Today marked the closest I’ve been to a Harley dealership. From my spot outside the service department, I heard enough motorcycles sounding as though they’d eaten way too many baked beans that I don’t know if you’ll ever read about my first time inside a Harley showroom or paraphernalia shop or backward-bandana-tying classrooms or whatever else they have there.
More firsts: breakfast at Lambs’ Farm and long, fun visit to their pet shop, including my introduction to a wide variety of cross-breed dogs like Morkies and several names ending in –Poo. (There’s got to be some symbolism there.) Today was the first time I’ve worn my new aqua shirt without accidentally squirting a mocha frappé on it. First time I’ve shown up at the café for the French meetup and no one else came. Today I harvested my very first homegrown garlic—five whole bulbs—and remembered to plant a fall crop of lettuce.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Thursday, July 31, 2008
For the love of South Haven
I’d wanted a book signing in South Haven, because after all, my novel is partly set there. I figured folks there might like the connection. What I didn’t anticipate was the intensity of the connection.
When did I first go there—1988? The first time, I went because a friend invited me and some other girls to her aunt’s cottage. Why did I go back the following year? And the next? And some years twice? I don't know. Now, 20 years later, I still eagerly anticipate my South Haven pilgrimage and all its simple rituals, from walking (savoring hometown ice cream) down to the lighthouse to watch the sunset, to picking blueberries and peaches, and everything in between.
Each year I like to visit, at least mentally, places I have memories of. The road leading to the cottage I rented the summer a niece and nephew came up for the first half of the week and 11 friends came up for the second half? Hey, it’s still a dirt road. I love glancing at the blue stained glass window of our honeymoon room in a lovely B&B as I drive by. Oh, and here’s where we sat to watch the drawbridge go up. And there’s where the Tall Ships were the year we camped with friends at the KOA. Oh, and that picnic on the bluff above the beach was such a beautiful day. Certainly there have been changes to the town and some of its traditional sights. But the feeling of the town remains.
I have no words to describe that feeling. But I know I’m not alone in feeling it. At the book signing, people approached my table on the sidewalk outside the bookstore, sat down, leaned forward with an elbow on the table, and poured out their falling-in-love-with-South-Haven stories. One couple drove up once from Indianapolis and have spent 3 weeks a summer here ever since. One woman came once on a fluke, came back every year for 15 years, and finally bought a house here, where she commutes on weekends from Toledo.
The day of my book signing was a grand day. The rain was relentless. Streets and sidewalks were slick and shoppers soaked. Car tires sizzled by and flip-flops slapped against the sidewalk. Umbrellas of every color and design and shiny yellow ponchos bobbed along as people moseyed from shop to shop. Rain dripped from awnings, benches, and branches. Crystal droplets hung from Italian lights, which themselves looked like crystal droplets. The South Haven scene I saw from my little dry spot in front of the bookstore was wet, wet, wet—not exactly an ideal day in a beach and boating town. Yet people’s faces were all smiles, smiles, smiles. I guess any day is a good day to be in South Haven. Although I can’t explain this, I’m very glad to have heard the stories of others who share the feeling.
When did I first go there—1988? The first time, I went because a friend invited me and some other girls to her aunt’s cottage. Why did I go back the following year? And the next? And some years twice? I don't know. Now, 20 years later, I still eagerly anticipate my South Haven pilgrimage and all its simple rituals, from walking (savoring hometown ice cream) down to the lighthouse to watch the sunset, to picking blueberries and peaches, and everything in between.
Each year I like to visit, at least mentally, places I have memories of. The road leading to the cottage I rented the summer a niece and nephew came up for the first half of the week and 11 friends came up for the second half? Hey, it’s still a dirt road. I love glancing at the blue stained glass window of our honeymoon room in a lovely B&B as I drive by. Oh, and here’s where we sat to watch the drawbridge go up. And there’s where the Tall Ships were the year we camped with friends at the KOA. Oh, and that picnic on the bluff above the beach was such a beautiful day. Certainly there have been changes to the town and some of its traditional sights. But the feeling of the town remains.
I have no words to describe that feeling. But I know I’m not alone in feeling it. At the book signing, people approached my table on the sidewalk outside the bookstore, sat down, leaned forward with an elbow on the table, and poured out their falling-in-love-with-South-Haven stories. One couple drove up once from Indianapolis and have spent 3 weeks a summer here ever since. One woman came once on a fluke, came back every year for 15 years, and finally bought a house here, where she commutes on weekends from Toledo.
The day of my book signing was a grand day. The rain was relentless. Streets and sidewalks were slick and shoppers soaked. Car tires sizzled by and flip-flops slapped against the sidewalk. Umbrellas of every color and design and shiny yellow ponchos bobbed along as people moseyed from shop to shop. Rain dripped from awnings, benches, and branches. Crystal droplets hung from Italian lights, which themselves looked like crystal droplets. The South Haven scene I saw from my little dry spot in front of the bookstore was wet, wet, wet—not exactly an ideal day in a beach and boating town. Yet people’s faces were all smiles, smiles, smiles. I guess any day is a good day to be in South Haven. Although I can’t explain this, I’m very glad to have heard the stories of others who share the feeling.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Hidey-Hole
... phphpht go the dictionary pages during another quick lookup. As I phphphlip past page headings, "hidey-hole" always makes me smile. Hidey-hole. This thick, thumping authority, this noxious know-it-all, supercilious Scrabble settler, this lister of words like repecharge also lists hidey-hole. I can almost see this cosmopolitan, tuxedoed, bow-tied tome, its beady black eyes squinting down its pince-nez at me; I can almost hear its stentorian "Do you mean to tell me you don't know what a cherimoya is?" I feel stupid for only a second. Because then I spy its belly button exposed below its cummerbund: hidey-hole. There goes the intellectual edge. We can be friends again.
(Higgledy-piggledy is further down the hidey-hole page. Mr. Webster must have dipped his quill into the bubbly instead of the inkwell when he penned that page.)
(Higgledy-piggledy is further down the hidey-hole page. Mr. Webster must have dipped his quill into the bubbly instead of the inkwell when he penned that page.)
Monday, May 5, 2008
Signs of Spring
A month or so ago, I treated myself to new gardening gloves. I go through about a pair a year, especially if they’re cheap. I seldom get around to washing them, because it’s a nuisance to soak and scrub enough mud off before tossing them in the washer. I have washed gardening gloves, but then they come apart at the seams, especially if they’re cheap. In just a month’s time, my new, cheap, gloves have had a workout—planting two rounds of seeds in the basement and mega-weeding outside. They also kept my hands warm during chilly days of garden cleanup. Well, warm is a relative term, especially in early spring in Chicago. Because I was wearing gardening gloves, my fingers felt as though they’d been handling ice cubes, rather than dry ice. They were only painful enough to be run under warm water for five minutes, as opposed to needing to be treated for frostbite in the ER. Springtime in Chicago is a real test of patience. But gardening gloves help.
About two weeks ago, during fickly warm teaser temps, I optimistically washed my winter parka and put it away. A few days later, my brrrrrrrrrrrrr’s while walking into church elicited a practical question from my husband: “Why didn’t you wear a coat instead of that sweater?” I stubbornly announced that it was spring and I would not be wearing my parka any more until fall. All that April wintry week I caught flak for not wearing the parka. As I left the house to walk the dog, my husband commented, “I thought you said you weren’t going to wear a coat.” My response? “A turtleneck sweater, sweatshirt, hooded sweatshirt, and windbreaker do NOT count as a coat!” As I said, in early spring in Chicago, we measure warm against what we’ve just been through. The winter of 2007-08 was brutal and tenacious, as evidenced by snow on April 28 and the two late-April days of steady, icy 38 mph winds with gusts even higher.
Yesterday was a perfect spring day, warm by anyone’s standards, sunny, and with just a light breeze. My five glorious gardening hours were marred only by those teeny bugs with no radar. But if spring is finally here, gnats are just a nit. Notice I said if.
About two weeks ago, during fickly warm teaser temps, I optimistically washed my winter parka and put it away. A few days later, my brrrrrrrrrrrrr’s while walking into church elicited a practical question from my husband: “Why didn’t you wear a coat instead of that sweater?” I stubbornly announced that it was spring and I would not be wearing my parka any more until fall. All that April wintry week I caught flak for not wearing the parka. As I left the house to walk the dog, my husband commented, “I thought you said you weren’t going to wear a coat.” My response? “A turtleneck sweater, sweatshirt, hooded sweatshirt, and windbreaker do NOT count as a coat!” As I said, in early spring in Chicago, we measure warm against what we’ve just been through. The winter of 2007-08 was brutal and tenacious, as evidenced by snow on April 28 and the two late-April days of steady, icy 38 mph winds with gusts even higher.
Yesterday was a perfect spring day, warm by anyone’s standards, sunny, and with just a light breeze. My five glorious gardening hours were marred only by those teeny bugs with no radar. But if spring is finally here, gnats are just a nit. Notice I said if.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
The Play’s the Thing
Three plays in three weeks. Oh joy!
Seasons tickets this year to Chicago Shakespeare at Navy Pier and Writers Theatre in Glencoe have brought many enjoyable evenings, two in recent weeks. Last week we also sandwiched in one play at Northlight Theatre in Skokie.
Had Writers Theatre’s As You Like It been a film production, I would have snapped up the DVD in the lobby on my way out of the theater. If the run hadn’t been ending, I would have gone to see it again. The actresses played with flirtatious glee the roles of Rosalind and Celia—Ganymede and Aliena—and then again Rosalind and Celia. At play’s end, we saw four weddings and restoration of the exiled duke, (a refreshing change from the main characters lying dead on the stage at play’s end, a frequent Shakespeare ending). My enjoyment of this play extended far beyond its happy ending though. The Forest of Arden, the setting for most of this pastoral comedy, appealed to my aging-hippie sensibilities. What’s not to like about the simple lives of this ragtag bunch of flower children singing and strumming guitars around campfires and sharing their food with strangers? Shakespeare’s lines were consistently funny. And last but certainly not least, brilliant actor Larry Yando’s punk-haired, trench-coated, beat-poet portrayal of Jaques invented a new oxymoron: melancholic glee. In a word, this production of As You Like It was delightful.
The ham in my recent Shakespeare sandwich was the world premier of Better Late at Northlight. This aptly named play told of delayed acts of love that turned out to be—not too late—but better late than never. The story, with just four characters, was fairly simple but contained by my count, six better-late acts of love. Veteran actors John Mahoney and Mike Nussbaum played the former and current husbands of one woman, who arranges for them all to live in the same household while the ex-husband recovers from a stroke. Meanwhile, her son agonizes over his marriage, and her two husbands offer wisdom gained from their failures in life and love. This play, despite its many redeeming qualities, suffers from a pacing problem. The first third was hysterically funny—I mean a laugh-a-minute hysterical—the middle third was flat, boring story development, and the final third was a bittersweet, though satisfying, ending. Better Late is neither tragicomedy nor comitragedy—it’s more like a midlife mood swing. The other disappointment was that as meaty and intelligent as 95% of the writing was, the writers couldn’t have found nonobscene words for the actors to express anger and disappointment. Having said that, however, I would encourage people to see Better Late for its wit and wisdom. Don’t be too late—its run at Northlight ends May 11.
Chicago Shakespeare Theater’s The Comedy of Errors was simply brilliant. Again, seeing a Shakespeare comedy was refreshing. What a comedy of errors it was! Not one, but two, sets of twins, separated at birth find themselves at Ephesus at the same time. Imagine Antipholus of Ephesus’s and Dromio of Ephesus’s chagrin when Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse show up in Ephesus. Slapsticky confusion reigns until the mystery unravels and the separated twins reunite. Elevating the funny factor is the fact that the Shakespeare play is being filmed in a British movie studio next door to a munitions factory during World War II. That screenplay was written by Ron West. The lucky audience gets to doubly laugh as the actors and director iron out their personal and professional difficulties with melodramatic élan, replete with flouncing capes and arched-eyebrow exaggerations. All performances were spectacular, but I must say Ross Lehman’s portrayal of the film director Dudley Marsh and Dromio of Syracuse was nothing short of transcendent. From Dudley Marsh’s visionary directing and witty, clever handling of his prima donna film stars, through his own profound grief as his actress wife finds passion with a fellow actor, to his silly Harpo Marxish Dromio, Ross Lehman carried me through a wide range of emotions, as only Pachelbel's Canon in D can do~well, okay, Yanni can too. Somewhat like a constant fresh breeze with gusts up to 30 mph, this zany play within a play kept up the steady laughs with occasional laughs so hard we were holding our stomachs and slumping our heads on our friends’ shoulders. And doubling the fun—the actors seemed to be enjoying themselves just as much as we were.
Seasons tickets this year to Chicago Shakespeare at Navy Pier and Writers Theatre in Glencoe have brought many enjoyable evenings, two in recent weeks. Last week we also sandwiched in one play at Northlight Theatre in Skokie.
Had Writers Theatre’s As You Like It been a film production, I would have snapped up the DVD in the lobby on my way out of the theater. If the run hadn’t been ending, I would have gone to see it again. The actresses played with flirtatious glee the roles of Rosalind and Celia—Ganymede and Aliena—and then again Rosalind and Celia. At play’s end, we saw four weddings and restoration of the exiled duke, (a refreshing change from the main characters lying dead on the stage at play’s end, a frequent Shakespeare ending). My enjoyment of this play extended far beyond its happy ending though. The Forest of Arden, the setting for most of this pastoral comedy, appealed to my aging-hippie sensibilities. What’s not to like about the simple lives of this ragtag bunch of flower children singing and strumming guitars around campfires and sharing their food with strangers? Shakespeare’s lines were consistently funny. And last but certainly not least, brilliant actor Larry Yando’s punk-haired, trench-coated, beat-poet portrayal of Jaques invented a new oxymoron: melancholic glee. In a word, this production of As You Like It was delightful.
The ham in my recent Shakespeare sandwich was the world premier of Better Late at Northlight. This aptly named play told of delayed acts of love that turned out to be—not too late—but better late than never. The story, with just four characters, was fairly simple but contained by my count, six better-late acts of love. Veteran actors John Mahoney and Mike Nussbaum played the former and current husbands of one woman, who arranges for them all to live in the same household while the ex-husband recovers from a stroke. Meanwhile, her son agonizes over his marriage, and her two husbands offer wisdom gained from their failures in life and love. This play, despite its many redeeming qualities, suffers from a pacing problem. The first third was hysterically funny—I mean a laugh-a-minute hysterical—the middle third was flat, boring story development, and the final third was a bittersweet, though satisfying, ending. Better Late is neither tragicomedy nor comitragedy—it’s more like a midlife mood swing. The other disappointment was that as meaty and intelligent as 95% of the writing was, the writers couldn’t have found nonobscene words for the actors to express anger and disappointment. Having said that, however, I would encourage people to see Better Late for its wit and wisdom. Don’t be too late—its run at Northlight ends May 11.
Chicago Shakespeare Theater’s The Comedy of Errors was simply brilliant. Again, seeing a Shakespeare comedy was refreshing. What a comedy of errors it was! Not one, but two, sets of twins, separated at birth find themselves at Ephesus at the same time. Imagine Antipholus of Ephesus’s and Dromio of Ephesus’s chagrin when Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse show up in Ephesus. Slapsticky confusion reigns until the mystery unravels and the separated twins reunite. Elevating the funny factor is the fact that the Shakespeare play is being filmed in a British movie studio next door to a munitions factory during World War II. That screenplay was written by Ron West. The lucky audience gets to doubly laugh as the actors and director iron out their personal and professional difficulties with melodramatic élan, replete with flouncing capes and arched-eyebrow exaggerations. All performances were spectacular, but I must say Ross Lehman’s portrayal of the film director Dudley Marsh and Dromio of Syracuse was nothing short of transcendent. From Dudley Marsh’s visionary directing and witty, clever handling of his prima donna film stars, through his own profound grief as his actress wife finds passion with a fellow actor, to his silly Harpo Marxish Dromio, Ross Lehman carried me through a wide range of emotions, as only Pachelbel's Canon in D can do~well, okay, Yanni can too. Somewhat like a constant fresh breeze with gusts up to 30 mph, this zany play within a play kept up the steady laughs with occasional laughs so hard we were holding our stomachs and slumping our heads on our friends’ shoulders. And doubling the fun—the actors seemed to be enjoying themselves just as much as we were.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Locavore
Easy to tell why gigantic red
Hard to wait for the little, just-greening, trefoil, notch-leafed strawberry plants outside our back door to fill out, flower, and produce their sweet, succulent, ruby-colored, heart-shaped fruit whose strawberry sensation spreads through your entire mouth—almost melting the moment it touches your lips.
Today I thawed a jar of strawberry jam I made two summers ago when I was picking more strawberries than we could eat then. I hope the jam will tide us over for another month or so until we again have our own strawberries to savor. My husband won’t even eat store-bought tomatoes because their taste is not worth the cost or the bother to even open his mouth and stuff one in. We’re out of the rich, lively tomato sauce he made several summers ago when we were harvesting more tomatoes than we could eat then. It will be a really long wait until we can even begin this year’s tomato vigil in the garden—April to August seems like an eternity.
The Oxford University Press recently named locavore word of the year. Now that I know what a locavore is, I can see I’m gradually becoming one—perhaps not for all the right reasons, but at least for some of them. Every year another vegetable gets added to my list of foods I want to either grow, buy at a farmer’s market, or I prefer not to eat them. Last year, garlic made the list. The garlic I bought at farmer’s markets was robust with a heady fragrance and fresh flavor that called to mind images of rolling Tuscan countryside—and I’ve never even been to
Reasons to be a locavore? Taste is the biggie for me. Broccoli that’s tender and bright and blossoms in my mouth is motivation for my aching bones to get out there and nurture my soil. By the way, you wouldn’t want to put butter on my homegrown broccoli, whereas you need butter or orange sauce or something just to choke down tough store-bought broccoli. When my aching bones have aged to the point when I can no longer grow my own broccoli, I’ll be plenty motivated to join a CSA to continue enjoying homegrown produce.
Eating organically grown fruits and vegetables is my next most important reason. Contributing to a healthy environment by removing myself from the demand for products that take slow boats from
Two authors who have expressed this simplicity and satisfaction beautifully and better than I could ever hope to are Barbara Kingsolver in Animal, Vegetable, Miracle and Wendell Berry in Jayber Crow. Also, the French, with their potagers (kitchen-gardens), really do this locavore thing right.
I’m not ready to join Barbara Kingsolver’s family and commit to eating only locally grown food, but I’m happy to be a locavore to the degree that I am and will cheer on this trend in my home and in the food culture of our country.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
A New Trick
I have to laugh. We live in a very friendly neighborhood where everybody waves to everybody. If someone doesn’t wave at you, he probably doesn’t live here. My dog Charlie and I walk at least once every day it isn’t raining—that’s a lot of walks and a lot of waving. Today the warm spring sun seemed to suck people out of their houses. The ’hood was swarming with folks, so today when Charlie and I were trotting along, I did a whole lot of waving. What made me laugh was remembering something embarrassing about our walks and waving.
Charlie turned 5 in January, and it took me until this winter to figure out a new way to do this. Here’s what I always did. I’d click Charlie’s leash on him, wrap the loop around my right wrist and grab the leash tightly in my right hand. In case he gallops into runaway locomotive mode toward another dog, I want my stronger arm attached to him. Okay, so when he pooped, I’d tie his little treasure in a bag and continue walking with the bag in my left hand. Then a neighbor would drive or walk by and, of course, wave at us, and I’d wave back with, of course, my left hand, since my right arm was taut trying to rein in my charging rhino. In essence, my standard sidewalk greeting for 5 years has been holding up my dog’s excrement to my neighbors.
What’s worse, it was so second-nature to wave that I didn’t think about it until it was too late, and I had once again dangled a stinking sack in a neighbor’s direction. It usually dawned on me just as I was giving my wrist that little howdy flick, because that would cause the pendulous pouch to swing. (I can just picture Mr. Bean doing this with his hapless, endearing, smeary, mime smile—only he would probably stuff the sack in his pocket or smash it into his forehead when he realized what he’d waved with.)
My logic was: I have two hands and two things to hold, so one goes in each hand, right? It only makes sense. Finally, this winter, I had one too many oops moments and determined to find a different way. During one of our winter wonderland walks, it dawned on me that I could hold two things in one hand (what a brainstorm, eh?), and I began lacing the clean end of the bag through the fingers holding the leash. This leaves my left hand free to wave without insult. At the time, I thought my solution was brilliant; now it seems so obvious. Anyway, I have to laugh. There’s probably a joke in this story somewhere—you know, maybe about teaching an old dog mom new tricks. :-)
Charlie turned 5 in January, and it took me until this winter to figure out a new way to do this. Here’s what I always did. I’d click Charlie’s leash on him, wrap the loop around my right wrist and grab the leash tightly in my right hand. In case he gallops into runaway locomotive mode toward another dog, I want my stronger arm attached to him. Okay, so when he pooped, I’d tie his little treasure in a bag and continue walking with the bag in my left hand. Then a neighbor would drive or walk by and, of course, wave at us, and I’d wave back with, of course, my left hand, since my right arm was taut trying to rein in my charging rhino. In essence, my standard sidewalk greeting for 5 years has been holding up my dog’s excrement to my neighbors.
What’s worse, it was so second-nature to wave that I didn’t think about it until it was too late, and I had once again dangled a stinking sack in a neighbor’s direction. It usually dawned on me just as I was giving my wrist that little howdy flick, because that would cause the pendulous pouch to swing. (I can just picture Mr. Bean doing this with his hapless, endearing, smeary, mime smile—only he would probably stuff the sack in his pocket or smash it into his forehead when he realized what he’d waved with.)
My logic was: I have two hands and two things to hold, so one goes in each hand, right? It only makes sense. Finally, this winter, I had one too many oops moments and determined to find a different way. During one of our winter wonderland walks, it dawned on me that I could hold two things in one hand (what a brainstorm, eh?), and I began lacing the clean end of the bag through the fingers holding the leash. This leaves my left hand free to wave without insult. At the time, I thought my solution was brilliant; now it seems so obvious. Anyway, I have to laugh. There’s probably a joke in this story somewhere—you know, maybe about teaching an old dog mom new tricks. :-)
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