It's the Berries

The landscape interest this time of year is in the berries. 

Because the bushes look like bare bent bones of a giant's finger the evergreens and berries catch my eye.

beauty berry blooms in the fall 

I used to love the red nandina, holly berries, and beauty berry in my yard.  I miss having them to cut and put in the house. The craving for winter beauty forces me to look more carefully. 

I found these lovelies in a well-planned garden recently. 
Although I dislike junipers I found this ground cover variety very attractive. 

The landscaper put the short spread-limbed tree, the spruce, the juniper and the bush with red berries together to contrast nicely. To my gardener's eye, it is as well composed as a painting.

Further along Rosewood Circle I found these blue-black berries. Plump and appealing, I don't know if the birds eat them or not. 

They weren't picked over, but I've seen birds patiently wait for just the right time and then

strip a holly tree in one day.

These ovaloid orange berries peek out from a white flower. The leaves are interesting too. Does anyone recognize this? 

I really must download a plant-recognition app. 

Even though my gardening is confined to indoor plants now, I enjoy the unusual and fruitful plants that I see around me. 

My brain made a connection (synapse) between the physical berries and a phrase I'd read "It's the berries."

I did a little digging and found that the phrase dates from an 1869 Punch cartoon. A young man is seeking a piece of Mistletoe. The seller tells him "It ain't a very big Piece, but there's lots o' Berries on it; An' it's the Berries as does it!" 

Apparently more berries made for increased likelihood of snagging a snog (1940's slang for kissing and cuddling.)

Enjoy the greenery we display this holiday season. Cut some Mistletoe - and be sure it's full of berries! 

Giant Pumpkin Guide to Colossal Joy

This fantastic display was in front of the historic Red Lion Inn in Stockbridge, Massachusetts.  I'd seen seeds in gardening catalogs for giant pumpkins, but never imagined them with appropriate awe. The cut stem was about eight inches in diameter. If hollowed out the pumpkin, I could have crawled inside. 

You can't get this result by overwatering an ordinary pumpkin. They're grown from special seeds, bred for size. Additionally, the plants need plentiful sun, fertilizer, water, and vigilance. 

They take careful tending. The vines should be a certain size before you  manually fertilize the female flowers. Roots have to be pruned to allow room for growth without damaging the vine. Then pinch off the tips to allow the nutrients to concentrate on the chosen fruit. 

During their peak growth time, huge pumpkins can grow two inches in circumference every night. A friend told me that if you listen, you can hear the actual sounds of growing. 

Perhaps if we nourished gratitude with intention and attention all year long,  our Thanksgiving joy would be as colossal as this pumpkin. I hope yours is!






                

Stick Together Like Mud

I ran into my girlfriends recently but we were all forty years younger.  

My hubby and I took advantage of a warm afternoon and visited a local beer garden. We enjoyed new brews, a tasty Turkish sandwich, and the sun on our backs. 

The tables were wooden picnic benches lined up end to end to seat crowds, like old school lunchroom tables. There was no crowd, only a small group of twenty-something women nearby.  It was too early for corporate types to be at happy hour. One woman showed off her new wedding ring and recounted it’s history. I knew it was fall break, and something about them made me think “teachers.” Another clue was that only one man was part of the group, which is typical of an elementary school. “The gym teacher” my husband said.  He may not have been the gym teacher, but the male-female ratio in elementary schools has barely changed in the last thirty years. 

When a group of three more approached they called out “Here’s the third grade.” So they were teachers. I couldn’t hear them clearly, but I didn’t hear any grumbling tones, from which I inferred their work together was collegial and satisfying. They were certainly enjoying themselves.

A good school environment can forge strong, respectful working relationships. And that fosters tight friendships. When you work and do life with a sympathetic, encouraging group, you are truly blessed. 

I went over and confirmed my prediction. We shared school names and grades taught.  I told them they reminded me of my own special group of teacher friends. 

Looking back from retirement I know that co-workers can impact each other as much as they impact their students. 

I just finished Where the Crawdads Sing, by Delia Owens. The main character lives  a hard-scrabble life in a marsh, deserted by every family member. She longs for companionship and remembers a distant happy event before she was abandoned. On a rare outing her mother and sisters took the father’s boat without permission and got stuck in mud. They’re mud-covered by the time the boat is freed. Yet they’ve laughed and enjoyed themselves. Their mother says it’s a lesson in life. They turned their trouble to fun. “That’s what sisters and girlfriends are all about. Sticking together even in the mud, ‘specially in the mud.”

My teacher friends and I stuck together through mud at school, and mud at home. I wish the same for the upcoming generation of teaching professionals.

Young teachers from McMeen Elementary School, this is my benediction to you.

In Praise of Limited Choices

Now that I live in a huge metropolis, I praise the fact that we had limited choices of good restaurants in our former rural community.

True, I wished for years that Mt. Airy, NC would get a Starbucks. After I moved it did. 

And I moaned when our favorite chefs moved on, and further restricted our possibilities for a dependably delicious dinner. 

At least in a small community, you know what you're going to get when you go to a particular restaurant.  At every new opening the locals endlessly review it on Facebook. 

My current zipcode 80247 has 26,000 people in 3 square miles. The Denver metropolitan area has 5,000  restaurants. There is no way to know the quality of every restaurant within even a one mile radius. And since our dining out time and budget are limited, we don't want to waste them on a dud. 

 I stood on one corner this week and took photos of four restaurants. 




The Italian restaurant was in the nicest building. 






The Turkish restaurant was humble, and hadn't caught my eye previously. But I liked the food we ate in Turkey and might try this one.





The Mexican restaurant always has funny signs, which is what prompted me to stop and look around. 

And the Thai restaurant in a three-business strip mall tried to create some ambience outside. Good for them! 





Just one intersection could shape our dining out until February. 

However, the sheer number of choices immobilizes us, so we tend to stick with the few restaurants we know and like. 

It's the same don't-take-a-chance principle vanilla ice cream eaters use. Who knows if you'll like glow in the dark ice cream (Britain),  raspberry-orchid (Turkey) or curry and carrot (Japan)?

Vanilla doesn't appeal to me, but that raspberry-orchid ice cream sounds interesting. Maybe my next dinner out will be at the Bosphorus, pictured above.

I'll let you know how it turns out. 

What's your worry score?

If I rated the level of anxious thoughts rattling around in my head on an average day, it would be a 1, minor annoyance, occasional twinge. ( I'm comparing them to the ten point pain scale.)  In the weeks after my husband's cancer diagnosis it skyrocketed to 7, difficult to concentrate, couldn't sleep. I would have called that level torment. 

Worry Score level 9 - panicked, frozen

Recent what-ifs sounded like this: 

1.   What if my alarm doesn’t go off? 

2.   If I don’t take a sleep-aid I’ll never get to sleep. (So I took one, and slept well until 3:15 then woke up every 30 minutes until the alarm DID go off.)

3.   6:30 a.m., ten minutes before the bus is due, I am waiting. Should I have checked the website a fifth time in case they have posted an updated list of which juror numbers must attend? 

4.   I am wearing white pants, I’d better take a plastic bag to sit on the bus bench. 

5.   I wonder: Will the bus be on time? At 6:40 a.m. I consider it might have been early and I missed it.  Or, perhaps I’m confused and I should be at the bus stop across the street going the other direction? So I holler across the street at the man waiting in that bus stop and double check which direction he is headed. My bus arrives at 6:43. But the driver is new. She might drive too slowly. 

6.   I have to transfer buses, and then walk to the courthouse. What if I am late? Will some official scold me? I prepare an answer in my head. And rehearse it. 

7.   I take a photo of the security line inside of the courthouse to prove I arrived at 7:50 a.m. in case said official does demand an explanation for my tardiness. 

8.   I get through security and join two or three hundred other people assembled for the session. Do I have to go to the restroom? What if I miss something important? I wait. 

9.   Will my phone battery last for the day? I put it on airplane mode. I don’t use it. 

10.  After a welcome and pep talk by a judge we watch a high-school type civics video about our duty. Then we are told to please remain in our seats until our numbers are called, but I can’t wait. I join twenty other women in line outside of the restroom. When I am two people away from the front of the line we hear the announcement from the auditorium to take our seats. The woman ahead of me expresses her panic which I share. “I can’t wait!” The official voice assures us she will recall any numbers who have not responded at the end of her list. 

11.  I dig through my bag for my jury summons. I clutch it because I don’t think I can remember those four digits in the right order. I repeat them to myself over and over, “5510, 5510, 5510” while she calls numbers. 

12.  What if I get on a long trial? I will have to cancel tutoring on Tuesday, Willow childcare on Wednesday, no music group on Thursday. I try to stop the catastrophizing.

13.  When called, my group of potential jurors is at least forty people. Is this a felony case, requiring a jury of twelve? That could go on all week! But we are dismissed.

14. I check my watch. I have an hour until my return bus. So I piddle around while I walk the eight blocks to the first bus stop. I’m unsure I read the schedule correctly. I take the first bus. I get off and walk to my transfer stop. I sit on the second bench. I check my phone (no longer in airplane mode) and I’m pretty sure I have misread the schedule. I could have caught the right bus if I had not been leisurely. 

15.  Now I will sit on the shady bench and hope no driver in the very close and fast traffic does not veer off the road and kill or maim me. I cannot decide which is worse. 

16.  When the bus comes I double check with the driver that he is going all of the way to my stop. Assured, I get on and finally quit worrying.  

Whew! Sixteen distinct points of worry. I think that makes me more than a worrywart, more than a fussbudget, probably a basket case. Maybe a level six. But I did not hyperventilate or cry at any time, so I should get by without meds. 

But only during the day. Still need them at night. 

Can anybody relate? Let me know so I can take solace in a sisterhood of angst. 

No Drudgery in Jury Duty

Nobody wants to get a jury summons, but my six hours serving democracy this week was an invigorating experience. 

I rode public transportation, a slow but painless way to get into downtown Denver with no hefty parking fee.  Fellow passengers were considerate of those in wheelchairs and the elderly. I saw enough feet to get an idea of what’s hot in young women’s shoes. I admired a young businessman’s dark blue suit with those skinny pants my husband will never be willing or able to wear. 

I enjoyed a brisk walk in good weather to the courthouse.  The line for security to get inside was just like the airport, except I didn’t have to remove my shoes (which were not stylish). I made it through the check-in line a few minutes late, but I wasn’t the last.  

I always appreciated the massive marble old courthouse with its worn down steps, wide hallways and brass railings. It felt elegant and historic.

The new court building is sleek, sunlit, and appealing. Look at this east facing wall. I couldn’t  figure out how the plastic tubes carry color when they appear clear and colorless.

I held my breath through four rounds of jury selection. In between roll calls I reread my current writing project's first draft. It's so rough I felt the splinters. 

My number was called for the fifth case. At least forty of us were called and promptly excused because the trial had been dismissed. Yeah! Duty done for this year. 

Enroute to my bus stop I enjoyed the public between the art museums. This was a series of alternate facing tropical colored chairs of woven plastic tubing. When rocked, the chairs chimed. 

Fun for seniors and kids. 

Time to spare, I stopped in at Denver’s massive public library and got a new library card. In the ladies’ room, a pair of young women were washing up, brushing teeth, and changing clothes.  I’d heard that the library had been overrun with the homeless. I hope the girls weren’t part of that group. 

I misread the bus schedule and had plenty of leisure to sit on the shady bench at my stop and read.  

The book, Factfulness by Hans Rosling is challenging, fascinating, and encouraging. He masterfully uses graphs and photos of four levels of economic development to explain “ten reasons why we’re wrong about the world”. But this physician/explainer-of-trends uses numbers unlike any statistics professor you’ve ever heard of. Each chapter starts with related anecdotes that made me chuckle, particularly the one about being served grubs—chapter 6, “The Generalization Instinct.”)

The more than half a day serving wasn't the drudgery I expected, but stimulation I enjoyed.

Thank you, Denver judiciary. 

Out in the Middle of Nowhere

One of our young friends was moving. His roommate said, "Don't move to St. Louis! You'll be out in the middle of nowhere."

"Look at a map" I retorted. "Living in Denver, we are in the middle of nowhere." It's 520 miles to Salt Lake City,  392 to Santa Fe, 554 to Kansas City. And heading north, there's nothing bigger than Cheyenne until Canada. 

The conversation came back to mind when we headed out of town to the western slope of the Rocky Mountains, and pure nowhere. 

Which reminds me, on another trip in the southern part of the state, there is  a dot in the road named Saguache (pronounced Sawatch) whose motto is posted as "We've got a whole lot of nothing'."














Being in the middle of nowhere is a plus--fewer emergency sirens, far fewer vehicles on the road, and the stars are likely to be visible. 


So last week we headed for "nowhere". Once past Vail the people disappeared and the vegetation dried up. This vista shows the mesa, the flat table top of the mountains, stretching toward Utah.  

Bill said "This reminds me of Surry County, only more so."

"How so?" I countered. 

"Even less cars." 

 Less of everything, actually: people, houses, cars, and water. 

We laughed at this sign, because there weren't any green leaves to be seen, just dusty needles. 

Another road sign said "No Passing." No passing cows?  UFOs? 

 I bet a geologist would be able to explain the layers and vertical fracturing of the rocks. Interesting, but not my idea of beauty.














Our destination was Colorado's wine country. More literally, Colorado's wine town. Palisade, population around 3000, is in a small valley next to the Colorado River. Hard to believe, it hosts at least twenty five wineries. In addition to traditional wineries there are specialties: fruit wines, mead, or port. 

The few we made it to had something distinctive about them.

Plum Creek Winery displays art by sculptor Lyle Nichols.  He transformed found objects into this chicken. Observing closely was like being on a scavenger hunt. 

The art was more refined than the wine, but we did like a white blend.

Colterris, meaning, of the earth of Colorado, had a sophisticated dispensary of their wines. Bottles faced stood in a glass fronted shelf. They were side by side from the whites through rose to the heavy reds.  We bought a bottle for a gift.

Greystone was a cute building that boasted prize winning port wines behind a purple front door.

 

Under a surprisingly large weeping willow tree we enjoyed a lovely lunch at Maison La Belle Vie. They produce a merlot blend that I liked very much and wish I'd bought. Maybe it's available locally. 

The next day we headed higher into the mountains to Grand Mesa National Park. Unlike the mesa, there were many lakes, ponds and streams.  Kayakers and fishermen were enjoying the water despite the chilly air. 

From the ranger station we took a quick self-guided hike that explained some aspects of the ecosystem. This stand of aspen trees lets in light for various pines to start.

I noticed that the underbrush was much more varied than I usually see in Colorado forests. It must be the higher water content from snowfall. 










This was my favorite view. No houses, no sounds except wind in the trees and birds, but plenty of green. Out in the middle of nowhere, just the way I like. 

Engaging a Homeless Man called the King of Norway

"When I was born they named me the King of Norway."

On the way to the middle of the bridge. Notice the slope.

My granddaughter and I were crossing the Tacoma Narrows Bridge  on foot when we approached a homeless man. Em was nervous about stopping to offer help. But he wasn't muttering to himself. And his person and clothes were clean. 

The man looked to be in his 60's,  grey hair cut close to the scalp, shaved. He was lean and muscled, browned by the sun. Missing several teeth which had shifted to fill in the spaces, he reminded me of a popular childhood TV puppet, Ollie the dragon.  

 His belongings were neatly loaded onto three connected carts, fastened with duct tape and bungee cords. Strong as he appeared to be, it was a tough go uphill.  He was glad for the offer. He showed me where to grab the handle on the middle cart and my granddaughter pushed the last cart while he pulled the train backwards. 

It was hot, and even with our help we had to stop frequently. It gave him a chance to talk. I got pretty confused as he talked about various times when he served in multiple branches of the military. And when he pointed to an alder tree he launched into a little lecture about bio-organisms that he believed were being spread by the government from certain labeled transmitters. At that point I realized there was some mental disorder.

We walked, stopped again, chatted. He pointed out his well-maintained chain saw which he used to earn cash. He opened the case with pride and showed us  the tools, and the sharp chain, ready for work.

We pushed on, stopped, and he pointed out two clear indentions in his head "from bullets in the war." He didn't specify which war. 

By the time we reached the crosswalk my husband caught up with us. He heard the tail end of the conversation and asked "Do you mind if I ask how old you are?"

 "98. I'm one of Howard Hughes' sons." And then he added he had been named the King of Norway at birth.

I was so sad to think of this man, apparently able to take care of himself, so disconnected from reality. I glimpsed the terrible damage done by PTSD, or traumatic brain injury, or some other set of factors. 

I haven't talked to a homeless person in years. When I drive I ignore panhandlers at the corners with their signs. When I walk I cross the street to create a lot of space between us. 

This man carried himself with dignity.  I'm glad my stereotypes were challenged, and we got to meet the King of Norway. 

the view from the Tacoma Narrows Bridge

Lilacs Take Me Back to Old Places

The delicate sweet smell of lilacs take me back to old places. 

My grandmother's house had bushes taller than my five year old self. They imprinted their fragrance on me, and have always evoked feelings of security and pleasure. We moved from the midwest when I was nine to a brand new neighborhood in California with cloned ranch homes and nary a blade of grass, let alone lilacs. 

Perhaps they were too old fashioned. My parents planted other flowers and a small tree. The roses were the tallest thing in the yard when we moved again nine years later.

As a young adult we moved to Colorado and ended up in an established neighborhood of hundred year old two story brick homes with huge old lilacs hanging over into the alleys and over the fences. Every spring, I detoured my walks to enjoy the upside down purple, lilac, and white cones. 

And when we finally bought a house with a yard big enough for them, I planted six in a row and waited. And waited.

Colorado springs are brutal to even hardy perennials. Bushes and bulbs pop up with promise, only to be blackened and shriveled by late frost or snow. Over ten years I babied those lilacs, covering them with sheets, or stapling bubble wrap around the buds if the weather forecast spelled doom. Every blossom, no matter how puny,  made me gleeful. But I never had so many I could bear to cut and bring them inside.

This has been the most spectacular spring in Denver I’ve seen in our 28 years here. The warm early days of March got things going. April was cool, but warm enough for the flowering trees to bud and then open. I held my breath, expecting a deadly quick freeze, but the temperatures didn’t dip low enough to do damage. 

First the crabapples set the landscape ablaze. Then the few redbuds in town finished their cycle and fulfilled their potential. I only saw two magnolias, small compared to the beauties in North Carolina. I cherished them for their rarity.

But oh my, the lilacs have been glorious! Look at this hedge, and it is only half of the total length. I bet that owner has only seen them bloom so lavishly a handful of times in her life. I point them out when we drive around town like a bird watcher spots rare species.

I can’t see any from my apartment, but I know where to find them. I’ve threatened to raid a few isolated bushes in no-mans-land but Bill beat me to it.

As finicky as cut lilacs can be, these have not wilted in the vase. I stand in my windowless kitchen, close my eyes, take a deep breath, and pretend there’s a bush right outside.