Monkey Business

I recently watched Planet of the Apes, the 1968 version starring Charlton Heston. Somehow over the years, I had missed it, so decided it was about time. Parts of it seemed dated, and the acting was spotty, but, all in all, a good movie with some interesting messages. The idea that what we're doing to each other and the planet may cause us to devolve seems still relevant. There were amusing moments too, and one, in particular, made me laugh out loud.

Heston's character, Taylor, is an astronaut who travels 700 years into the future and crashes on this land run by apes who, seeing humans as a sub-species, imprison and enslave them. He, unlike the other humans, can talk. (I did wonder why he never questioned the fact that they speak English when he thinks they are from some other place in the universe, but I'll leave that question for another day). When he is put on trial before three orangutans who will decide his fate, he tries to tell them the truth of who he is and where he has been, but is immediately silenced because humans have no rights here. When he tries to speak the truth, we see a shot of the three orangutan judges, one with his hands over his eyes, one with his hands over his ears, one with his hands over his mouth--the classic "See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil."

I was reminded of this funny but telling scene this morning when I saw conservative personality Laura Ingraham's posting of a crowd cheering Donald Trump as he told a Telemundo reporter, "You're finished," when he pursued questioning him about his comments about Mexicans. Then I recalled hearing yesterday that Trump had refused press credentials to reporters from the Des Moines Register after they had printed a critical editorial about him. Now, the fact that candidates are in conflict with the press is nothing new, or even that they try to control access. What worries me is those who see his actions as something to applaud.

I am reminded of those orangutans who are more comfortable remaining ignorant than facing a truth they find uncomfortable. A free press--a truly free press--will, at times, expose us to uncomfortable truths, will make us angry, will cause us to want to turn it off--something I do habitually to Fox News, but, as Thomas Jefferson reminded us, “The only security of all is in a free press." If we are to make intelligent choices about who will lead us for the next four years, it's important that all the news gets out there. 

Gifts from the Hydrangea

I write often about the old hydrangea in my back yard because it is what I see from the window

Neighbor Antoine Helps
Clean Up After the Storm

Hydrangea 6-23-15

where I eat my breakfast, because it is old and persistent, and because it keeps offering me gifts. Early last winter a heavy snow storm weighed it down and brought it to the ground. I mourned because I thought I had lost it. Then this spring little green nubbins turned into
leaves, and it was back. It had lost some branches, but clearly it had survived the winter once again.

Yesterday I heard the familiar cheep of the cardinal, and as I walked around, I determined that it was coming from the hydrangea. A ruffle of leaves led me to look on the side near the driveway. I walked as close as I could, trying not to scare it off, and sure enough, there was a female cardinal hiding under the leaves. I was particularly glad to see it was a female, not because I don't love the bright color of her male counterpart, but because of her subtlety, I don't see her as often, and I like her muted colors.

Then this morning from my peripheral vision, I could see a commotion in the yard. I turned to see two squirrels chasing each other up the tulip tree and down, over the fence and back, and into the hydrangea. One went off out of my vision, but the other stayed on the ground below checking out what goodies had been left there--seeds from the tulip tree, I suspect.

At other times the hydrangea has offered me chickadees who made a home in a hole in the old branch, sparrows hiding from the blue jays, and, most amazingly, monarch butterflies whose life began hundreds of miles away. Before long the blossoms will come with their wonderful scent, and the bees will be busy again.

So this morning I am just stopping for a moment to be thankful for my old friend and all the gifts it has shared with me. 

Trees and Transition

When I moved into my house 33 years ago, there were two very large box elder trees in my back yard. I appreciated the shade, but before long there was a problem--box elder bugs. I soon learned that the two trees differed in that one was male, and one was female, and the seeds of the female attracted these pests. They did not appear to do damage to the tree, but as Wikipedia explains, "their congregation habits and excreta can annoy people." Yes, indeed, excreta can be annoying!

In the fall of the year they would swarm and cover the side of my house and Sunny's house next door. Sunny, a charming 90 something inveterate gardener, volunteered to pay to have the tree removed, but winter came, the bugs disappeared, and I forgot about them. That is until Easter Sunday when sitting around the dinner table with all my family, the bugs (who evidently had been hibernating in the cellar) woke up and started flying all over the room. This was not the way I intended to celebrate the resurrection!

OK, I gave in. The yard, after all, was really too small for two large trees, so I had the female tree removed. No more bugs. Well, no more box elder bugs. It wasn't long before I discovered that the other tree was infested with carpenter ants. Removing it became an issue of safety. So now I had a bare yard with no shade.

At Mulak's Nursery, Bonnie suggested a tulip tree would grow quickly and provide good shade, and soon the sapling was taking root in my yard.

She was right. It grew quickly, and the yard soon was shaded once more, and every spring it produces yellow "tulips." These were here this morning. I learned--once again from Wikipedia, source of all information--that the tree is related to the magnolia, and I can see the resemblance.

Today the tree towers above most of the others around. It took a beating in the October storm of 2011, yet it continues to stand and leaf and flower. 

Number Numbness

Hold on to this number

024-34-0812

and this number

413-782-0970

and this number

5466 1608 1345 2093

Make sure you don't lose them.

Numbers open everything.

Don't get them mixed up.

You cannot call home with your Social Security number.

You cannot charge a purchase with your cell phone number.

Numbers are very particular.

Even though there are only 10 digits,

they dance around

and jump over each other

and then jump back again,

and they expect you to remember

when and where they stop.

I am holding on to

 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 0,

but even though it looks like

123, 456, 890,

it's not.

Numbers are tricky like that,

and put in a dot

and everything changes.

On the first of January

we are expected to use a new number,

2015 instead of 2014

or is it twenty fifteen

which, technically is

two separate numbers.

I can't hold on to these numbers

they keep slipping out of my hands.

Life with Riley

Yesterday I presented the following at Trinity United Methodist Church's annual Blessing of the Animals service:

I brought Riley here today to be blessed, but I am here now to tell you how he has blessed me. When I retired from teaching, I thought about getting a dog, but then I thought of all the responsibility I'd be taking on. There were the daily feedings, the walks, the grooming, the vet appointments, and I like to travel. Who would take care of a dog when I was off on vacation? Didn’t I want to be free, to just relax and enjoy my retirement?

Then one day my friend Tony asked me to go with him to Thomas J. O'Connor's. That's where I met a very sad looking stray that had been picked up wandering the streets of Chicopee.  His entire body had been shaved, he was shaking all over, and was looking at us with very sad eyes, but Tony suggested we take him for a walk. Once outside his tail began wagging, and he seemed to come to life. That was it. I was in love. Any responsibilities that came along with this sweetie were fine with me.

In the nearly 13 years we've been together, Riley has blessed me in many ways. My day is brightened whenever I hear delighted cries of "Riley" from the kids at the Drama Studio, neighbors, friends here at Trinity, or anyone who's met him before. Riley has become Arlene Mackie’s “grand dog.” When I am traveling, that’s where you’ll usually find him¸ if not there, with Tami Seyler.

Someone else who was always happy to see Riley was Ginny Hooper. Ginny had been a friend of my mother's, so I had known her for years, but when, as part of Trinity's Pet Ministry, we began to visit her, Riley, in his own quiet way, brought us even closer. You see, when Riley comes to visit, he comes with no expectations, no demands, no agenda. He doesn’t even expect a treat. (he’s rather picky about those). With Ginny, and later with Gladys Ruggles, he simply offers himself up to be loved.

During our time together Riley has been at my side through the many highs and lows of my life. He was there when I was diagnosed with cancer, he was there when I signed the contract for my book, he has been with me on hundreds of walks in Forest Park, he was there with me at the bedside of a friend who was dying, and he was there when Trinity won the softball championship.

He's an old man now. He can't jump up on the sofa any more, he forgets to go out to pee, and he sleeps much more than he used to, but he is still my Riley, my blessing.

Camden Yards 4-29-15

What is it like to play baseball in a silent park

No peanut vendors calling out.

No warbly rendition of the national anthem.

No expletives hurled at the other team’s fans.

No boos at the umpire's call.

No cheers for the single from the new kid.

No gasp at the fast ball too close to the batter's helmet.

No 7th inning stretch with "Take Me Out to the Ball Game."

No applause for the pitcher exiting with a shutout.

No sounds at all

except maybe

the cries of anger and despair

from the streets of the city.

Cooking: It's Never Like it is With Giada

Ever since I stood beside my mother at the counter on Lancaster Street, I have enjoyed cooking. Living alone, I don't often try exotic recipes, but being a fan of Food TV, particularly Giada De Laurentiis, I get ideas for things I'd like to try, but it's even better when a friend serves something I enjoy and offers me the recipe. That's what happened recently when I complimented a friend on the squash soup she had made.

I looked over the neatly printed card she sent to see what I had on hand and what I needed at the store. I had some homemade chicken stock in the freezer, so I took it from its Zip lock bag and put it in a shallow dish on the counter next to the stove to thaw out overnight. The next morning there seemed to be a lot less stock in the bag. When Riley scooted by me to start licking up the puddle on the floor, I realized what had happened. The bag had leaked! He did a good job of cleaning up what was visible, but it had run under the stove, so I had to pull out the stove (always fun) and mop the floor underneath it.

Then I was off to the store to buy the other items I would need: squash, tomatoes, cannellini beans, onions, and, of course, some canned stock. After returning home I put the kettle on to make myself a cup of tea while I put the groceries away. Soon I smelled something burning. I thought maybe it was something from a previous cooking adventure that had stuck to the flat surface. No, upon lifting the kettle, I found the recipe card--now black and flaming around the edges. Quickly extinguished, it was deposited in the trash. Now I had to imagine exactly what it had said.

Tonight was chilly—a good night for soup, so I set out to make some sort of soup with the ingredients I had. I've made soup before. I can do this. So what if I don’t have the recipe. My idea was to sauté the onions, garlic, etc. Then I would put everything into the slow cooker and let it go.

While I was sautéing the onions and garlic, I poured the stock into the slow cooker. But as I was pouring it in, I knocked the top of the slow cooker on the floor where the handle broke off. It's important to know that this is the NEW top to the slow cooker that I had just replaced a couple of months ago, having to order it online for some outrageous price. It wasn't my fault that time. The screws that held on the handle became corroded and broke. Seems like a design flaw to me, but not a battle worth having.

Well, it's all in the slow cooker now, covered by the top with no handle that I have to wedge open with a knife. I just hope it's worth it all.  Sometimes I miss Julia Child and her chicken that fell on the floor.