I have harvested my garlic. When the bottommost pair of leaves gets dry and yellow, it's time.
On Monday morning I sat outside with the eastern sun toasting my back. I was wearing R's old "Dr Teeth and the Electric Mayhem" t-shirt. I peeled the dirty, spotty top layers off of the garlic. I set each shucked, bulbous pearl down on the deck. It was so beautiful: the tall withered stalks, pale gold; the shiny bottoms.
I haven't been this deeply proud over any other garden harvest. I'm highly happy with the whole process. It was "in-system", start to finish. Propagation? Check. No buying starts or seed. Watering? Check: It took no city water!
I put it in the ground at the right time, got out of its way, minded the soil, and nature did the rest.
(Oh, I also cut the scapes. That puts more energy into the bulbs. And it doubles the yield. :)
23 July 2014
22 July 2014
i need to Help! somebody
Not just anybody.
One of the nice things that I don't think I would have had the energy to take on if I was working teaching is taking care of my niece and nephew for a week or more, as we will do starting next week.
My sister Mona is moving here (to our very hood proper!) and has suffered from logistical impediments. Bjorn and I want very much for this move to happen and this arrangement was proffered and accepted.
See: This is so cool! I get to help my family (and realize a painfully dear dream of mine: more proximal relations) instead of managing a schedule!
I feel like I've leveled up!
The other week Bjorn and I were talking about our standard of living, and how it's sky high, in its austere way.
Having the Macbeth family (sis&co) live nearby is, I identified, the only thing I could think of (besides quitting teaching, which I had not yet quite done) to boost my standard of living to the next tier.
One of the nice things that I don't think I would have had the energy to take on if I was working teaching is taking care of my niece and nephew for a week or more, as we will do starting next week.
My sister Mona is moving here (to our very hood proper!) and has suffered from logistical impediments. Bjorn and I want very much for this move to happen and this arrangement was proffered and accepted.
See: This is so cool! I get to help my family (and realize a painfully dear dream of mine: more proximal relations) instead of managing a schedule!
I feel like I've leveled up!
The other week Bjorn and I were talking about our standard of living, and how it's sky high, in its austere way.
Having the Macbeth family (sis&co) live nearby is, I identified, the only thing I could think of (besides quitting teaching, which I had not yet quite done) to boost my standard of living to the next tier.
21 July 2014
no ado about much
Actually there is a big to-do brewing.
In February Bjorn asked me to read this book. I read it, OFCOURSE. I love having books recommended 'specially to me!
It changed my life. My life changes a lot. Here's a book for that.
I don't think that someone else reading the same book would have the same life change. This book introduced me to a new concept, which I followed, researched, and further followed and researched for 100 more hours —
my research took the time of a part-time job, some weeks.
I'm planning on turning our yard into an Edible Forest Garden. I am not sure why I haven't blogged about it a lot. I do feel like I've talked to some people a lot about it and they still exhibit cluelessness about what it is. That kind of takes the hot air out of my sails.
What's with the deaf ears?
Maybe my message is wrapped in an impenetrable tortilla of zealotry. Perhaps my elevator pitch is snore boring. Maybe these concepts are so counter-cultural that people can't grok it. Perchance people lack only visual aids.
I am very interested in talking about it — I'm more interested in doing it.
In February Bjorn asked me to read this book. I read it, OFCOURSE. I love having books recommended 'specially to me!
It changed my life. My life changes a lot. Here's a book for that.
I don't think that someone else reading the same book would have the same life change. This book introduced me to a new concept, which I followed, researched, and further followed and researched for 100 more hours —
my research took the time of a part-time job, some weeks.
I'm planning on turning our yard into an Edible Forest Garden. I am not sure why I haven't blogged about it a lot. I do feel like I've talked to some people a lot about it and they still exhibit cluelessness about what it is. That kind of takes the hot air out of my sails.
What's with the deaf ears?
Maybe my message is wrapped in an impenetrable tortilla of zealotry. Perhaps my elevator pitch is snore boring. Maybe these concepts are so counter-cultural that people can't grok it. Perchance people lack only visual aids.
I am very interested in talking about it — I'm more interested in doing it.
20 July 2014
keeping the stars apart
Most people upon hearing I no longer teach ask me some variation on "so what are you going to do with your extra time?" Do. It's always do.
All people that ask me anything ask me that: "What will you do now?" Dodo.
No one yet has asked me "so how are you going to feel with the extra time?", "how will you live now?", or "what will you be?"
Pretend, for a moment, that I do all the things I used to do, but I feel different while I do them.
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud / and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;
All people that ask me anything ask me that: "What will you do now?" Dodo.
No one yet has asked me "so how are you going to feel with the extra time?", "how will you live now?", or "what will you be?"
Pretend, for a moment, that I do all the things I used to do, but I feel different while I do them.
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud / and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;
18 July 2014
one man's gewgaw is another man's gewgaw
I've managed one garage sale before. I was — 13, 14?; I was not in public school. I did it for a Personal Progress merit (it's a thing for Mormon girls 12-18); the proceeds went to the Ward Mission Fund. The proceeds totalled between $50 and $60.
I don't remember how long it took me to prepare. I know I went through a whole bunch o' junk and put it on display in the garage.
Note: I didn't actually think that any of it was junk. I had tchotchkes disease.
Here are the bits I remember.
• I made my own flier for it.
• It took place in the garage.
• I sold a teddy bear (in a beautiful-red tutu) that I apparently didn't really want to sell: afterwards I lamented her sale.
• I wanted a lot of money for a ring display case and no one wanted to pay that for it. Its exterior was chipped, not just a bit. Its interior pillow was dingy.
I was sure it was precious.
I'd bought it at a neighbor's garage sale a few years before. It was the first and one of the only things I've ever acquired via yard sale.
• I sold a Nintendo game for $5; when an interested kid saw it and he asked how much it was and I said something like a dollar. His derisive whoop must have embarrassed his mother because she said "it must be worth more than that" and insisted he give me $5 for it.
~
Tomorrow I'm going to have my second garage sale ever.
This one I won't have to make fliers for: the street we live on has a well-known annual sale. Supposedly someone puts it in the paper — the newspaper. (I don't think I'd ever have one if I had to do my own marketing.)
I've tried to price things so that they'll sell. I don't frequent yard sales, so I have little market exposure to help me set prices. I've probably set some things too high (again), and perhaps a few things too low. (It would be convenient if there were no such thing as "priced too low to sell"; the psychology of pricing isn't so easy.)
I don't have a goal, but I suspect I'll be disappointed if I make less than $100. I plan to put the proceeds toward the purchase of a food processor.
I don't remember how long it took me to prepare. I know I went through a whole bunch o' junk and put it on display in the garage.
Note: I didn't actually think that any of it was junk. I had tchotchkes disease.
Here are the bits I remember.
• I made my own flier for it.
• It took place in the garage.
• I sold a teddy bear (in a beautiful-red tutu) that I apparently didn't really want to sell: afterwards I lamented her sale.
• I wanted a lot of money for a ring display case and no one wanted to pay that for it. Its exterior was chipped, not just a bit. Its interior pillow was dingy.
I was sure it was precious.
I'd bought it at a neighbor's garage sale a few years before. It was the first and one of the only things I've ever acquired via yard sale.
• I sold a Nintendo game for $5; when an interested kid saw it and he asked how much it was and I said something like a dollar. His derisive whoop must have embarrassed his mother because she said "it must be worth more than that" and insisted he give me $5 for it.
~
Tomorrow I'm going to have my second garage sale ever.
This one I won't have to make fliers for: the street we live on has a well-known annual sale. Supposedly someone puts it in the paper — the newspaper. (I don't think I'd ever have one if I had to do my own marketing.)
I've tried to price things so that they'll sell. I don't frequent yard sales, so I have little market exposure to help me set prices. I've probably set some things too high (again), and perhaps a few things too low. (It would be convenient if there were no such thing as "priced too low to sell"; the psychology of pricing isn't so easy.)
I don't have a goal, but I suspect I'll be disappointed if I make less than $100. I plan to put the proceeds toward the purchase of a food processor.
13 July 2014
Melee
The day Roscivs got diagnosed with cancer I asked him who should I tell or not tell? (Note: I had already told my sister Rita, in shock and need.)
He didn't have any wishlist of persons to tell. I could tell anyone I wanted, he said, as long as it was clear they were not to contact him — ask him how he is, solicit information — call him for details — insist on "processing" it with him — &c.
I wanted very much to talk about it for a little while.
I chose to tell his mother. She was not the second person to know, or the fifth, but she was one of the soonest. I later wished sometimes that I had not told her for as long as that was feasible.
I don't know how long that could have been.
It was perhaps more his father that was the problem even up front (certainly later). It's hard to tell. They are, after all, a unit. His father began pestering Roscivs to "call your mother", telling him "she needs to hear from you" and "she's worried" and other such things.
I was — absolutely — clear that it was R's request that he not be contacted. That he be contacted and pressured to contact someone else seemed ... foul.
His dad didn't respond to the initial boundary.
When I reminded him, he kept at it.
When he kept at it, I sent him a diamond-clear restatement: this is Roscivs' wish. I expect you to respect it. He basically said I don't care what he wants. This is what I want. (To be fair, and to complicate matters, another reasonable interpretation of what said is what you say doesn't matter, we were his family first.)
Things between us went downhill from there.
Maybe he thought I was making shit up. (If he did, he had chances to clear this up in person: we invited them for a visit and he could have asked Civs "is your crazy wife making things up?")
Maybe he was trying to figure out how to comfort himself.
Maybe R's mother was so wildly distressed his dad was willing to try anything to make her feel better — even at the expense of his son.
I wasted a lot of time trying to figure it why the hell he was doing what he was doing. I had this belief that perfect understanding yielded perfect love.
After Roscivs died, I came across The Ring Theory of Kvetching. The basic rule is comfort in, dump out. A lot if not all of my problems with his parents came from violations of the Ring Theory of Kvetching. As I saw it, they were dumping in. Of course it was (and is) awful for them. I get that. But they dumped in.
Not okay.
There was another problem. Though I wouldn't have used Kvetching Ring language at the time — I didn't have it yet — they behaved in ways that communicated to me that they thought they're closer in to the center of the circle (Roscivs) than I. That made me a whole other dimension of upset.
When something horrible happens, when things go terribly awry, I like to think that at I least learn how to make them better next time.
Unfortunately, I don't feel I have gained constructive insight here. At least now I have a kvetchy hyperlink.
He didn't have any wishlist of persons to tell. I could tell anyone I wanted, he said, as long as it was clear they were not to contact him — ask him how he is, solicit information — call him for details — insist on "processing" it with him — &c.
I wanted very much to talk about it for a little while.
I chose to tell his mother. She was not the second person to know, or the fifth, but she was one of the soonest. I later wished sometimes that I had not told her for as long as that was feasible.
I don't know how long that could have been.
It was perhaps more his father that was the problem even up front (certainly later). It's hard to tell. They are, after all, a unit. His father began pestering Roscivs to "call your mother", telling him "she needs to hear from you" and "she's worried" and other such things.
I was — absolutely — clear that it was R's request that he not be contacted. That he be contacted and pressured to contact someone else seemed ... foul.
His dad didn't respond to the initial boundary.
When I reminded him, he kept at it.
When he kept at it, I sent him a diamond-clear restatement: this is Roscivs' wish. I expect you to respect it. He basically said I don't care what he wants. This is what I want. (To be fair, and to complicate matters, another reasonable interpretation of what said is what you say doesn't matter, we were his family first.)
Things between us went downhill from there.
Maybe he thought I was making shit up. (If he did, he had chances to clear this up in person: we invited them for a visit and he could have asked Civs "is your crazy wife making things up?")
Maybe he was trying to figure out how to comfort himself.
Maybe R's mother was so wildly distressed his dad was willing to try anything to make her feel better — even at the expense of his son.
I wasted a lot of time trying to figure it why the hell he was doing what he was doing. I had this belief that perfect understanding yielded perfect love.
After Roscivs died, I came across The Ring Theory of Kvetching. The basic rule is comfort in, dump out. A lot if not all of my problems with his parents came from violations of the Ring Theory of Kvetching. As I saw it, they were dumping in. Of course it was (and is) awful for them. I get that. But they dumped in.
Not okay.
There was another problem. Though I wouldn't have used Kvetching Ring language at the time — I didn't have it yet — they behaved in ways that communicated to me that they thought they're closer in to the center of the circle (Roscivs) than I. That made me a whole other dimension of upset.
When something horrible happens, when things go terribly awry, I like to think that at I least learn how to make them better next time.
Unfortunately, I don't feel I have gained constructive insight here. At least now I have a kvetchy hyperlink.
05 July 2014
a most awesome and beautiful thing
This morning. I went out to buy bacon. I took Euclid. I bought bacon. We didn't go right home; we went on an extended walk.
We were heading E on Dickinson (like the poet), a few
streets N of home. At the dead east end of Dickinson is woods — a
greenbelt running north south. There is a heron rookery.
^^^^†^^ ~~~~
---L-------- ^^^^^ ~~~~
^^^^^^ ~~~~
---b-------- ^^^^ ~~~
---b-------- ^^^^ ~~~
^^^^^ ~~~~~
---b---------------- ~~~~~
^^^^^^ ~~~~---b---------------- ~~~~~
---g---<3--- ^^^ ~~~~~~
Much of the greenbelt is a hillside.
Legend:
- d = Dickinson St
- ~~ = sea water
- --- = street [see that the southerly "b" street is a steep through-street down the hill to the water]
- ^^ = trees
- † = an approximate location of the rookery [known to me previously]
- <3 = home
An eagle! and a heron! swooped in front of us, so close — I saw individual feathers of the eagle's wing. The eagle was chasing the heron. I exclaimed — surprised. I exclaimed more — awed. They paid no heed to me, yawping monkey with a little dog.
The eagle seemed calm, if lethal focus can be said to be calm. The heron beat it; the eagle pursued; the heron seemed to lead the eagle to the rookery!? Euclid and I ran after them! They flew out of sight, into the woods.
Then we heard the heron(?) start shrieking. It started and didn't stop. We halted at the ivy-laced skirts of the woods. Then exploded a cacophony of what must have been all the herons — louder, louder! Other birds in the woods started too. I couldn't see but trees and little flitting birds fleeing, but beyond us it sounded like a great battle.
The whole woods' air was rent with avian screams.
We ran home to Bjorn. I could hear the herons nearly the whole way.
02 July 2014
Count Your Blessings Now
My miscarriage headache is gone.
This morning I brought in (in containers, not in belly) a pint of raspberries and a pint of blueberries, and — and! — counted 30+ Honeycrisp fruitlets.
This morning I brought in (in containers, not in belly) a pint of raspberries and a pint of blueberries, and — and! — counted 30+ Honeycrisp fruitlets.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)