disease called Medullary sponge kidney. In other words, I'm a stone-makin' mama, always have been, always will be. My kidneys are a veritable pin-ball machine. Once one dastardly little stone leaves my kidney and travels the painful path down my ureter, through my bladder and into my urethra, another one lines-up and gets ready to follow the same path, again and again and again. I passed a stone last week which was large enough to cover Lincoln's head on a penny. It took a month for this bugger to make its grand exit, and when it finally did, I did a happy dance.

Being stoned is not all it's cracked up to be. Trust me.