The Rules of Grieving

There are none.

While I've been continuing my mission to use every damn tomato in my garden by making batch upon batch of sauce to freeze for later use, the soundtrack to my efforts has been dual coverage of the funerals for John McCain and Aretha Franklin. The contrast between these memorials is blatant. One is sad and somber and full of protocol. The other is joyous and casual and full of music. Is one more appropriate than the other? Of course not. There are many ways to grieve. Which funeral would I rather be at? Well, neither. I did not know either of these amazing people personally. And their deaths do not affect me.

Having said that, I am not displeased with the 24/7 coverage of this time of national mourning. There is something healing about the idea that we, as a nation, can collectively witness the respect being shown to two icons of my generation. There has been a serious lack of R-E-S-P-E-C-T in the American discourse for quite some time now. And we all know who is to blame for that. Honoring McCain and Franklin has allowed us to take a step back and remember who we are, what we value, and how we can proceed from here. I wish I believed that things might change, but our memories are short on such things, and it is more likely that we will just resume the animosity and vitriol of our current political behavior.

"Respect" was released in 1967. Although Motown provided the soundtrack for much of my teenage years, by 1967 there was just too much good music from which to choose, and I recall being somewhat annoyed by that song that just kept spelling out a word. I was into the British Invasion, folk music, Bob Dylan, The Doors, and yes, the last remnants of surfing music. So I can't say that Aretha rocked my world. Nonetheless, I knew she was a force, a powerful one, and I gave her the respect she demanded. The last few days have brought to light, for me, more of just how powerful she was. Her contribution to the Civil Rights Movement, her devotion to her people in Detroit, and the collection of personalities that called her "friend" painted a portrait of a woman who was inspirational, to say the least.

As many of my friends will say, I, too, did not always agree with John McCain. I am still angry that he introduced us to Sarah Palin and the subsequent rise of bad behavior in our politics. But prior to that unfortunate decision and again, after the chaos had settled down, I always wanted to hear what McCain had to say. I cheered him, I booed him, but I was never unhappy that he was there. His thumbs-down on the repeal of the Affordable Care Act confirmed that position. But one of the most despicable political acts in recent history was draft-dodging 45's dismissal of McCain's status as hero by claiming that he was only a hero because he was captured.

Well, it looks to me that now there is no question in the minds of most Americans that McCain is, indeed, a hero. Although I stated above that his death does not affect me, what I am hoping for is that his death will affect those who still support 45. His stature, his reputation, and his legacy seem even larger in death than they were in life. What a contrast to the whining, childish, egotistical, narcissistic, mean-spirited, dangerous, and stupid man who could not even bring himself to honor John McCain, the great patriot.

I began by stating that there are no rules of grieving. I take that back. There is one rule: take something positive away from the source of your grief. Two people who embodied what it means to be an American have left us. Honor their lives by emulating their devotion to truth, to family, to country. And by extension, reject those who do the opposite.

It's Like a Heat Wave

Well, by some definitions, a heat wave has to last at least five consecutive days to earn the moniker. This is only Day #2 of what I'm calling a heat wave. Because it's friggin' HOT out there! Heat index of 103 degrees? It's a heat wave. Burning in my heart. Martha and the Vandellas released that hit in 1963 when I was 13 years old. Hey, it had a good beat and we could dance to it.

I don't have air conditioning in my log home. But it stays relatively comfortable inside, and if it does get too warm, I can retreat to my basement, where it's much cooler. So far, I'm still upstairs. But I'm itching to get outside to the garden! I gave it a shot this morning to pick some tomatoes, beans, and snow peas . . . but within five minutes, I was bitten up by skeeters.

Okay, I admit to being a whiner. But the bigger thing to whine about is climate change, something that some choose to consider a hoax. But the truth is that 2018 is shaping up to be the fourth hottest year since records have been kept. Why? Well, according to NASA, there are several factors:

~ global temperature rise
~ warming oceans
~ shrinking ice sheets
~ glacial retreat
~ decreased snow cover
~ sea level rise
~ declining arctic sea ice
~ extreme events
~ ocean acidification

Seriously, do you really want to label this a HOAX? If you do, then I suppose you are okay with increasing coal production, fracking, deregulating the EPA, weakening fuel-economy rates, downsizing national parks and monuments, etc. I do not understand how climate change deniers, who I believe must love their children as much as I love mine, can be okay with all the efforts 45's administration is making to fuck up the environment. Somebody explain this to me.

There is no denying that things are heating up. On many levels. Will 45 fire Sessions? Will Mueller tease us with a clue? Is Manafort considering a flip? Does Cohen have something really big? Will Sarah or Kellyanne have a melt-down?

Oh, the drama! It's like a heat wave!

I can't keep from crying
Tearing me apart

Things That Happened While I Was Away

I was only gone for four days. But when I confronted the chaos that used to be my garden, it seemed that I'd been gone for weeks. Of course there were weeds. But the explosion of tomatoes and eggplants and green beans left me joyous and overwhelmed. Upon my leaving, my lettuces bolted, the arugula had served as a feast for some minute bugs, and the garlic and onions had already been harvested. The peppers had given up, and I'd given away most of the giant cucumbers, which I don't even like but grow anyway.

But the tomatoes! I have about a dozen different organic tomato plant varieties, most of them small, in the cherry/grape category. My favorites are the Black Cherry tomatoes, their soft burgundy color belying their sweetness. But they are in a tight competition with the Sweetie Cherries and the Koralik. The Yellow Cherries and the Bing Cherries are pretty darn tasty, too. My tomato roll call also includes Sprite, Red Pear, Black Plum, and Mountain Princess. I purchase my plants at Wild Yarrow Farm, an organic nursery in Cochecton, NY. I highly recommend it.

I will spend the next several days roasting tomatoes, garlic, and herbs, popping the ziplock bags into the freezer, and anticipating garden sauce all winter long. I'll eat green beans until I can't stand them anymore, and I'll google 100 Ways to Cook Eggplants.

Another thing that happened while I was gone is that two more baby doves were born on one of the corner logs of my home! The last nesting (about a month ago) produced only one squab, but this time there are two baby birds in the nest. The parents are dutifully watching over their progeny, and I am respecting their privacy. But it makes my heart glad that I can share my home with a family of mourning doves.

While I was away, the water did not stop rushing into my basement after each rainfall. My collection of old towels has doubled, thanks to my dear friend Korey, who looks after this situation when I am away. It is hard not to be impatient, waiting for the excavator to catch up on all his weather-delayed jobs, and I will be relieved if and when he can correct this drainage issue for me.

And finally, while I was away, the shit began to hit the fan. Manafort's convictions on eight counts of false tax returns, failure to report foreign assets, and bank fraud, along with Cohen's guilty pleas on eight counts of illegal campaign contributions made this "Trump's Worst Week." So far, anyway.

All of this, in four days! I am trying to find balance in the events, and my mind keeps presenting me with a seesaw, or, as we called it when I was a kid, a teeter totter. On one side of the teeter totter sit two pleasantly chubby entities named Tomato and Dove. They are buoyant with joy, giggling with anticipation, and slightly mischievous in their strategy to unseat their opposites on the other side of the seesaw. And there sit two dark brutes named Havoc and Corruption. They do not smile, but prefer instead to scowl and shift their weight forcefully.

Up and down, up and down. Havoc and Corruption slam their end down hard and find satisfaction in the jolt to their adversaries. Tomato and Dove recover, smile, and shift backward to bring their end down to a smooth landing. They lean back purposely, and Havoc and Corruption are suspended in air for a long time, ranting about how unfair it is. And then, while Havoc and Corruption are distracted by their misery, Tomato and Dove quietly slip off their seats and walk away. And all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Corruption together again. (Havoc? He just sauntered off to some other playground, but he'll be back.)

Okay, I know that was really dumb. But trying to make sense of the week that just happened is a challenge. I think I'll just say goodnight to my mourning doves, pop a few cherry tomatoes, and teeter off to bed. Sweet dreams to you.

Lives in the Balance

No, Jackson Browne did not perform "Lives in the Balance" at Levon Helm Studios last night where I sat in the third row. With a discography like Jackson's, he can pick and choose. In addition to classics like "The Pretender," "Late for the Sky," "Doctor My Eyes," "Redneck Friend," and "Running on Empty," Jackson performed songs of The Band with the Midnight Ramble Band and also managed to squeeze in a couple of tunes by Woody Guthrie, Warren Zevon, and Bob Dylan. It was a great set list, and clearly, Jackson was having a good time.

But the show caused me to think back on all the JB concerts I have been fortunate to see. My memory settled on the Vote for Change concert in the fall of 2004. I took two of my kids to that concert (because it's never too early to expose kids to the importance of being politically active). My son was twelve at the time, and I remember him being a little bit off-balance climbing into our nosebleed seats. But after the show, which included performances by John Fogerty and Bruce Springsteen, Sam said the song he liked the best was Jackson Browne's "Lives in the Balance." Proud Mama Moment.

I've been waiting for something to happen
For a week or a month or a year

Well, yeah. I admit it: I'm an MSNBC junkie. Every day, afraid I am going to miss something, I tune into MSNBC on my computer. I am embarrassed to say that this practice has replaced my former addiction to 24/7 music. I know I need to correct this . . . but I've been waiting for something to happen.

Where a government lies to a people
And a country is drifting to war

Well, I don't have to explain the lies, do I? And I'm not sure what war we might be drifting toward: North Korea? Iran? Turkey? Russia? Or maybe (arghhhh!) another civil war?

And there's a shadow on the faces 
Of the men who send the guns
To the wars that are fought in places
Where their business interest runs

Erik Prince? John Bolton? Hey, is Dick Cheney still around?

There are lives in the balance
There are people under fire
There are children at the cannon
And there is blood on the wire

(I want to change that one line to There are children at the border.) But yes, there are lives in the balance . . . in so many places, so many ways. This is the world we live in, and although I will admit it has pretty much always been this way, I am more frightened now than I have ever been in my 68 years. Jackson wrote "Lives in the Balance" in 1986. Thirty-two years later, there are still lives in the balance.

Jackson's opening number last night was "Before the Deluge." Released in 1974 (OMG, 44 years ago?), the song, according to Rolling Stone, was "a moving secular prayer for music, shelter, and spiritual sustenance." What else could one ask for?

Now let the music keep our spirits high
And let the buildings keep our children dry
Let creation reveal its secrets by and by
When the light that's lost within us reaches the sky

Thank you for that, Jackson.

Early or Late, It's All Blight to Me

If you are a gardener, you are probably, unfortunately, familiar with blight. It was late blight that caused the Irish Potato Famine in the mid-nineteenth century. Blight's targets are potato and tomato plants, and while early blight is the lesser of two evils, it can seriously compromise home garden crops. Now, I describe myself as a half-assed gardener, but I do not and will not use any chemicals on my plants, all of which begin life at a certified organic nursery. And even if I did, there's not much one can do once blight has begun. Many gardening experts suggest removing the blighted foliage as soon as it appears, and I do that, but the blight persists.

Part of the reason blight has reared its ugly head now is that it thrives in warm, humid, and wet conditions (sort of like a swamp?) and spreads rapidly. We have had so much rain here this summer, and every morning when I check the forecast, there's 100% humidity. Blight wins.

While I am certain that my plants are suffering from early blight, due to the brown spots on the leaves and the yellowing stems, late blight is more deadly, threatening the fruit as well as the foliage. One sign of late blight is stems that turn black instead of yellow, and I couldn't help but notice some very dark stems on my beloved black cherry tomato plants.

So . . . Alternaria solani? Or Phytophthora infestans? (The latter one translates to "plant destroyer.") Pick your fungus. And pick off the leaves.

While the fish rots from the head down, blight-infected plants lose leaves from the bottom up. But other than that difference, there are similarities to be drawn from the blight that is infesting our nation today. Try out some of these synonyms, for example: disease, canker, infestation, fault, flaw, excrescence. Might I suggest that there is a blight in the White House? Better yet, consider non-plant definitions of "blight": something that frustrates plans or hopes; something that impairs or destroys; a deteriorated condition. Recent news that asbestos is poised to make a comeback under this administration's EPA is, in and of itself, enough to support the definition of "something that impairs or destroys." And democracy as we know it is deteriorating before our very eyes. Today's twitter news revealed the President of the United States calling a black woman a "dog." So much for our plans or hopes of a non-racist, non-sexist country. The fish rots from the head down.

What to do? "Pick off and destroy infected leaves," say the gardening experts. Okay, then. Flynn, Manafort, Gates, Papadopoulos, Pruitt, Price, Cohen, Bannon, Gorka. And there are more to come, including Carter Page, Jared Kushner, and Donald Trump, Jr. Diligence is required to control the blight.

And then? The gardening wisdom says to rotate the crops. Plant something new in place of the diseased growth. Let's just call the replanting a Blue Wave.

You Don't Know the Half of It

Today is my half-birthday, and at this moment, my glass is half empty. Those adult kids of mine, the ones that have been coming and going all summer, are nowhere to be found. I have no pets to cuddle. And it's been raining for so long, it's enough to put out the fires on Hell's half-acre. I have half a mind to hop on a plane and fly halfway across the country to where it's hot and dry and where two of my kids live, an hour and a half apart.

But that's a half-baked idea, and now is not the time to go off half-cocked. You know, half the time, I don't mind the rain. I mean, when it rains, I don't have to water the garden, and that's not half bad. But this summer, it has rained so much that you'd have to be half-blind not to see the price we pay for all that rain. There's water in my basement, my garden produce is only half what it should be, and my property is so water-logged, my lawn guy gives up before he's half-way done.

I know this post isn't half as good as what I usually manage, but please give me half a break. I think I'll fill up my glass past the half-full point and toast to a half year past my birthday with a half year to go until the next one. Getting there will be half the fun, as I have at least three adventures in store this fall.

And that's all I've got. Half a post with no conclusion.

On Katydids, Purple Loosestrife, and High School Reunions

For my entire life, I have listened to people bitch about how teachers have it so easy . . . summers off,  seven-hour days, long holiday breaks, etc. My intention in this post is not to defend my profession (what's the point?), except to say this: if the opportunity for "time off" did not exist, I suspect most teachers would burn out in the first two years. My teaching career spanned thirty years, and I regret nothing . . . except maybe those twelve-hour Sunday sessions grading papers while my family went for a hike.

Even though I've been retired for nearly sixteen years, I still experience a certain dread at this time of year. Summer's almost over, and I will have to go back to work. As is true with almost everything, anticipation is far worse than actuality. It doesn't take long to get back into the routine, to learn the names of up to 150 teenagers, and to become, once again, engaged in the work of inspiring young minds with great literature. Knowing that, however, does not change the dread that summer is winding down and it's almost time to get back into the trenches.

In early August, the katydids start singing. Of course, they're not actually singing. Their "song" is produced by rubbing a hind leg on one wing, and it's a song only sung by the males. They sing in unison, each male trying to beat out the others to be the first to hit a note. Why? Because the females are drawn to that dominant male. (It's always about sex, isn't it?) Once the nighttime temperature drops below 52 degrees F., the males stop singing. I guess they've won their mates and no longer feel the need. By the way, a new species of katydid has recently been discovered in Madagascar. These are aggressive long-horned grasshoppers with large biceps and bodies that span over 2 1/2", placing them among the largest insects that exist. And they bite!

It's the song of the katydid and the appearance of the invasive Purple Loosestrife (Lythrum salicaria) that have always served as audial and visual reminders to me that summer is waning. At the sight of a marshy field rife with tall, purple flowers or the nighttime sound of grasshopper sex, my mood shifts from unencumbered freedom to the weight of responsibility. Basically, I have always ruined the last month of my summer vacation by anticipating back-to-school intensity. And again, I've been retired for a good many years . . . and yet I still feel that shift.

But last night, I attended a high school reunion for the first five classes to graduate from a school at which I taught in my twenties. These were the classes of 1976 through 1980, and I remember so many of those "kids" so fondly. They're not kids anymore, celebrating their 38th through 42nd high school graduation anniversaries. Through several conversations, I was reminded of the rewards of the career I chose, despite those long hours of paper-grading. In most cases, I did not remember the stories they shared about what I did or what I said to them or what I wrote in their yearbooks, but one thing was clear: I'd made some kind of impression on them, in ways I never would have known at the time. In how many other careers can one enjoy such a perk? I began to feel sorry that I will not be returning to the classroom in a couple of weeks.

And that sorrow lasted about as long as it takes for katydids to have sex.

Bring on your ephemeral magenta beauty, Purple Loosestrife! Sing away, Katy Did and Katy Didn't! On the first day of school, I'm sleeping in!

Woodchuck Nation

When woodchucks ate Paul Ryan's car last month, I applauded them for joining the Resistance. Their strategy was to feast on electrical wires in the Chevy Suburban, which Ryan had parked at his mother's house. (Congressional privilege allows Ryan to be driven wherever he wants to go, rendering the Suburban unnecessary.) The woodchucks rendered the Suburban undriveable, and as a result, thoughts and prayers were sent to Ryan on the death of his Chevy by murderous varmints.

It seems that woodchucks (also known as groundhogs, whistle-pigs, or land-beavers) are attracted to radiator fluid, enticing them to eat car parts. Woodchucks are also attracted to flower and vegetable gardens, which is why they are the subject of this post. I finally caught one of the critters in my Havaheart trap this morning, necessitating a Sunday morning drive up to the mountain, the requisite six miles away. The trap has been reset, waiting for the rest of the family to surrender.

There are several ways to keep groundhogs away from one's garden, the most powerful being lion urine. Just spray it around the perimeter of the garden, and the groundhogs will get the hint. Unfortunately, there were no lions around to help me out, so I had to resort to a trap. What to put in it? Basically, groundhogs like anything green, but they also enjoy red strawberries and over-ripe bananas. A friend suggested dog food as a surefire bait, but I resisted buying a bag, as it would stoke memories of my beloved Mack, my last dog, gone nearly five years now. (By the way, I never had a groundhog problem until I lost Mack.) One source I consulted suggested pouring vanilla extract on the bait to lure the critters in. That seems like a terrible waste of vanilla extract, which comes in those very, very tiny and expensive bottles, so I said no thank you to that suggestion. Lettuce, strawberries, and broccoli drew my woodchuck in.

But back to the Resistance. I'm not sure what the woodchuck ideology is or what issues are on their platform, but I suspect they might be sympathetic to the take-a-knee movement. In June of this year, woodchucks were implicated in the stealing of American flags at a veterans' cemetery in Adams, Massachusetts. Apparently, bits of flag material were found at entrances to the groundhogs' burrows, evidence enough for an indictment. Part of the Resistance? Maybe not. A similar thing occurred in Hudson, New York, in 2012, three years before Ryan became Speaker and four years before tRump was elected. But maybe those woodchucks knew what was coming.

We all know what's coming now, because every day is the same. We wake up to Presidential tweets and lies, the same as yesterday. "Fake news." "The Wall." "No collusion." It's the same every day, a veritable Groundhog Day life. Let me end this by quoting from Bill Murray's character in the 1993 movie Groundhog Day. (The Woodchuck Resistance gave me permission to tweak the quote just a bit.)

"There is no way that this nightmare is ever going to end as long as this tyrant keeps adoring his shadow. I don't see any other way out. He's got to be stopped. And I have to stop him."

Save us, Phil Connors. Save us.

Splendor in the Grass

It was not a particularly beautiful morning when I did my daily run today. The fog was so thick, it fell onto my head, impersonating sweat. I searched through the mist to find signs of other early-morning humans, but it seems that I was at the park so early, I pretty much had the place to myself. Or so I thought. As the day brightened, it revealed a world full of critters, mostly rabbits and birds. For a moment, I considered the eeriness of inhabiting the natural world as non-human creatures do. No clocks, no phones, no possessions. Just basic survival instincts. I felt like an intruder in a country that spoke a different language. I longed for the freedom of wings, the strength of long back legs that can leap great distances, the ability to sort through thousands of scents with olfactory receptors that vastly outnumber mine.

Passing by a collection of bunnies in a recently mowed grassy field, my memory dredged up part of a poem that I'd memorized when I was a teenager. This William Wordsworth poem (over 200 years old) may sound familiar to you, as a line in it became the title of a classic 1961 movie. The poem is titled "Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood," and the lines I memorized so long ago are these:

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower
We will grieve not, rather find 
Strength in what remains behind

If a vision of a young Natalie Wood just came into your head, you win Final Jeopardy. "What is 'Splendor in the Grass?'" A commentary on loss of innocence, the lines ask us to look beyond the ideology of youth and use those memories to try to find beauty and inspiration in the mundane, the everyday.

The next thing I knew, an old song was competing with the tunes that were emanating from my earbuds. Again, from an old movie, 1955's Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing. Although The Four Aces are best known for the song, I prefer the Andy Williams' version from 1962. The dramatic crescendos in the song poked my twelve-year-old soul the way that Michelangelo's masterpieces do. These lines in particular evoked images that set my heart on fire, eager for romantic love (specifically with Bobby Rydell):

Once, on a high and windy hill
In the morning mist, two lovers kissed
And the world stood still

Ah! This was what I had to look forward to! A many-splendored thing! Kudos to Sammy Fain and Paul Webster for this Oscar-winning song that gave me hope.

So the common denominator in these two memories is the word splendor, defined as "magnificent and splendid appearance, grandeur." I will eschew visions of gold-plated opulence and focus instead on the natural world. I have seen red rock canyons in the Southwest, the Northern Lights in the Arctic, coral reefs in Australia, volcanic basalt columns in Ireland, redwood forest groves in California, and bioluminescence in Vieques. Splendor, indeed.

And when I returned home from the park this morning, I watched a flock of wild turkeys make their way past my garden. Many-splendored, all of it.

The wild turkeys were too quick for me to get a picture, so here are some deer instead.