tidbits

I have no theme by which to organize my post. I do, however, have small things to show and tell. (perhaps there is a unifying theme you could come up with...)

First, we found some serious scat on the trail in our woods. Buddy was terrified and I was fascinated. As you can see, I pulled out my uber-dorky scat guide to assess (and measure) the findings. Based on the size and hairiness, my guess is coyote.

Next in the animal kingdom... we were really excited to see bumble bees in the garden this morning. I was even happier when I got a good photo.


Finally, one of the best garden-breakfasts to date was our scrambled eggs on corn tortillas with salsa fresca. yum!

We're Gonna Make it Afterall

I have recently found this website where every single episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show (and many, many other tv shows) is available to watch online. This makes me very, very happy. Watching Mary Tyler Moore feels like returning to the womb. It is, along with M*A*S*H, an experience of deep cultural familiarity; it is a show that was, quite literally, the background noise to my very earliest years, and, then, of course, there is Rhoda.

If you haven't ever seen MTM you can't fully know the power of performance and character that is Rhoda Morgenstern (played by Valerie Harper). She is Mary's loud, Jewish, not-thin, upstairs neighbor with chutzpah. She is the one with thick thighs (such a relief after watching stick-thin Mary prance around in mini-skirts) who suggests that she and "Mare" become members of a social club for divorced people (even thought they are not divorced) in order to a) meet single men and b) get cheap plane tickets to Europe. Rhoda is the female sidekick prototype for television in the last quarter of the 20th century; Rhoda is brassy and insecure, and oh how I love her.

The show aired in 1970 -- five years before I was born. It only ran until 1977, so my claim to MTM as the womb of my childhood is curious and ahistorical. Of course my mom watched the show when I was little (and even, I imagine, when I was in utero). But there is also the fact that The Mary Tyler Moor Show reminds me of the women in my family. I look at pictures from the 70s of my Aunt Kathy in her head scarves and hoop earrings, and I remember my mother's MTM-esque black, leather, knee-high boots, her forays into yoga and wheat grass, and I recall stories of my grandmother, gorgeous, thin, and recently divorced, living in New York and fighting off many suitors while she pursued her own career, and I realize that the show resonates as a cultural template and reflection of a cultural moment; my mom, grandma and aunt are my Mary, Rhoda, and Phyllis.

recently overheard

Me: "Rhonda, if you had a big machine in the kitchen that provided unlimited Culver's frozen custard, do you think you would get fat?"

Rhonda: [Long pause]

Me: "Are you gonna answer me? 'Cause I know you, and sometimes you refuse to answer my hypothetical questions."

Rhonda: "I'm thinking." [Long pause.]

Rhonda: "Would it be free?"

Me: [wild laughter]


And this, my friend, is the quintessential difference between Rhonda and me. I would never even ask that question as I would be too busy drooling about the imminent possibility of a lifetime supply of creamy, rich deliciousness.

And here is how the conversation concluded.

Me: "I think I would eat so much of it for a long time and then eventually get kinda sick of eating it. But then I would get into it again. I think I would get really, really fat."

Rhonda: "Hmmm. Well, I kinda think I would like knowing that I could have it at any time, and I wouldn't need to eat that much of it. A few spoons-full after dinner every day. Mmmmmm!"

Me: [Shooting Rhonda a contemptuous look that cannot be defined in works]

garden bliss and other fallacies of "the good life"

I know that I have a tendency to write about all of the charmed loveliness of our new lives in the North Woods of Wisconsin as though everyone who is not us is living in a slightly less-perfect world than ours. It is, after all, a good story: two city girls move to the country, find the warm embrace of new friends and neighbors, work hard on their old house, and grow a big lush garden. All is well. Heaven on Earth. Green Acres. Rural Lesbian Utopia. yada yada yada.

While most of what I say is true -- I have inherited my grandmother's tendency to exaggerate for the benefit of a good story -- there are so many ways that we struggle. One of the big struggles is ongoing frustration and uncertainty about the garden. We worry a lot, and have a persistent sense that WE HAVE NO IDEA WHAT WE ARE DOING. Yesterday was exemplary in terms of Amy and Rhonda garden frustration; this is not just a deep sigh of frustration. This is this-sucks-so-much-I-would-rather-be-working -the-night-shift-at-Walmart kind of frustration.

Yesterday we did our usual morning walk-about only to find that both of the beds of chard (which we have carefully weeded, fertilized, re-seeded, etc) look like warm death; all of the plants are wilty, some have been de-rooted and are completely dead, and those that survive have been eaten by bugs. Mind you, this is one of the plants that "experts" say will grow anywhere, has no predators, survives over and under watering... so our chard disaster is even more frustrating. One of the most-coveted things we anticipate growing here are leafy greens. You cannot get chard, kale, greens (mustard, collards, etc) for at least 60 miles. We miss and crave these deep-green veggies, and hope to have a bountiful crop to sustain us over the winter.



One of two devastated chard boxes.






Added to this frustration and disappointment is the fact that it seems we haven't yet really gotten that much of anything else to eat out of this garden. There was lots of arrugula for a while, and now we have daily spinach. But the few zucchini, peas, and radishes have been small in quantity -- hardly enough to fulfill my vision of "putting up" loads and loads of veggies for the winter. It is an awful lot of work for not that much food, and, as of yesterday, I was ready to pack it all in.

Since then I have regained perspective, and apologized to the garden deities offended by my cursing. I know that there will be a time -- in about a month -- when we will have more tomatoes, beans, zucchini, cucumbers, and onions than we will be able to handle. However, in the meantime, this whole gardening thing feels deeply imperfect and highly questionable.

To see a more complete picture of the state of the garden, check out the photos uploaded today at my flikr site.

Strawberries

I went to Berryland on Sunday morning, before collecting R up from the airport, and picked 20lbs of strawberries. It was such a fun thing, and 20lbs of berries for 24 bucks is amazing. Even more amazing is the smell, taste, and sight of fresh-picked berries.


We now have three quart bags of frozen berries, five pints of berry jam (including one rhubarb, cinammon, strawberry), and a week's worth of homemade strawberry shortcake.



YUM!

the toad obsession continues

We lost a large branch to lightening last night. I went to check it out this morning and found this guy happily perched among the branches.

Buddy Behaving Badly

I have been spending my days and nights with a crafty beast who seems to think that Rhonda's absence means anything goes. He has barked nonstop at the squirrels; this is not an unusual behavior, but is marked by a drastic increase in pitch and repetition in the past days. He has also taken to doing strange things that he would NEVER even attempt if Rhonda were around.

the pictures tell all.









I told him that if he keeps it up, I am going to the animal shelter to trade him in for a cat.

the long, true story of my life with toads

I want to tell you the long, true story of my life with toads.

This spring and summer I have developed an intense and complex relationship to Bufo americanus -- the American Toad. We have many of them. And they live all over our acre of open grass. So, when I mow, I am inevitably almost-mowing toads all of the time. I have evidence that I have mowed at least one toad -- I found a toad limb in the mower's bagger after I was done mowing. Given that I was the Girl Scout who staged a teary intervention when my sister-scouts took to squashing daddy long-legs, I have developed a deep concern for the fate of the toad.

My solution has been to stage what I call the Toad Relocation Project. The site for their relocation has been the garden, where I imagined the toads would be safe from the blades of our lawn devices while enjoying leisurely life among the plants. I was encouraged by Dan who kept saying, in his slight New England brogue, "ah, yes, toads are GOOD for the garden." Imagine my delight when we discovered that this was not just a generalized good (like good karma) but that they actually eat the pests we were trying to rid ourselves of.

I diligently watch for toads while mowing, and even make a pre-mow walk-through to secure the lawn. I have carried at least thirty toads into the garden in the past months, picking them up carefully, stroking their little rugged backs, talking to them as I walk them to the garden. You are going to a better place, Mr. Toad. You will be very happy in Gardenland.

Before I go further, I should say that the similarities of my behavior and that of, say, Roosevelt issuing internment orders for Japanese Americans, is not lost on me. I have spent a lot of time this summer thinking about the management of populations. Whether it is while I am collecting and drowning cucumber beetles, moving toads from one place to another, or removing "invasive species" plants from our woods, I am disturbed by the human desire to choreograph the life and death of species. There is no place where this is more evident than in my relationship to toads. As I carry them across the expansive lawn, remove them from their families and homes, promising them that I know what is best for their well-being, I am deeply troubled by the underlying meaning of it all. And yet, I keep telling myself, toads are not humans, and I am not Hitler.

And this nagging worry about the implications of my Toad Relocation Project came to a head on Saturday. I was working on securing the outside perimeter of our garden, and re-attaching the fine, mesh netting we used to create our fence. As I bent down to the ground to tuck the fabric close to the post, I noticed a little reptilian-esque face staring up at me. I began to scream one of those short, loud screams that means utter panic and freaked-out-ness. I looked again at what I thought was a snake preparing to pounce, only to realize that what I was looking at was a very dead, shriveled, but fully preserved toad carcass. The toad, in an attempt to escape Gardenland, had become stuck in the netting and could not get out. This toad was big and fat (his shrunken carcass was still bigger than most of our other toads); one can only assume that this guy couldn't get through and died from starvation and dehydration in the hot summer sun.

There is not enough room here to explain the deep psychological disturbance caused by my finding of the toad. I felt guilty and sad and really sick to my stomach. It helped that I was not alone in the garden. After I cut the poor dead soul out of the fence, Andrew came over and, in true 13-year-old-boyness said "Wow. Cool!" Dan echoed Andrew's response, while Rhonda, perceiving my distress, looked me in the face and said, "Amy. Toads die." Andrew promptly named the critter Norbert, and suggested that we keep him in a box and show him to all our friends. Buddy seemed to think he might want to eat Norbert, but I decided to photograph him. One might think it perverse that sensitive-girl then turns to photographing her sad, dead, toad, but I like to think of it as some kind of healing. Coming to terms with the fact that toads do die, and this one died in a pretty spectacular way. And, it was just one toad. As I watered the garden in the early morning, I saw many toads hopping between boxes and sitting under plants. Many toads are still in the garden while others (those skinnier than Norbert) have successfully escaped.


Norbert now lives in our sun room where he enjoys life among houseplants and a view of the big bad world.