Blue Country Magic will be silent until...
September 3, 2007.
Ya'll come back, ya hear?
Thanks for visiting. If you're a new visitor, please feel free to peruse the archives for pictures of deer, flowers, turkey, etc.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Hiatus
Blue Country Magic will be silent until... September 3, 2007.Ya'll come back, ya hear?
Thanks for visiting. If you're a new visitor, please feel free to peruse the archives for pictures of deer, flowers, turkey, etc.
Dishwashing
The dishwasher has developed a rinsing problem, leaving heavy residue on the dishes.
This is not the end of the world. A dishwasher is not a necessity, not like, say a water heater.
But I despise washing dishes. I would rather clean the toilet.
Some of my friends greatly enjoy washing dishes, and own no dishwasher. They apparently love to stand by the sink, their hands growing wrinkly, while they play in filthy water contaminated with the dregs of their dinner.
It is not my thing.
I began washing dishes before I was five. My mother would stack books on a chair and then place me on top of the books with orders to wash the dishes.
My memories of doing this are rather painful.
I recall once, before I was six, my father had purchased some kind of reel-to-reel recording device. He had it in the kitchen, and I was instructed to be very quiet while I washed the dishes. Of course halfway through his song, I dropped the silverware. He knocked me off the chair.
Later, when I was about 9, my brother, three years my junior, "helped" by dumping the macaroni salad into the dishwater in the sink instead of into the trash. He vanished, and my mother came in as I tried to fish out the macaroni. She flew into a rage and, after making me empty the dishwasher and clean the sink, she proceeded to empty the cabinets of every dish in the place and forced me to stand there and wash each piece. I remember watching my tears splash into the dishwater.
And another time, when I was 9 or 10, I ended up staying alone in the house for what seemed like a very long while my parents and brother went fishing, because I had not finished the dishes in a timely manner. I remember being absolutely terrified at being alone.
So as you can see, washing the dishes is not something I have been very happy doing.
Which means that unless my husband can fix this dishwasher, which is a Whirlpool we purchased in 2003, I will be getting a new dishwasher pretty soon.
This is not the end of the world. A dishwasher is not a necessity, not like, say a water heater.
But I despise washing dishes. I would rather clean the toilet.
Some of my friends greatly enjoy washing dishes, and own no dishwasher. They apparently love to stand by the sink, their hands growing wrinkly, while they play in filthy water contaminated with the dregs of their dinner.
It is not my thing.
I began washing dishes before I was five. My mother would stack books on a chair and then place me on top of the books with orders to wash the dishes.
My memories of doing this are rather painful.
I recall once, before I was six, my father had purchased some kind of reel-to-reel recording device. He had it in the kitchen, and I was instructed to be very quiet while I washed the dishes. Of course halfway through his song, I dropped the silverware. He knocked me off the chair.
Later, when I was about 9, my brother, three years my junior, "helped" by dumping the macaroni salad into the dishwater in the sink instead of into the trash. He vanished, and my mother came in as I tried to fish out the macaroni. She flew into a rage and, after making me empty the dishwasher and clean the sink, she proceeded to empty the cabinets of every dish in the place and forced me to stand there and wash each piece. I remember watching my tears splash into the dishwater.
And another time, when I was 9 or 10, I ended up staying alone in the house for what seemed like a very long while my parents and brother went fishing, because I had not finished the dishes in a timely manner. I remember being absolutely terrified at being alone.
So as you can see, washing the dishes is not something I have been very happy doing.
Which means that unless my husband can fix this dishwasher, which is a Whirlpool we purchased in 2003, I will be getting a new dishwasher pretty soon.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Books: How I Write
How I Write
By Janet Evanovich with Ina Yalof
Copyright 2006
I picked this up a while back out of curiousity. I write thousands of words a week but I am not writing fiction.
However, I would like to write fiction.
This book is mainly a question and answer, with the questions coming from Evanovich's website.
I was surprised at the number of ways Evanovich could answer the question "I want to be like you, how do I go about it?" People must ask that a lot.
I learned nothing new here but I think someone who hasn't ever seriously considered writing fiction but might like to would find this of interest. Which, judging from the questions, is a lot of people.
Since I've semi-seriously considered it at times, and done my homework about how to go about it, there was not much new information in here. Still, it was interesting to see how she goes about putting a book together.
3 stars
By Janet Evanovich with Ina Yalof
Copyright 2006
I picked this up a while back out of curiousity. I write thousands of words a week but I am not writing fiction.
However, I would like to write fiction.
This book is mainly a question and answer, with the questions coming from Evanovich's website.
I was surprised at the number of ways Evanovich could answer the question "I want to be like you, how do I go about it?" People must ask that a lot.
I learned nothing new here but I think someone who hasn't ever seriously considered writing fiction but might like to would find this of interest. Which, judging from the questions, is a lot of people.
Since I've semi-seriously considered it at times, and done my homework about how to go about it, there was not much new information in here. Still, it was interesting to see how she goes about putting a book together.
3 stars
Friday, August 24, 2007
Remembrance
My mother passed away seven years ago today.
I wrote about it last year, which you can read here.
Funny thing, I had almost forgotten that this is the anniversary of her death. I have so much going on right now that it was far from my mind.
And then I ate a cookie.
My in-laws are away, and I was fetching their mail and newspaper. After I carried it into their house, I opened the pantry door and filched a cookie.
A Little Debbie Oatmeal Cookie, to be exact.
I couldn't remember the last time I had one of those. I peeled the wrapper and bit into it, feeling the creamy insides and the oatmeal cookie outside. Yum, my mouth said.
I call these cookies "granddaddy cookies" because my grandfather carried one to work with him in his lunch pail every day.
He was a warehouse foreman for Kroger in Salem. He worked there nearly 30 years. He must have worked from 7-4, if that is a shift, because he was always home at 4:30 p.m., at which time my grandmother had dinner on the table.
Granddaddy cookies were special treats. We weren't supposed to eat them. But if you had a need, like, say, you'd been beaten up by a young cousin or your favorite toy had broken, you could swing a Granddaddy cookie.
I can remember sitting on Grandma's lap, blubbering my little girl's heart out over some misdeed. "Sweetie, what can Grandma do to make you feel better," she'd say, rocking me gently, my head against her breast. I listened to her heart beat and the song she hummed in her throat. Sobbing, of course, with my thumb in my mouth.
And inevitably when she asked the question, I'd point toward the blue container where the Little Debbies hid. A Granddaddy cookie would soon be forthcoming, and all would be right in my world again.
I remembered all this as I headed home, eating my stolen cookie, and of course in the remembering, I thought of my mother, and then recalled the date.
Fate must've wanted to remind me, or I'd have never opened that pantry.
I wrote about it last year, which you can read here.
Funny thing, I had almost forgotten that this is the anniversary of her death. I have so much going on right now that it was far from my mind.
And then I ate a cookie.
My in-laws are away, and I was fetching their mail and newspaper. After I carried it into their house, I opened the pantry door and filched a cookie.
A Little Debbie Oatmeal Cookie, to be exact.
I couldn't remember the last time I had one of those. I peeled the wrapper and bit into it, feeling the creamy insides and the oatmeal cookie outside. Yum, my mouth said.
I call these cookies "granddaddy cookies" because my grandfather carried one to work with him in his lunch pail every day.
He was a warehouse foreman for Kroger in Salem. He worked there nearly 30 years. He must have worked from 7-4, if that is a shift, because he was always home at 4:30 p.m., at which time my grandmother had dinner on the table.
Granddaddy cookies were special treats. We weren't supposed to eat them. But if you had a need, like, say, you'd been beaten up by a young cousin or your favorite toy had broken, you could swing a Granddaddy cookie.
I can remember sitting on Grandma's lap, blubbering my little girl's heart out over some misdeed. "Sweetie, what can Grandma do to make you feel better," she'd say, rocking me gently, my head against her breast. I listened to her heart beat and the song she hummed in her throat. Sobbing, of course, with my thumb in my mouth.
And inevitably when she asked the question, I'd point toward the blue container where the Little Debbies hid. A Granddaddy cookie would soon be forthcoming, and all would be right in my world again.
I remembered all this as I headed home, eating my stolen cookie, and of course in the remembering, I thought of my mother, and then recalled the date.
Fate must've wanted to remind me, or I'd have never opened that pantry.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Thursday Thirteen
Great things about summer:
1. Vine-ripened tomatoes from your very own garden. A tomato and mayonnaise sandwich is hard to beat.
2. Locally grown Concord grapes. They have taste and are better than anything shipped from ... wherever it is they come from.
3. Cucumbers from your very own garden. A little vinegar and yum. They actually have taste!
4. Locally grown watermelon. Again, there's that taste thing.
5. Locally grown peaches. The peach crop is a little thin this year, thanks to a bad freeze, but they are delicious if you can find them.
6. Balmy evenings when you can sit outside and listen to the crickets, the tree frogs and the cows and never reach for a sweater.
7. Thunderstorms. (I like them, usually.)
8. Longer days.
9. Hot mornings when you sweat just walking out for the newspaper.
10. Fawns frolicking in the field beside the house.
11. Light breezes.
12. Slow moving rivers.
13. Flowers blooming in the yard.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Books: Lean Mean Thirteen
Lean Mean Thirteen
By Janet Evanovich
Copyright 2007
The latest in the Stephanie Plum, bounty hunter, series has our heroine blamed for the disappearance of her ex-husband, Dickie Orr.
She's also sleeping with Morelli and in the company of Ranger.
Lulu is her usual intriguing self. There are some explosions.
The last two books seem to me to have had a little change in tenor, a little sadder, maybe.
And this 13th adventure felt a bit formulaic to me. Still, it was a good way to spend some hours. I recommend all of Evanovich's books.
3.5 stars
By Janet Evanovich
Copyright 2007
The latest in the Stephanie Plum, bounty hunter, series has our heroine blamed for the disappearance of her ex-husband, Dickie Orr.
She's also sleeping with Morelli and in the company of Ranger.
Lulu is her usual intriguing self. There are some explosions.
The last two books seem to me to have had a little change in tenor, a little sadder, maybe.
And this 13th adventure felt a bit formulaic to me. Still, it was a good way to spend some hours. I recommend all of Evanovich's books.
3.5 stars
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Man Mowing Dirt
We have been very dry. Abnormally dry, although I am not sure what is normal anymore.
The latest report from the Virginia Department of Environmental Quality doesn't offer any clues as to when we will find relief.
Agriculture, so far, is feeling the effects of this lack of rain moreso than city dwellers. They've not been asked to ration their water - yet. This may come if the levels of streams and ponds continue to drop, though.
Water is a precious commodity. We try to conserve - we don't water the grass, for instance. We do water the garden but that's a food source.
However, the golf course on US 220 probably waters enough for a hundred families. Their sprinklers seem to be running 24/7.
Twenty-six counties so far have asked for federal assistance due to drought; Botetourt has it on its agenda for next week.
Farmers are selling off cattle because of lack of hay. Dairymen are already chopping corn, about two weeks early. What corn is there is not the yield that it should be.
We are already feeding hay to the cattle to supplement what little grass is in the pasture, and most likely we will be selling off part, if not all, of the herd.
The area is about 6 to 9 inches low in its rainfall totals for the year.
The trees are showing signs of distress, too. Leaves are turning already; some are simply yellowing and falling to the ground. It doesn't look like it will be a very pretty autumn.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Varmits in the Garden
I woke this morning to find that my tomato cages had been ripped up from the ground, and two of the posts holding my fence around the garden broken.
One of the tomato cages lay all the way down at the other fence, the one that keeps the cows out of the yard.
The tomato cages are *not* light; in fact, they are rather heavy.
The tomato plants, if not twisted up, have been heavily eaten and gnawed upon.
My hypothesis is a young buck got into the garden in spite of my little plastic fence (which has never been very good at keeping them away, anyway), and then his horns became ensnared in the tomato cage.
That is the only way I can account for the tomato cage being 20 feet away from the garden, anyway. It certainly would have taken one really huge rabbit to carry that thing that far!
I would have liked to have seen the buck trying to get that tomato cage loose, if that is indeed what happened. The poor thing probably panicked.
This evening I will try to repair the damage as best I can, but I suspect the life of my garden has been severely compromised.
Next year I think I need a better fence.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Forms of Poetry
Yesterday I posted a poem I wrote some time ago. It is a sestina, which is a specific form of poetry.
The definition of a sestina, from Wikipedia, is as follows:
A sestina is a highly structured poem consisting of six six-line stanzas followed by
a tercet (called its envoy or tornada), for a total of thirty-nine lines. The same set of six
words ends the lines of each of the six-line stanzas, but in a different order each time; if we number the first stanza's lines 123456, then the words ending the second stanza's lines appear in the order 615243, then 64125, then 532614, then 451362, and finally 246531.... These six words then appear in the
tercet as well, with the tercet's first line usually containing 1 and 2, its second 3 and 4, and its third 5 and 6 (but other versions exist...).
Thus we get this form in my poem (I prefer to use ABCDEF instead of numbers, so I'm using both for an example):
grass (A)(1)
roses (B)(2)
bloom (C)(3)
sun (D)(4)
sea (E)(5)
garden (F)(6)
garden (F)(6)
grass (A)(1)
sea (E)(5)
roses (B)(2)
sun (D)(4)
bloom (C) (3)
etc.
Another form of poetry that I have written in the past is the Villanelle.
A1 (refrain)
b
A2 (refrain)
a
b
A1 (refrain)
a
b
A2 (refrain)
a
b
A1 (refrain)
a
b
A2 (refrain)
a
b
A1
A2 (refrain)
One of the most famous villanelle's is Dylan Thomas's Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, which you can read at the link.
Another poetry form that's fun to play with is the sonnet. There are many different forms of sonnet.
Here is the diagram for a Shakespearean Sonnet:
(a)
(b)
(a)
(b)
(c)
(d)
(c)
(d)
(e)
(f)
(e)
(f)
(g)
(g)
This is the most familiar form for English readers, I think.
The Spenserian sonnet has this pattern:
(a)
(b)
(a)
(b)
(b)
(c)
(b)
(c)
(c)
(d)
(c)
(d)
(e)
(e)
I like playing with poetry forms when I'm feeling blocked. It becomes a game, then, like working a crossword puzzle, to try and make it work out properly.
The definition of a sestina, from Wikipedia, is as follows:
A sestina is a highly structured poem consisting of six six-line stanzas followed by
a tercet (called its envoy or tornada), for a total of thirty-nine lines. The same set of six
words ends the lines of each of the six-line stanzas, but in a different order each time; if we number the first stanza's lines 123456, then the words ending the second stanza's lines appear in the order 615243, then 64125, then 532614, then 451362, and finally 246531.... These six words then appear in the
tercet as well, with the tercet's first line usually containing 1 and 2, its second 3 and 4, and its third 5 and 6 (but other versions exist...).
Thus we get this form in my poem (I prefer to use ABCDEF instead of numbers, so I'm using both for an example):
grass (A)(1)
roses (B)(2)
bloom (C)(3)
sun (D)(4)
sea (E)(5)
garden (F)(6)
garden (F)(6)
grass (A)(1)
sea (E)(5)
roses (B)(2)
sun (D)(4)
bloom (C) (3)
etc.
Another form of poetry that I have written in the past is the Villanelle.
A1 (refrain)
b
A2 (refrain)
a
b
A1 (refrain)
a
b
A2 (refrain)
a
b
A1 (refrain)
a
b
A2 (refrain)
a
b
A1
A2 (refrain)
One of the most famous villanelle's is Dylan Thomas's Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, which you can read at the link.
Another poetry form that's fun to play with is the sonnet. There are many different forms of sonnet.
Here is the diagram for a Shakespearean Sonnet:
(a)
(b)
(a)
(b)
(c)
(d)
(c)
(d)
(e)
(f)
(e)
(f)
(g)
(g)
This is the most familiar form for English readers, I think.
The Spenserian sonnet has this pattern:
(a)
(b)
(a)
(b)
(b)
(c)
(b)
(c)
(c)
(d)
(c)
(d)
(e)
(e)
I like playing with poetry forms when I'm feeling blocked. It becomes a game, then, like working a crossword puzzle, to try and make it work out properly.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Sorting Through the Roses
Sorting Through the Roses
A Sestina
By CountryDew
Leaves sway as winds blow the grass.
Your flower bed dances with roses.
Buds fill the arbor, ache to bloom.
Showers of brightness move in the sun.
Aphrodite's roses raised in the sea
cannot match the grandeur of your garden.
A circus of colors parades in your garden.
Highlighted, accented by alfalfa grass,
white, yellow, red waves rippling like the sea.
Misplaced carnations masquerade as pink roses,
fade against climbers reaching for sun.
Your summer rainbow, ready to bloom.
You stand among roses watching them bloom.
With scissors you take a bouquet from your garden.
White Knights burst forth, iridescent in sun.
Crimson Glories--elegant, above the grass.
You smell the fragrance of musky roses--
down by the fence grow buds you can't see.
But like Aphrodite who sprang from the sea
you lose your Adonis in summertime's blooms.
Yet the King's Ransom could not buy your roses--
Paradise is tangled, alive in your garden.
Your feet feel the earth, sympathize with the grass.
The Crown of your head tries to draw in the sun.
You brush against bushes as you walk in the sun.
Thorns prick at your clothing. Still you can't see
First Love flowering low in the grasses
or the sulky black roses waiting to bloom.
Orange and red blossoms overtake the garden.
They overwhelm when you stand in the roses.
You cut only the best of the roses,
trim every stem, take the buds from the sun,
examine the leaves of each bush in your garden,
pull Aphrodite from the foam of the sea.
Scissors snip, you catch the best bloom.
You lay all your prizes in line on the grass.
When the sun leaves your garden, you ache for the grass.
Each summer you ride on the wave of the bloom.
The roses return, like the foam of the sea.
You know the best rose grows here in your garden.
You stand back, watch the buds dance in sun
You have gathered your bouquet of roses.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Thursday Thirteen
Conservation easements
1) Conservation easements are supposed to protect special large tracts of land.
2) About 235 acres of this mountain was preserved in 2006. This is Tinker Mountain, and this wooded land is part of the Carvin's Cove watershed.
3. Carvins Cove, for those who don't know, is where the City of Roanoke gets it water.
4. The water comes from Tinker Creek, which Annie Dillard made famous in her book, A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.
5. Tinker Creek allegedly orginates, at least in part, on our farm from a spring which flows into two ponds.
6. Others have it orginating on land behind us, property that is now a subdivison.
7. Regardless, the streams which run together to form Tinker Creek have no name that I'm aware of.
8. On Tuesday, Virginia Governor Tim Kaine appeared at Hollins University to applaud my alma mater for helping procure the Tinker Mountain Easement.
9. The photo above is Governor Kaine talking to Hollins University President Nancy Gray.
10. Governor Kaine wants to preserve 400,000 acres of Virginia land during his four years in office.
11. So far, just over 100,000 has been preserved and he has three years to go.
12. Conservation easements are hard to sell to the old farmers.
13. That means that land like what you see below will probably one day be sprouting houses instead of crops.
1) Conservation easements are supposed to protect special large tracts of land.
2) About 235 acres of this mountain was preserved in 2006. This is Tinker Mountain, and this wooded land is part of the Carvin's Cove watershed.
3. Carvins Cove, for those who don't know, is where the City of Roanoke gets it water.
4. The water comes from Tinker Creek, which Annie Dillard made famous in her book, A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.
5. Tinker Creek allegedly orginates, at least in part, on our farm from a spring which flows into two ponds.
6. Others have it orginating on land behind us, property that is now a subdivison.
7. Regardless, the streams which run together to form Tinker Creek have no name that I'm aware of.
8. On Tuesday, Virginia Governor Tim Kaine appeared at Hollins University to applaud my alma mater for helping procure the Tinker Mountain Easement.
9. The photo above is Governor Kaine talking to Hollins University President Nancy Gray.
10. Governor Kaine wants to preserve 400,000 acres of Virginia land during his four years in office.
11. So far, just over 100,000 has been preserved and he has three years to go.
12. Conservation easements are hard to sell to the old farmers.
13. That means that land like what you see below will probably one day be sprouting houses instead of crops.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Press Release: Harvesting Veggies
NEWS RELEASE
For Immediate Release
1,000 VOLUNTEERS NEEDED
TO HARVEST VEGETABLES
One thousand volunteers are being recruited by the Volunteer Farm near Woodstock to harvest tons of vegetables from 28 acres to help feed some 100,000 hungry Virginians served monthly by the Blue Ridge Area Food Bank in 25 counties and nine cities.
“Before they rot in the fields, we must gather cantaloupe, onions, potatoes, sweet potatoes, and watermelons, and get them on the plates of our hungry neighbors,” said Bob Blair, CEO of the non-profit farm. “We need churches, civic organizations, schools, businesses, and families to send us volunteers to work about 4 hours in the mornings. We especially need help during weekday mornings, since the veggies are maturing each day.”
Volunteers can sign-up online at the Farm’s web: www.VolunteerFarm.Org. The “Calendar” shows the planned work for each day, number of volunteers needed, number already registered, thus showing the short falls. The web also provides directions to the farm, liability waiver, and background information.
For Immediate Release
1,000 VOLUNTEERS NEEDED
TO HARVEST VEGETABLES
One thousand volunteers are being recruited by the Volunteer Farm near Woodstock to harvest tons of vegetables from 28 acres to help feed some 100,000 hungry Virginians served monthly by the Blue Ridge Area Food Bank in 25 counties and nine cities.
“Before they rot in the fields, we must gather cantaloupe, onions, potatoes, sweet potatoes, and watermelons, and get them on the plates of our hungry neighbors,” said Bob Blair, CEO of the non-profit farm. “We need churches, civic organizations, schools, businesses, and families to send us volunteers to work about 4 hours in the mornings. We especially need help during weekday mornings, since the veggies are maturing each day.”
Volunteers can sign-up online at the Farm’s web: www.VolunteerFarm.Org. The “Calendar” shows the planned work for each day, number of volunteers needed, number already registered, thus showing the short falls. The web also provides directions to the farm, liability waiver, and background information.
Books: A list for the library
I cleared out my bookshelves. I have many books which are musty and therefore must leave me because they make me sneeze. Others are books I have read but simply don't care to keep anymore.
These books were donated to the library Monday:
Eating Well for Optimum Health
by Andrew Weil, MD
2.5 stars
The 8-Week Cholesterol Cure
by Robert Kowalski
2.5 stars
Dr. Atkins New Diet Revolution
by Robert C. Atkins, M.D.
4 stars
One Meal at a Time
By Martin Katahn, Ph.D.
2 stars
Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott
5 stars
Stories
by O. Henry
3.5 stars
The Ruins of California
by Martha Sherrill
3.5 stars
Still Water Saints
By Alex Espinoza
The Great Far Away
By Joan Frank
Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close
By Jonathan Safran Foer
Spring and Fall
by Nicholas DelBanco
The following books, also leaving here, I've never read. Either I just couldn't get into them, bought them and then forgot about them, or they were given to me, sent to me to review, or added to my "to read" pile and I just never touched them because they didn't appeal to me when I finally started digging into the pile. One of them, The Once and Future King, I'd really like to read but the book's too musty for me now. Allergies really are a pain.
Winter Rose by Patricia A. McKillip
The Emerald Swan, by Jane Feather
Heart Breaker, by Karen Robards
Firebird, by Janice Graham
Woman of the Frontier, by Zane Grey
Storm Warning, by Mercedes Lackey
Night-Threads, by Ru Emerson
The Once and Future King, by T. H. White
The Big Girls, by Susanna Moore
Ghost Dancer, by John Case
These books were donated to the library Monday:
Eating Well for Optimum Health
by Andrew Weil, MD
2.5 stars
The 8-Week Cholesterol Cure
by Robert Kowalski
2.5 stars
Dr. Atkins New Diet Revolution
by Robert C. Atkins, M.D.
4 stars
One Meal at a Time
By Martin Katahn, Ph.D.
2 stars
Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott
5 stars
Stories
by O. Henry
3.5 stars
The Ruins of California
by Martha Sherrill
3.5 stars
Still Water Saints
By Alex Espinoza
The Great Far Away
By Joan Frank
Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close
By Jonathan Safran Foer
Spring and Fall
by Nicholas DelBanco
The following books, also leaving here, I've never read. Either I just couldn't get into them, bought them and then forgot about them, or they were given to me, sent to me to review, or added to my "to read" pile and I just never touched them because they didn't appeal to me when I finally started digging into the pile. One of them, The Once and Future King, I'd really like to read but the book's too musty for me now. Allergies really are a pain.
Winter Rose by Patricia A. McKillip
The Emerald Swan, by Jane Feather
Heart Breaker, by Karen Robards
Firebird, by Janice Graham
Woman of the Frontier, by Zane Grey
Storm Warning, by Mercedes Lackey
Night-Threads, by Ru Emerson
The Once and Future King, by T. H. White
The Big Girls, by Susanna Moore
Ghost Dancer, by John Case
Monday, August 13, 2007
A new experience
I know the city dwellers will laugh at me, but last night we ordered pizza. And had it delivered.
This is a first. My first time ever having pizza delivered. I've gone for 44 years without having pizza brought to my door.
It is also rather sad because it is a good indicator of how close in the city has come to the country. We are now within delivery distance of pizza.
I can remember when there was nothing in Botetourt to speak of. The Cavalier Burger and Big-T. That was in the 1970s. Then came Pizza Hut along about 1979 or 1980. Then McDonalds, Burger King, Hardees . . . on it goes, the homogenization of the country. We now look just like every other area of the nation.
One big shopping mall and a McDs. Bye bye, county that I love. You're losing your identity just as sure as the sun sets and the moon is in the nighttime sky.
This is a first. My first time ever having pizza delivered. I've gone for 44 years without having pizza brought to my door.
It is also rather sad because it is a good indicator of how close in the city has come to the country. We are now within delivery distance of pizza.
I can remember when there was nothing in Botetourt to speak of. The Cavalier Burger and Big-T. That was in the 1970s. Then came Pizza Hut along about 1979 or 1980. Then McDonalds, Burger King, Hardees . . . on it goes, the homogenization of the country. We now look just like every other area of the nation.
One big shopping mall and a McDs. Bye bye, county that I love. You're losing your identity just as sure as the sun sets and the moon is in the nighttime sky.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Seeing Spots
These two fawns were in the backyard late last week; I shot the picture through the window in the garage. There were actually three babies out there, but I could not get the third one in the shot.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Still in Velvet
I shot this late yesterday afternoon as the sun was setting, using my Canon Powershot and the zoom. I had to creep around the side of the house and peer out from the corner.
This fellow seemed rather unconcerned about my antics, however. He posed quite nicely. It's not often you can catch them with the velvet still on their horns like this.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Books: Low Country
Low Country
By Anne Rivers Siddons
Audiobook Performed by Debra Monk
1998
I did not think I was going to enjoy this book when it began, but after a while I discovered I wanted to hear how it ended.
So after that slow start, things picked up. Caroline Venable is an artist who owns an island off South Carolina. Her husband is a wealthy plantation owner. They have one son, Carter, and a deceased daughter, Kylie.
Caroline has never gotten over her daughter's accidental death. She runs away to "her" island all the time. She drinks and paints. She also tends to some wild ponies and a black settlement called "Daybreak". This settlement is on her property but the folks have lived there for over 100 years and she doesn't ever plan to uproot them.
Then she learns her husband thinks otherwise. In order to save his fortune, he wants to turn her island into a resort.
Caroline then sets out to save what has become precious to her.
It's a tender story. I liked it.
3.25 stars
By Anne Rivers Siddons
Audiobook Performed by Debra Monk
1998
I did not think I was going to enjoy this book when it began, but after a while I discovered I wanted to hear how it ended.
So after that slow start, things picked up. Caroline Venable is an artist who owns an island off South Carolina. Her husband is a wealthy plantation owner. They have one son, Carter, and a deceased daughter, Kylie.
Caroline has never gotten over her daughter's accidental death. She runs away to "her" island all the time. She drinks and paints. She also tends to some wild ponies and a black settlement called "Daybreak". This settlement is on her property but the folks have lived there for over 100 years and she doesn't ever plan to uproot them.
Then she learns her husband thinks otherwise. In order to save his fortune, he wants to turn her island into a resort.
Caroline then sets out to save what has become precious to her.
It's a tender story. I liked it.
3.25 stars
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Thursday Thirteen
Ways to stay cool:
1) stay in the air conditioning
2) eat ice-cold watermelon
3) swim in the pool
4) swim in the creek (don't swim in the ponds unless they get fresh water!)
5) go to the mall
6) drive around in the air-conditioned vehicle
7) sit with ice on your feet
8) drink cold drinks
9) put a cold wet towel on your head
10) find a shady spot with a breeze
11) use a fan
12) stand with your arms out wide away from your body so that nothing touches
13) walk around in your birthday suit. Not recommended in public.
1) stay in the air conditioning
2) eat ice-cold watermelon
3) swim in the pool
4) swim in the creek (don't swim in the ponds unless they get fresh water!)
5) go to the mall
6) drive around in the air-conditioned vehicle
7) sit with ice on your feet
8) drink cold drinks
9) put a cold wet towel on your head
10) find a shady spot with a breeze
11) use a fan
12) stand with your arms out wide away from your body so that nothing touches
13) walk around in your birthday suit. Not recommended in public.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Wilted
Around 2:30 p.m., my thermometer said 102 degrees in the shade.
I happened to go outside and discovered my pansies had nearly given up the ghost from the heat.
A water hose to the rescue!
This is what they looked like several hours after I gave them a drink.
Tonight I watered all the plants around the house just as darkness fell. Roses, hen and chicks, snap dragons, marigolds, pansies, the garden - all received a drink. I think I could hear the sizzle as the water hit the leaves, because even at 9 p.m. it was still quite warm.
The air felt thick and stiff and off in the distance I heard a coyote howl. The hair on my arms stood up as I listened. In the woods I saw shadows of deer, their heads perked up and looking my way. I counted four before the shades vanished into the evening.
The garden yielded three ruby red tomatoes. They were warm and soft from the day's heat and I could smell them on my hands as I dropped them in my gathering bag. They were my only harvest on this day, for the zucchini has been mixed in its results, the yellow squash bloomed but gave nothing to eat, and the cucumbers seem done for the season already. The lettuce refused to head and instead went straight to seed.
All in all, not a good year for garden, but I have been grateful and happy for whatever we received. The cucumbers we did get were exceptionally good (so much better than anything in the store), and the tomatoes that managed to escape from the velvety lips of the deer have been sweet and succulent.
And now it's time to lay me down to sleep, so that my own wilted stalk can awaken refreshed in the morning.
Tonight I watered all the plants around the house just as darkness fell. Roses, hen and chicks, snap dragons, marigolds, pansies, the garden - all received a drink. I think I could hear the sizzle as the water hit the leaves, because even at 9 p.m. it was still quite warm.
The air felt thick and stiff and off in the distance I heard a coyote howl. The hair on my arms stood up as I listened. In the woods I saw shadows of deer, their heads perked up and looking my way. I counted four before the shades vanished into the evening.
The garden yielded three ruby red tomatoes. They were warm and soft from the day's heat and I could smell them on my hands as I dropped them in my gathering bag. They were my only harvest on this day, for the zucchini has been mixed in its results, the yellow squash bloomed but gave nothing to eat, and the cucumbers seem done for the season already. The lettuce refused to head and instead went straight to seed.
All in all, not a good year for garden, but I have been grateful and happy for whatever we received. The cucumbers we did get were exceptionally good (so much better than anything in the store), and the tomatoes that managed to escape from the velvety lips of the deer have been sweet and succulent.
And now it's time to lay me down to sleep, so that my own wilted stalk can awaken refreshed in the morning.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Wineberries
Colleen over at Loose Leaf Notes mentioned wineberries in today's entry.
I was immediately transported back to childhood.
Wineberries were the stuff of youth. My brother and I roamed the farm in search of those sweet yet tart berries.
They are some kind of wild raspberry, I suppose, but oh! so much better. Tangy and sweet and delicious. The berries are red and juicy and they draw your eye and then your hand and before you know it, that berry is in your mouth and you're drooling for the next one.
They grew wild down along a ravine near the lot where my parents kept horses. We weren't supposed to go there without an adult, because the horses, though tame, were quiet large compared to two small children.
Heedless of danger, we slipped through the fence and over to the berries. We carried a small dish, ostensibly to take some back home, but inevitably we ate twice as many as we took to my mother.
The berries peeled off the vine, leaving a yellow something behind. They were sticky and we never found enough of them for a pie or anything like that. They were definitely berries just for eating.
My mother did not know where we found the berries we brought back until one day we were out riding, my brother and I on a pony. He pointed to the ravine. "That's were we found the berries," he said.
Being the eldest, it was my responsibility to keep said brother out of trouble. Failing this, even though we were uninjured, I received a beating when we finished our ride.
The beating was for disobeying, I was told, and leading my brother astray.
Okay, so that memory turned a little rancid in the retelling... still, the berries were good. When I find them now, which is seldom, they never taste quite as sweet as they did then, when I was still young and innocent and a child of the 1970s.
I was immediately transported back to childhood.
Wineberries were the stuff of youth. My brother and I roamed the farm in search of those sweet yet tart berries.
They are some kind of wild raspberry, I suppose, but oh! so much better. Tangy and sweet and delicious. The berries are red and juicy and they draw your eye and then your hand and before you know it, that berry is in your mouth and you're drooling for the next one.
They grew wild down along a ravine near the lot where my parents kept horses. We weren't supposed to go there without an adult, because the horses, though tame, were quiet large compared to two small children.
Heedless of danger, we slipped through the fence and over to the berries. We carried a small dish, ostensibly to take some back home, but inevitably we ate twice as many as we took to my mother.
The berries peeled off the vine, leaving a yellow something behind. They were sticky and we never found enough of them for a pie or anything like that. They were definitely berries just for eating.
My mother did not know where we found the berries we brought back until one day we were out riding, my brother and I on a pony. He pointed to the ravine. "That's were we found the berries," he said.
Being the eldest, it was my responsibility to keep said brother out of trouble. Failing this, even though we were uninjured, I received a beating when we finished our ride.
The beating was for disobeying, I was told, and leading my brother astray.
Okay, so that memory turned a little rancid in the retelling... still, the berries were good. When I find them now, which is seldom, they never taste quite as sweet as they did then, when I was still young and innocent and a child of the 1970s.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Movie: Shenandoah
Shenandoah
1965
With Jimmy Stewart
We caught this old movie Friday night. Neither of us had ever seen it. I happened to have managed to be in charge of the remote for a time (this is unusual) and I stopped on it.
It's set not far from where I live, just up the valley. While I don't think it was filmed on location - that landscape certainly looked more Californian than Virginian to me - it was interesting to watch.
Charlie Anderson is a farmer who doesn't want to take sides in the Civil War. Then his youngest son is taken prisoner by a Yankee brigade. The movie really brought home how devastating war is on everyone, even those who want no part of it.
3.75 stars
1965
With Jimmy Stewart
We caught this old movie Friday night. Neither of us had ever seen it. I happened to have managed to be in charge of the remote for a time (this is unusual) and I stopped on it.
It's set not far from where I live, just up the valley. While I don't think it was filmed on location - that landscape certainly looked more Californian than Virginian to me - it was interesting to watch.
Charlie Anderson is a farmer who doesn't want to take sides in the Civil War. Then his youngest son is taken prisoner by a Yankee brigade. The movie really brought home how devastating war is on everyone, even those who want no part of it.
3.75 stars
Dead man talking
I found the following article online this morning and thought some of it quite profound. The fourth estate, as I grew up thinking of our newspapers, is pretty much gone and is only a puppet of government or corporations or both. It definitely is a slave to capitalism and not the muckracking, truth-telling, news-gathering expose it ought to be. The larger papers in particular often leave me wondering where the real news is and whose toes are being protected.
Because it certainly isn't yours or mine.
From the Illinois Times
POSTED ON AUGUST 2, 2007:
Dead man talking
I have seen the past, and it works
By Roland Klose
As a young reporter, Lincoln Steffens learned that successful police officers had a somewhat ambiguous relationship to the law. Here’s how it worked in some New York City precincts in the late 19th century: Criminal syndicates did a thriving business in age-old vices (gambling, prostitution, thievery) and the police protected them, as long as they stayed within certain limits. If rich man lost his wallet to pickpocket, a detective would call in a favor from his criminal associates, the victim’s goods were returned, and the cop looked like a crime-solving genius. ...
... For Steffens, a college-educated naïf, learning how some cops worked their beats helped launch him on a lifelong quest to understand the difference between the righteous and the sinners.
Eventually he’d write “The Shame of the Cities,” a magazine series about municipal corruption that made him famous. . . .
... I’m fascinated by Steffens and the other muckrakers of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, who showed what an aggressive, independent press could do. ...
... Steffens started his career, like many journalists, just plain curious about how things work. And he believed, as have many idealists, that simply exposing evil would be enough to kill it, like sunlight on mold. So he went about the business of exposing corruption and its consequences, and he named names....
... The idea that corruption was an urban phenomenon faded as he probed state governments. The belief that business was somehow more ethical or efficient than politics evaporated when reform-minded good-government businessmen took charge of cities and things became worse. ...
... On Wall Street, company presidents did not control — they were puppets of such tycoons as J.P. Morgan. In cities, it wasn’t the mayor who governed; he was a creature of the local political boss. And so it went with governors and congressmen and presidents and, yes, even newspaper editors and publishers.
Steffens recounted what he told one boss about political corruption: “It is not a temporary evil, not an accidental wickedness, not a passing symptom of the youth of a people. It is a natural process by which a democracy is made gradually into a plutocracy” — government of the people becomes government for the wealthy. ...
Steffens represents modern American journalism at its start, a time of hellraising and optimism and discovery.
Sometimes I feel as though I’m witnessing the end.
Newspapers where I spent most of my adult life are circling the drain — the consequence of years of betrayal by owners who sucked ungodly profits from their operations. Most news organizations today are gripped by fear; if they’re not cutting back, they’re selling out.....
Because it certainly isn't yours or mine.
From the Illinois Times
POSTED ON AUGUST 2, 2007:
Dead man talking
I have seen the past, and it works
By Roland Klose
As a young reporter, Lincoln Steffens learned that successful police officers had a somewhat ambiguous relationship to the law. Here’s how it worked in some New York City precincts in the late 19th century: Criminal syndicates did a thriving business in age-old vices (gambling, prostitution, thievery) and the police protected them, as long as they stayed within certain limits. If rich man lost his wallet to pickpocket, a detective would call in a favor from his criminal associates, the victim’s goods were returned, and the cop looked like a crime-solving genius. ...
... For Steffens, a college-educated naïf, learning how some cops worked their beats helped launch him on a lifelong quest to understand the difference between the righteous and the sinners.
Eventually he’d write “The Shame of the Cities,” a magazine series about municipal corruption that made him famous. . . .
... I’m fascinated by Steffens and the other muckrakers of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, who showed what an aggressive, independent press could do. ...
... Steffens started his career, like many journalists, just plain curious about how things work. And he believed, as have many idealists, that simply exposing evil would be enough to kill it, like sunlight on mold. So he went about the business of exposing corruption and its consequences, and he named names....
... The idea that corruption was an urban phenomenon faded as he probed state governments. The belief that business was somehow more ethical or efficient than politics evaporated when reform-minded good-government businessmen took charge of cities and things became worse. ...
... On Wall Street, company presidents did not control — they were puppets of such tycoons as J.P. Morgan. In cities, it wasn’t the mayor who governed; he was a creature of the local political boss. And so it went with governors and congressmen and presidents and, yes, even newspaper editors and publishers.
Steffens recounted what he told one boss about political corruption: “It is not a temporary evil, not an accidental wickedness, not a passing symptom of the youth of a people. It is a natural process by which a democracy is made gradually into a plutocracy” — government of the people becomes government for the wealthy. ...
Steffens represents modern American journalism at its start, a time of hellraising and optimism and discovery.
Sometimes I feel as though I’m witnessing the end.
Newspapers where I spent most of my adult life are circling the drain — the consequence of years of betrayal by owners who sucked ungodly profits from their operations. Most news organizations today are gripped by fear; if they’re not cutting back, they’re selling out.....
Saturday, August 04, 2007
On Salem
Today I had occasion to drive through Salem as I ventured from Tanglewood to Richfield. I did some (very) early morning shopping, scoring nice bargains, before heading to visit my Great Aunt Susie at the retirement home.
I drove down East Riverside Drive. This road runs along the Roanoke River. It is not as wild-looking as it was when I was child. Then there were more trees.
My grandmother until 1992 lived across from the river in a house which still stands and remains occupied. Several of the homes have been torn down and the rest are supposed to be, I think, because they are flooded out frequently.
My grandmother's house flooded badly in 1972, during Hurricane Agnes and in 1985. It flooded one other time but I don't remember the event. Hurricane Camille, perhaps?
Anyway, the house looked much smaller than I remember. It is only about 1,000 square feet - not much for raising six children. But I have most of my fondest childhood memories storied in that house.
Grandma rocking me. Playing with superhero dolls (I was never much on girly baby dolls, I liked to play with Johnny West and GI Joe and when the superhero dolls like Wonderwoman came out, I adored those).
During the summer my grandmother would walk us up to downtown Salem. Salem them actually looked like a small town, not a junk heap like it does now (I know Salemites have great pride in their town, but honestly, looking in from the outside, it isn't what it used to be).
We'd go to Brooks Byrd Pharmacy for a snowcone. Yum. Then we'd tour Newberry's, which was a precursor to Walmart, I guess. A five and dime. It was the most delicious place, full of toys and smells. We'd spend our quarter (or 50 cents) on something like a balsam wood glider airplane (though I always liked the ones with a propeller) or a paddleball. When they started making "monster models" we all bought those and filled the basement with tiny plastic replicas of Dracula and the Wolfman.
There was a cafeteria uptown somewhere (Tarpley's, maybe? or was it Newberry's, too?) and if we were *very* good we could have pie or pudding. On the walk back, we'd stop off at various relatives and chat.
Because my grandmother's family, you see, pretty much owned a lot of Salem at one time, including the land where the hospital sits, some generations back. Or so I have been told. I don't know where the money went, but the relatives are there all over the place.
I enjoyed my drive down East Riverside Drive. I liked remembering, especially since it's not been so long since my grandmother's funeral.
It was a little like going to see her. I can almost feel her eyes on me and hear her voice calling to me in greeting, saying, "It's my granddaughter! You've made my day."
I drove down East Riverside Drive. This road runs along the Roanoke River. It is not as wild-looking as it was when I was child. Then there were more trees.
My grandmother until 1992 lived across from the river in a house which still stands and remains occupied. Several of the homes have been torn down and the rest are supposed to be, I think, because they are flooded out frequently.
My grandmother's house flooded badly in 1972, during Hurricane Agnes and in 1985. It flooded one other time but I don't remember the event. Hurricane Camille, perhaps?
Anyway, the house looked much smaller than I remember. It is only about 1,000 square feet - not much for raising six children. But I have most of my fondest childhood memories storied in that house.
Grandma rocking me. Playing with superhero dolls (I was never much on girly baby dolls, I liked to play with Johnny West and GI Joe and when the superhero dolls like Wonderwoman came out, I adored those).
During the summer my grandmother would walk us up to downtown Salem. Salem them actually looked like a small town, not a junk heap like it does now (I know Salemites have great pride in their town, but honestly, looking in from the outside, it isn't what it used to be).
We'd go to Brooks Byrd Pharmacy for a snowcone. Yum. Then we'd tour Newberry's, which was a precursor to Walmart, I guess. A five and dime. It was the most delicious place, full of toys and smells. We'd spend our quarter (or 50 cents) on something like a balsam wood glider airplane (though I always liked the ones with a propeller) or a paddleball. When they started making "monster models" we all bought those and filled the basement with tiny plastic replicas of Dracula and the Wolfman.
There was a cafeteria uptown somewhere (Tarpley's, maybe? or was it Newberry's, too?) and if we were *very* good we could have pie or pudding. On the walk back, we'd stop off at various relatives and chat.
Because my grandmother's family, you see, pretty much owned a lot of Salem at one time, including the land where the hospital sits, some generations back. Or so I have been told. I don't know where the money went, but the relatives are there all over the place.
I enjoyed my drive down East Riverside Drive. I liked remembering, especially since it's not been so long since my grandmother's funeral.
It was a little like going to see her. I can almost feel her eyes on me and hear her voice calling to me in greeting, saying, "It's my granddaughter! You've made my day."
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Random Quotes
From pages 18 in nearby magazines, books, and papers, the sentence dealing with line 22:
"In many cases, there were duplicate services being offered less than two miles away from each other." - OurHealth magazine, July/August 2007 edition (actually page 19, as 18 was a visual ad).
"Bethesda MD 20814" - The Fincastle Herald, newspaper, Aug. 1, 2007 edition
"Sprinkle a little kitty litter in your ashtrays to help absorb the smokey smell from extinguished cigarettes." - All You magazine Aug. 3 edition
"Purchase will not improve your chances of winning. Sweepstakes open to legal residents age 21 and older of hte U.S., its territories and posessions." - Reader's Digest, magazine, August 2007.
"A gym shoe was used to administer punishment INFLICT, mete out, deal out, deliver" - Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus
"Those wanting to go southward took the Carolina Road which follows somewhat the present U.S. Route No. 220." - A Seedbed of the Republic
***
None of the above has anything to do with anything, except all of these books were within an arm's reach of my desk.
"In many cases, there were duplicate services being offered less than two miles away from each other." - OurHealth magazine, July/August 2007 edition (actually page 19, as 18 was a visual ad).
"Bethesda MD 20814" - The Fincastle Herald, newspaper, Aug. 1, 2007 edition
"Sprinkle a little kitty litter in your ashtrays to help absorb the smokey smell from extinguished cigarettes." - All You magazine Aug. 3 edition
"Purchase will not improve your chances of winning. Sweepstakes open to legal residents age 21 and older of hte U.S., its territories and posessions." - Reader's Digest, magazine, August 2007.
"A gym shoe was used to administer punishment INFLICT, mete out, deal out, deliver" - Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus
"Those wanting to go southward took the Carolina Road which follows somewhat the present U.S. Route No. 220." - A Seedbed of the Republic
***
None of the above has anything to do with anything, except all of these books were within an arm's reach of my desk.
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