At Bywater Lane—helping a bit with prep for the Sunday shower.
Speaking of showers, a little lake effect snow.
Tentative layout (on the rug) of one group of photos needing to be hung.
Will's "Leaning Tower" — all the way to 5 feet before toppling.
...to accomplish all the morning's worthy objectives. (Not much daylight anymore, either.)
However, Pax and I got in our first "big loop" walk (including two "obstructing dog" detours) since getting back from Manitoulin. We both felt good before, during, and after the walk. It was a perfect day for walking—invigorating north wind, and a dappled sky replete with flocks of sandhills getting an almost free ride south.
And, the garden got its fall tilling, with fall, as we now know, being the right time for tillering. Ice and snow, and frost and thaw, will finish the job, and it should be an excellent seedbed come May. (Will 22 quarts of pickled beets be gone by then?)
And, the iceboat trailer is 100% done, although with the temperature so low the paint won't dry.
Below freezing even before sunset. With the sky now completely clear, it's going to be a long, cold night—which is what you want when you have a finished iceboat trailer.
Perhaps not totally.
Joan Didion says: "I suppose I am talking about just that: the ambiguity of belonging to a generation distrustful of political highs, the historical irrelevancy of growing up convinced that the heart of darkness lay not in some error of social organization but in man’s own blood.”
But does it? Given even just the recent news, one might ask, "what are we as a species?"
Perhaps she is right. Personally, I think social organization is the way to go—but carefully. No bolshevism, no fascism, no Saudi style totalitarianism. No FoxNewsism.
It seems to me the Scandinavian countries have found a way—thinking together to develop a program that makes life as good as possible for every citizen. (But perhaps I'm naive.)
Will we eventually be able to do that here?
When we did stupid things.
The other day I encountered (or imagined) a smell that brought back memories. So I sent an email to John entitled, "What Was That Stuff?"
For some reason yesterday I smelled a smell that brought back memories. An odd smell, close to unpleasant, but actually attractive.
The smell I remember came from some kind of rubbery/plastically substance that we used to roll into little balls, into which we stuck tiny straws in order to blow out big rubbery balloons.The balloons had great texture, and if one ever developed a hole you could just pinch it closed.
Probably double-hydrogenated plutonium???
Can you help me out?
John wrote back with a link:
Super Elastic Bubble Plastic was the brand name for a children's toy manufactured from the 1970s through the 80s by Wham-O. It consisted of a tube of viscous plastic substance and a thin straw used to blow semi-solid bubbles. A pea-sized amount of liquid plastic was squeezed from the tube and made into a tiny ball. One end of the straw was then inserted into the ball, and the user would blow into the other end, inflating the plastic into a bubble. The bubble could then be removed from the straw by pinching the hole closed, sealing the air inside.
And...
Chemically, the bubbles contained polyvinyl acetate dissolved in acetone, with ethyl acetate plastic fortifiers added. The acetone evaporated upon bubble inflation leaving behind a solid plastic film.
One of those toxic chemicals had a memorable awful/alluring aroma. And, if I'm not mistaken, we would sometime chew a wad of the stuff.
Of course, we also played with liquid mercury, rubbing it on our fingers. And we were quite unrestrained in our use of cherry-bombs (which we were quite sure worked under water), actually setting one off in the laundry tub in a friend's basement. Needless to say, the only thing left after that experiment was a huge puddle littered with bits of concrete.
Somehow, some of us survived childhood.
Perhaps a record. A lot of work, but now unlimited beets and cottage cheese until just about this time next year.
Some jars not pictured.
One of those somewhat magical mornings when, after a hard frost, the maples let their leaves loose.
I stand quietly under a maple in the still cold air, and let the leaves flutter down around me (Pax is busy elsewhere). Scores drop every minute, and how the tree decides which go when is beyond my understanding. Then, a slight zephyr sends scores fluttering down every second. In an hour or two the tree, mostly bare, stands on the center of a thick and colorful carpet. It's a sight to behold.
Playing with kids and helping with odd jobs.
We tried...but were eventually overwhelmed. Hundreds of little beets, scores of medium-sized ones, and dozens on the biggish side.
All had to be washed several times and in various ways. Then boiled until soft. Then peeled. Then trimmed and sliced. With this many beets, a process with this many steps takes time. But we plodded along, and all was well...until Slicing Sue dumped two big soup pots-full of boiling beet water down the drain. The first potful took a while to gurgle away, but the second potful drained instantly—and then began running out over her shoes.
This heavy shot of hot water had released the P-trap gasket (and associated piping), and we had a leak—a leak with bloody beet water—swamping the kitchen rug and dripping down to redecorate the laundry room below.
Of course we took everything in stride, but we did experience a temporal setback, and by by four p.m. we came to realize that the entire pickling and canning process might well last into the wee hours of the night.
That's when discretion became the better part of valor, and pickling beets became a two day event.
Tonight, the mini-fridge in the basement is chock full of sliced and boiled beets while the upstairs fridge has zippy-bagged sliced onions sticking out the top of the salad crisper. Gallons of apple cider vinegar line the wall, and the kitchen countertops are covered by Ball jars, lids, and screw-on tops.
Today was also homecoming for UWW, so actually a good day to be inside getting beet up. Unfortunately for the college crowd, the day was dark, drizzly, and dismal. That dampened things a bit, but there was still plenty of noise—lots of shouting (which is what collegians do), and, of course, unlimited sirens.
Pretty good is good enough.
The trailer is 98.7% complete A few pieces of trim and then some paint...and that's it.
Starting early and running on low all day, a brisket in the Green Egg.
Partly cloudy, cool, but mostly pleasant. Pax was in the mood for speed again, and ran at least half of our (at least) two mile bike/run.
With a little rain now and then.
Sue off to Irene's big birthday bash; luckily Pax and I excused. Good opportunity for a locally sourced dinner—home grown butternut squash along with grilled peppers courtesy of the neighbors across the street.
Morning spent filing a "Chronic Nuisance" complaint (through our homeowner's association) on an obnoxious student rental in the neighborhood. Also an unnecessary eye doctor appointment. Afternoon better—work on the iceboat trailer, a nice long dog run/ride, and horn practice. Nap, too, of course.
Welcome to November. Thanks Julius and Augustus for inserting yourselves between June and September.
(N.B. September is special in that it's spelled with 7 different letters and 9 total letters -- numbers which correspond elegantly to both its root meaning and its calendar placement.)
Cool and cloudy, and now rainy.
Creatures are knocking at the door as dusk descends.
(Ray Bradbury would like this, but Halloween, like The Fourth of July, is not optimized for Paxton.)
Theme in Yellow
BY CARL SANDBURG
I spot the hills
With yellow balls in autumn.
I light the prairie cornfields
Orange and tawny gold clusters
And I am called pumpkins.
On the last of October
When dusk is fallen
Children join hands
And circle round me
Singing ghost songs
And love to the harvest moon;
I am a jack-o'-lantern
With terrible teeth
And the children know
I am fooling.
~~~~~~~~
Halloween Party
BY KENN NESBITT
We’re having a Halloween party at school.
I’m dressed up like Dracula. Man, I look cool!
I dyed my hair black, and I cut off my bangs.
I’m wearing a cape and some fake plastic fangs.
I put on some makeup to paint my face white,
like creatures that only come out in the night.
My fingernails, too, are all pointed and red.
I look like I’m recently back from the dead.
My mom drops me off, and I run into school
and suddenly feel like the world’s biggest fool.
The other kids stare like I’m some kind of freak—
the Halloween party is not till next week.
We added our truck and trailer to the fleet (of 2) moving vans that moved Irene's stuff from her little house on the prairie west of Elgin to her lovely new home in a fine neighborhood in South Elgin. Irene has lot of friends helping.
Bri and the kids down for the afternoon.
The major technical trailer hurdles were overcome, and construction almost completed. A fading backyard balsam was rendered into firewood for Bri's outdoor fireplace. Meanwhile, the kids, with Mimi's help, got to run the office, climb trees, hula-hoop, play at the park, etcetera.
The trailer may not look impressive, but it is revolutionary, and will surely be copied by multitudes of old people who no longer like lifting heavy things.
Hard freeze forecast for tonight, therefore time to harvest beets. Fifteen to twenty gallons of Beta vulgaris, many small because planted too close together (or left unwatered for a long dry month), but some of decent size. Still, overall, today's haul, made with frozen fingers through soggy gloves, should result in quite a few quarts of rather delicious (if you like this sort of thing) food.
Tonight, as part of dinner, "Pastel de Elote" from the family cookbook—recipe supplied by Mary Jane. Roughly translated the name means "corn cake." Here's another version (not quite so good) of the dish:
Actually cold today, with leaden skies and an insistent wind.
All nine screens employed over the summer (a relatively small percentage of windows in this house) were hauled down, lowered through exterior basement tornado door, and replaced by nine storm windows—which had to be hauled up (more like work), washed (a lot like work), and hoisted back up onto washed (a lot like work) windows that the screens formerly overlaid.
But, even though it was a lot like work, it is part of our annual fall ritual, and we (mostly) enjoyed it. Plus, on the plus side, conditions inside the house are more pleasant, and the furnace runs less frequently.
Actually glad to see that cold weather is still possible.
Not heavy, but enough to end the growing season.
Here's another memorization candidate:
(Important to remember that holiday gatherings are the time for declamation.)
The New Colossus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
—Emma Lazrus
Not bad for an untended garden—except I don't know what the little flat ones are. The seeds planted were all collected from last years's harvest (not store bought) so the little flat ones could be a former hybrid that has reverted back to some ancestral type. We'll have to see if they are edible.
Clear, calm, and cold today, gloriously bright after all the cloud. Good chance of frost tonight (only ten days late) so the rosemary bush has been brought onto the porch.
Attendance at the first annual Whitewater Grocery Company annual owner's meeting this evening, along with about about 200 other folks who are hoping for a quality store in town. Interesting table mates, including a beef and chicken farmer from nearby who hopes to sell through the store. We have arranged to visit her farm soon and then sign up for a beef, chicken, eggs subscription. Overall a surprisingly fun evening.
And what’s this with having to wear a coat?
But Pax loves it. On our ride/walk to the prairie this afternoon he wanted to run—galloping, stretched out, hell bent for leather. I don't think I've ever seen him run faster.
We did have lots of rain early on, and even something close to sleet, driven by a whipping wind. The chilly temps ultimately penetrated the house, causing the furnace to turn on for the first time this year.
So, time to put the storms on the windows that now have screens.
Pax says "think snow," but I reprimand him and say, "no, think ice."
West coast of Michigan and up through Manitoulin and onto the North Shore and into Georgian Bay—all getting clobbered by heavy rain. Manitoulin has a rain advisory and a wind advisory. Here in Whitewater we have a rain forecast and a wind advisory. (Did we pull the pier parts up high enough?)
So far today, however, calm, cloudy, and cool. Sue returned Buddy to his rightful home, while I did quite a bit of high level engineering (which consists of staring at the rudimentary ice boat trailer for long periods of time hoping an idea might occur).
I do get the feeling that Pax actually misses Buddy even though they are competitive eaters.
All day rain. Never heavy, but never ending. The ground is wet.
Sometimes a quiet, rainy Sunday feels just right—allowing for simple pastimes like reading and writing, sewing, practicing a musical instrument, taking a nap. For some reason, the television has not been on for weeks, perhaps because of news-weariness, perhaps because we have good books at hand and in the queue. For some reason, having the TV off right now feels just right.
“Who Says Trump and Poetry Are Incompatible?”
We know a poem can be maniacal, the best ones
Always unpredictable. Don’t poets sometimes rave?
Pound for example: profound, but mad as the Hatter,
And maybe a traitor. As for the tweets, if Dylan Thomas
Were still with us, might not he tweet his late-night sullen art?
Perhaps only poetry, after prose has failed us,
Is brave and big enough for this Trumpian time.
Think of Wordsworth, The world is too much with us,
Or Arnold: And we are here as on a darkling plain.
Dickinson would tell us to turn the TV off, the phone
And iPad too: The Soul selects her own Society.
Did Lewis Carroll’s Jabberwock foretell our president
Come whiffling through the tulgey wood, and burbling…
But if I had to choose one poem to give to him,
I’d give him Angelou: You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
—from the New York Times