The Treadmill

Last week, I attended a 3 day conference.  I sat down, sat some more, had lunch and then sat down again.  I was not able to move and groove around as I like to do.  By Thursday morning, I felt like a 90-year-old woman, all stiff and sore.  I wondered if I might have deep vein thrombosis from all that sitting.  Thankfully, I didn’t.

This past Sunday, I walked to the library to blog, ate breakfast, dug a 40 foot trench, planted some tomatoes, took a 5 mile walk on The Farm, mowed my father’s lawn, and then planted some more tomatoes.  I slept like a baby; I got up yesterday morning and felt like a teenager.  I ate breakfast and headed back to the garden to plant sunflowers and melons.

All of this moving and grooving reminded me to be grateful for the gift of health and strength.  I have not always felt so fantastic.  Even though I don’t belong to a gym or a health club now, there was a time when I did.  I even did “step aerobics” classes in the late 80’s and early 90’s, complete with leg warmers and a leotard.

(Thank goodness there’s very little evidence of that period of my life.)

Even though a computer device told me I was burning thousands of calories, I have never enjoyed jumping up and down and running in place.  I never felt fantastic.  It’s true that many people go to health clubs and gyms and it helps them to get and stay fit.  I’m happy there is such an option for people who do not want to dig 40 foot tomato trenches.  That’s freedom; I do what I like and other people do what they like.  We don’t impose our ideas on each other.  We don’t fight about which way is better.  No one needs to say “there ought to be an exercise law.”

My own personal experience with growing food and taking care of the land has been physically rewarding.  I’ve also had the opportunity to observe other people who grow food and take care of the land; they seem to be amazing physical specimens, with vibrant complexions and a certain peace about them.  N.C. Wyeth painted illustrations of such people.

Here’s Uncle Bob, planting three rows of Dorinny corn.

He’ll be 76 this summer.  After he finished his planting, he helped me with mine, then rode his bicycle to the Memorial Day parade, came home for lunch, loaded up his push mowers, and drove out to The Farm to mow the 200 foot “driveway” from the road to the barn.

When I’m able to move about on the land, I don’t feel so old.  I feel alive and free.

Maybe there’s something new and wonderful in the old ways.

Did you move and groove freely this weekend?

Mowing The Lawn

When I got home on Saturday, I noticed the lawn was long.  We’ve had a lot of rain and the grass just keeps on growing.  I asked my father if he would like me to mow the lawn; after all, I used to have a lawn mowing business when I was in high school.

“No!”

OK.  My mother assured me that my father would mow the lawn on Sunday afternoon.  But then the phone rang and they were invited to a cook-out on Sunday afternoon.  On Sunday morning, I again asked my father if he would like me to mow the lawn.  Again, he game the same adamant response.

“No!”

I worked in my garden on Sunday morning and then I went to The Farm for a walk.  It was a beautiful day, with a gentle mosquito-stalling breeze.  I was thinking about one of my classmates from high school who had lost her father this weekend and how difficult these losses are even when a person is mentally prepared for them.  I was sad for my friend and knew that the beauty of the day would not be the same for her.

When I got home, my parents were still at the cook-out and the lawn was still looking shabby.  I had never actually mowed my parent’s lawn; I was always busy mowing other people’s lawns for profit.  I thought about my friend and how she would probably like to have one more chance to mow the lawn for her dad.  I went out to the shed, pulled out the mower, and stoked it up.

My parents came home when I was halfway through and my father gave me a few tips and pointers.  Then he went out in the back yard and started moving the lawn furniture out of my way.

I mowed the lawn.

Not too shabby!

Hey, Daddy-oh, you can do the clipping!

Memento vivere!

We Are Going Home

Saturday was a big day.  My 30 tomato plants made the trip from the Coop to Uncle Bob’s.  Today will be a big day of planting.  No rest and  no barbecues.

I remember talking with Uncle Bob about tomatoes in February; he suggested I “stagger start” them.  He meant “start a few seeds one week, a few more seeds the next week, and then a few more seeds another week.  Did I listen to him?  NO.  I’m not sure why, but I took the “all or nothing” approach again this year, starting all my heirloom indeterminate tomato seeds at once.

It’s a big production for a chicken coop-sized condo; I have heat mats and a large grow light in a west-facing window.  I wonder what my neighbors think.

It’s stressful; I worry about my seedlings from the minute I start them until I finally put them in the ground.  Then, I worry about them when I’m not at home.  I wish they’d write to me.

One year, I brought them home early and put my parents in charge of them.  Herman and Helen didn’t have the same passion for the job; in fact, one weekend I came home and threw a little tantrum.

“You’re trying to kill my tomatoes.  You’re tomato killers!”

That was kind of juvenile; my parents are terrific; they’re just not wanna-be farmers.

All’s well that ends well.  Most of the half-dead tomatoes were resurrected in the dirt of Uncle Bob’s garden and grew to be crazy, out of control, fruit producing plants.

They don’t call me Aunt Tomato for nothing.

Friday Pillow Talk – Yard Sales Cause Accidents

This Friday, I have no goofy dreams to report and no crank phone calls to repeat.  I’m just going to pontificate from my pillow.  Today’s pompous pontification – yard sales cause accidents.

Here in New England, the “seasons” as we know them are a series of “firsts,” “opening days,” and “lasts.”  There are formal opening days at places like Fenway Park, summer ice cream stands, and Decorator Show Houses.  There are opening days of hunting and fishing seasons.  There is the first time a person jumps into the Atlantic Ocean and the first day to wear flip-flops.  I almost forgot the first day of Patriots training camp.  Then there’s the last day to pick apples and to wear white pants.  Not simultaneously, please.

I could go on and on.

One opening day that is rarely discussed is the dangerous and unpredictable opening day of yard sale season.  No one really knows the exact date; there seems to be a mysterious mathematical equation involving air temperature, the chance of precipitation, and square feet of house junk.  Maybe it’s more arcane; if 3 fluffy clouds are floating in a deep blue sky pierced by one vapor trail, then something goes off in the New England brain and people start bringing their stuff out into the driveway and making cardboard signs.

Whatever the secret signal, it went off last Saturday and the New Hampshire Seacoast was buzzing with yard sales.  There was a lot of merchandise for sale everywhere.  I always glance over to see if anything useful shouts out to me, but then I look away quickly to avoid the siren song.  After all, there’s not much room left here in the Coop; I’m trying to get rid of things.

I was weaving the Jeep inland, away from the beach and towards the Newmarket Farmer’s Market.  I crossed over Route 1 onto Route 27, riding the free waves and singing along to some rockabilly song on the UNH radio station.  Things were good until the car in front of me slowed down to a crawl; I noticed all the yard sale signs.  Apparently, the “neighborhood yard sale” was this year’s craze, highlighting the collective trash and treasure of multiple suburban collectors.  But why was that mini-van parked perpendicularly across the road?  Oh oh, it looked like AN ACCIDENT.  Not good.

Thinking I could avoid the traffic snarl, I turned into a neighborhood I’d never been in before and started searching for a way around the accident.  I might as well have been in a corn maze; all roads kept bringing me back to the scene of the accident.  I must have passed 20 yard sales in that neighborhood but not one thing caught my eye.

(By the way, has anyone invented a corn maze for cars?  That might be fun.)

The PO-lice eventually arrived and started directing traffic; I ended up backtracking onto Route 1 again and I wasn’t too late for the Farmer’s Market.  I couldn’t help but laugh a little when I thought about how these things can happen.  I’d seen it a hundred times sitting in the back seat of my parent’s car.  Heavy footed Herman would be cruising along some country road at the speed limit plus 20 and Helen would say “Herman, slow down and stop at that yard sale on the right.”  Naturally, Herm would burn a little rubber and utter some light profanity as he would bring the car to a screeching halt.  Sometimes, I think he’d speed up just to spite my mother.  It was his way of saying “I’m driving the car today.”  We’ve never had any accidents, though; thank goodness.

There will be a lot of yard sales this Memorial Day weekend and I’ve got two recommendations for you:

“Keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the wheel.”

and

“Simmah Down Now Hee-Yah!!

You Call Them Weeds

I call them rebels, yelling “Don’t tread on me!”

No Matter What

I can’t quite believe it but the Red Sox have been on a tear since Friday, May 11, 2012.  They’ve won 9 out of 12 games and although I can’t take credit for their success, I was at the game that Friday night and as I’m sure you can imagine, I’ve got a story to tell about it.

It all started on Tuesday, May 8^th, when my best Junior League friend called and asked me if I wanted to go to a Red Sox game with her.  I wasn’t interested and I said as much with a blasé “I’ve got so much to do this weekend, I think I’ll pass.”  They’d lost quite a few games since I jinxed them and in spite of a brief turnaround when my friend Margaret reversed the jinx, they’d been playing stinko.

“Where are the tickets?  The State Street Pavilion?” I asked.

There was silence on the other end of the line.  Then I heard my friend say:

“The owner’s box.”

“Oh, that changes everything.  I’m in.”

I felt phony and superficial; I had nothing to say to John Henry or Larry Lucchino.  Why had I been so easily swayed by the prospect of rubbing elbows with them?  It’s not much fun to watch a baseball game from behind glass, either.  In 1989, Red Sox management had created “The 600 Club” which was 600 seats behind glass, just below the press box.  I sat there once and it was sterile and silent.

Nevertheless, I was amped up by the prospect of watching the game with John and Larry and my friend and her 2 daughters.  My friend and I might finally get caught up and there would be free food; maybe some grass-fed beef burgers.

The big day finally arrived after much discussion about what to wear, what to say, and how to navigate the city.  I drove to my friend’s house in Cambridge; there was the game before the game on my friend’s front lawn.  I tried to teach my friend’s three kids everything I knew about “the game.”  It’s amazing how far a person can hit a wiffle ball.

Then we took the subway to the park and joined the throng streaming past the Cask ‘n Flagon towards the “will call” window.  We got our tickets and as it turned out, we were not in the owner’s box.  I was a little deflated, but I didn’t let it show; besides, they were spectacular seats; the best seats ever!  And just like that, we were walking up the ramp towards the field and THE MOMENT.

I had forgotten what it felt like to be at Fenway Park, but at THE MOMENT I felt a little catch in my throat and a tear in my eye.  I remembered how it felt the first time I went to Fenway Park and I knew what it must have felt like to be a Red Sox fan of another era.   It’s a first world phenomenon and if I ever get to my lettuce farm I will be completely content to stay there, but since I’m not there yet, I was happy to have another chance to live in THE MOMENT.

There we were at the game, about 5 rows up from the field.  Everything was so close and I could see Bobby V. when he would stand on the steps of the dugout.  There was Big Papi and Jared Saltalamacchia.  I told my friend’s children he had the longest name in baseball and they were impressed.  I spelled it out for them.

Then we saw a woman wearing a strange foam hat on her head; it was a replica of Fenway Park with little plastic helmets glued on the sides.  She was walking up from the first row and I said “Excuse me, but may I take a picture of you for my blog?”

She said “Sure!”

I snapped her picture and then she and her husband sat down behind us and we started chatting.  Thinking it might be a good blog post, I asked her a few questions, in my best super sleuth mode.  She told me her name was Lynne Smith and she and her husband were season ticket holders.  She’d worn her hat to every game since 1999 and she’d worn it in 23 different ballparks.  The only time she varied her chapeau was on opening day, when she wore her opening day creation.  She said she liked to make people smile.

I asked her what she thought about last year’s implosion, the current troubles, and Bobby V.  She thought for a moment.

“I love the Red Sox no matter what” she said quietly.

Then I asked her the big question.

“Do you have a Red Sox toaster?”

“Of course,” she said.

I started laughing and decided it was more fun to talk baseball with a devoted fan; I dropped the interview schtick.

My friend’s children were getting bored; baseball is a complicated game when you’re young.  Lynne said to them “would you like to go and sit on the Green Monster?”  The prospect of a walk around the park perked them up and then Lynne asked if I wanted to go too.

Well, sure!

We got up and headed through the aisles; a new kind of MOMENT began.  Lynne was well-known at Fenway and everyone was high-fiving her.  Every time someone would high-five her, I would also get a high-five.  It was like being in a rock star’s entourage.  We went up to the State Street Pavilion and the luxury box area and Lynne knew all the security personnel.  She asked about their children, their grandchildren, and their puppies, leaving a trail of smiles and laughter in her wake.  The next thing I knew, we were sitting on the Green Monster for the 5^th inning.  We were Red Sox rock stars!

We couldn’t stay there forever, so we made our way back to our seats just in time for the 7^th inning stretch.  I sang along to “Take me out to the ball game” and then in the 8^th inning, I was singing “Sweet Caroline” at the top of my lungs.  Like a rock star.

We ended up staying for the entire game, which ended perfectly when Johnny Damon hit a fly ball to center field for the last out.  Red Sox 7, Indians 5.

I can’t wait to tell this story to Margaret.  She’ll be happy to know there is someone else with a Red Sox toaster who loves the Red Sox no matter what, just like she does.  It’s been my experience that people who love things no matter what are usually pretty generous with their love; I’m glad I’ve known a few of them in my life.

Sometimes loving other people no matter what is all you can do.  I’m going to keep trying to do that.  You try too.

Chive Cheerleaders

Chives are funny little perennial herbs.  They were the first signs of life at The Hampton Victory Garden this winter, remember?  It’s hard to believe, but the green part of the chive plant has now grown up and the chives are in bloom.  They’re rooting for us gardeners and farmers, like cheerleaders shaking purple pom poms, shouting “grow your food, grow your food.”

When I finally shake the dust off my Jack Rogers sandals and move to a more permanent location where I can have a chicken coop (instead of living in one) I’m going to plant chives for a perennial border; they’re pretty and practical.  Until then, here are three things I’m going to do with the chive flowers which are abundantly cheering me on in the garden:

First, I’m going to take some chive flowers and place them in a glass jar with plain vinegar.  Voila!  I’ll have purple chive vinegar to remind me of summer in the dead of winter.

Then, I’m going to use a few chive flowers to garnish my salads this week.  Sure, no one will see them, but they will be a happy reminder of the garden when I’m slogging away in my cubicle.

Finally, I’m going to make some “Chive Blossom Butter.”  There are lots of different recipes for this on the internet; feel free to use a search engine to find one you like or do it this way–pick the petals off 3 or 4 chive blossoms; mix them into a softened stick of unsalted butter with ½ teaspoon of sea salt or kosher salt.  Whip them with a knife until well-combined and then roll the butter mix into a log on a piece of wax or parchment paper.  Keep this butter log in the refrigerator or freezer until ready to use; then slice it disc-like onto baked potatoes, steamed vegetables, or pasta.

Now, if I just had a little moo cow so I could make my own butter.  Remember, impossible things are happening every day.

What are you doing with your chives right now?