Bouquets

I know I live in horticultural denial. Denial that I live in a place which temperatures can dip down to -20sº in the winter and soar above 100º in the summer, and what can possibly grow here, besides corn, wheat, sorghum, and Angus beef? Anyone who keeps banana trees in Kansas is bananas, herself. Ditto the pineapple and avacado plants. Oh, yea - the ginger as well.

But I have to show my blooms of the week!

Pink Oleander

Oleander can thrive in sub-tropic climates. Since it won't be thriving much longer out on my front porch, come late September, it will become part of my "Haul-in-the-Houseplants" collection in the fall. I need to face facts: I need a conservatory.

Oleander has a beautiful scent - very soft and...happy? Some people describe it as intoxicating fragrance. Well, I just have to tell you, it ranks right up there with peony and honeysuckle smells as one of my favorite fragrances.

Interestingly, as beautiful as the flowers smell, the oleander is considered one of the most poisonous plants in the world. Pliny the Elder wrote in AD 77 that despite its toxicity, oleander was an effective snakebite cure. I wonder if he failed to point out the obvious: the snakebite victim did not die from the snakebite, because the oleander probably killed him first. Anyway, don't be going and eating my oleander. Just enjoy the flowers and fragrance.

Bougainvillea

Another tropical plant to enter the Armstrong household in a few short weeks is my bougainvillea. It is said that the leaves of the bougainvillea are slightly toxic, akin to poison ivy, but I think the needle-like thorns would bother you first. And I can simply look at poison ivy and break out in a rash 2 days later, but fiddling with this bougainvillea hasn't produced like results.

Late this afternoon I went out to the front porch, and there was a collection of honeybees all along the steps. I have never seen that before. At first I thought they were enjoying the bouquet of fragrance, but then that Spouse o' Mine pointed out that the honeybees were probably getting water. (I had just moved the sprinkler.) Anyway, it was a fascinating sight.

So in spite of the near-triple digit heat and 20 mph wind, I do get some enjoyment outside this week...only a few short steps away from my air conditioning, thank you very much.

Summertime Exchange

So the College Boy came home 8 weeks ago, for summer.

And he took back his bedroom - which I had overtaken, not 36 hours after he left for his Freshman year, last year. I made it into a guest room, of sorts. That, and an additional TV room for those evenings when that Spouse o' Mine and I did not agree on video entertainment, i.e., when I did not want to watch a KABILLION different channels in a matter of, say, 30 minutes, and when he did not want to watch a KABILLION moments of commercials with the mute turned on.

Whatever.

The College Boy left this weekend for parts west, and although I had a boo-hoo moment as my baby drove off to school, in a matter of minutes, I was good. And in a matter of minutes, I was mentally reclaiming my art room. Yippee!

So today I spent some time tidying, organizing, and reclaiming my domain.

Love my kids.
Love my kids' development.

Love my art room.

Cicada Haiku

summer cicadas
forte - pianissimo
clamant evening song

(You can write your own Cicada Haiku...it's the thing to do...)

More Colorado Kitchen Talk

So here I sit, in the Colorado kitchen. This afternoon's rain (again: no wind, monsoon, tornadoes), was such a welcome to my soul. Earlier this afternoon, the College Boy left for points west, and, true to my maternal pattern, I boo-hooed on the steps of the porch. He waved to me as he got in his car. I know he is 19, but I could have sworn he was a 4 year old cutie-bug, climbing into his Little Tykes Buggy to pedal down the sidewalk some 25 yards away.

Oh my. I wonder: when does the boo-hooing stop? I don't mean I am still crying, I mean that every time one of my kids leaves for their own home, I tear up. Or more.

Well, after the College Boy left, that Spouse o' Mine and I headed in to town (Breckenridge) to enjoy some walking and talking. And we discussed dinner for the night. Weeks ago, we had a conversation regarding:dinner out: (my argument in rural Kansas in the middle of August was WHY WHY WHY would I want to clean up, only to climb into a 105* car and drive 20 minutes in said car, only to wait to be waited upon in some restaurant, still perspiring, and to give our order, perhaps at this point, rankled, and then to eat and climb into our 105+* car, to home? And our discussion, weeks ago, ended when we said, "Let's wait till Colorado.")

And now, we are in Colorado. We bid the College Boy farewell. We walked around Breckenridge, and the subject of dinner came up: Where to eat? This was bandy-ed about for a couple of minutes. A couple of minutes, only. Because, true to our course, we came upon this epiphany: "Why not go get a really good ***** and roast/bake/grill/ it and enjoy the mountain scene back at the house?

And so we did:

Grilled lamb chops
Salad
Roasted portabella mushroom, stuffed w/ spinach souffle

And so we STILL have not eaten at any fine restaurant, yet we have had fine meals and fine conversation.

What does the morning bring, here in the mountains?

I don't know! Stay tuned!
(As will I.)

Colorado Kitchen Talk

I'm sitting at the kitchen table in Colorado, looking out at the mountains and listening to the gentle rain (yes, I stress gentle; no monsoon in Summit County, no lightning, no tornadoes, no flash flooding.)

This morning my brother and I were sitting here, too, talking about this, that, & the other, as I sipped my morning coffee and he quaffed his Diet Coke. Something came up about this house - this house, and us, and ten years ago. I think he said this house was built ten years ago. I said, "Really? Ten years ago? It doesn't seem that long. Are you sure?"

And then he put it in a not-right-at-all perspective for me. "This house was built ten years ago, the same amount of time it took you to go from 1st Grade to 11th Grade."

What?? NOooo. Can't be. Because 1st Grade to my 11th Grade was very nearly a lifetime. The years we have all enjoyed this house in the mountains? Fleeting.

Now I look out the eastern windows of the kitchen: two huge rainbows, from one pot of gold behind one mountain south, reaching up and stretching over to another pot of gold beyond a northern peak. Rural Kansas has lots to say in beauty and nature, but I believe rural Colorado gets the prize this evening. A calm sprinkle? Two rainbows? No wind? Or dust? It's like I am merely watching a movie, here at the kitchen table, and blessedly NOT experiencing the tactile sensations of dust storms, gales, and monsoons.

And lastly, here's the College Boy,
halfway on his trip to points west to higher learning...

Wordless Wednesday

(OK; a few words: P-51 'Mustang' fighter in flight.
Inglewood, California, October 1942.
Reproduction from color slide. Photo by Alfred T. Palmer.
Prints and Photographs Division, Library of Congress)

You Get a Line

One source of fun and entertainment, growing up,
was catching crawdads.
Little ones, big ones (ouch!),
mama ones with babies under their tails...

The Crawdad Song

Speaking of Good Sports

Speaking of good sports, (I was - in yesterday's post about college kids and a couple of bushels of apples...), my family (minus one) was also a good sport when I decided to celebrate Thanksgiving this weekend.

It's August.

It's HOT.

But, we had 2/3 of our kids home, and that's 1/3 more than we will have home in November. Maybe 2/3 more. So, why not haul a turkey out of the freezer and roast it? And make up a mess of green beans, (green bean casserole, you know.), some potatoes and fennel, and a mince pie in the oven? And call it T'giving? Growing up, we never celebrated holidays on their given dates, so why should T'giving 2010 be any different?

How did we celebrate? Well, harvest of the apple crop, followed by processing of the apple crop. There was more processing to be done with these apples, since they were more-or-less organic, and sported multiple mars and holes on each fruit. So, where I might normally core and process the entire fruit, skin and all, this time we cored the fruit, then peeled the fruit, and the processed and froze the applesauce.

After our apple harvest came tennis and cycling. And of course I stayed in the AC and roasted said turkey and mince pie. It was a little dicey, because T'giving in November lends itself to walking outside to the porch if the chef gets warm in the kitchen. T'giving in August means the chef gets hot in the kitchen and walks out to an even hotter porch in the wilting humidity.

Oh well. Dinner came: a Thanksgiving prayer by the College Boy, and then food! And laughter and good conversation.

So come what may in November (and I cannot foresee the future), we will have this afternoon tucked in our memory.

The only part I did not like?

There was someone very special missing from the table.

Peach Season

"Hauling crates of peaches from the orchard to the shipping shed."
Delta County, Colorado, September 1940.
Reproduction from color slide.
Photo by Russell Lee.
Prints and Photographs Division, Library of Congress

It's peach and apple season here in Wabaunsee County. This morning I picked the bottom half of the old apple tree clean. The top half will wait for someone who wants to shimmy up a ladder, round and round the circumference. The new apple tree? I am not sure it has one apple on it. I thought, this spring, I saw 3 blossoms on it, and I thought, this spring, that that meant three apples. But I might be incorrect in my pome fruit blossom:fruit ratio biology stuff. Maybe.

And the peach trees are sporting small-but-dandy fruit. This afternoon a fellow from down the road stopped by to ask that Spouse o' Mine about the peaches: were they ready? That Spouse replied that they were not, but the apples were - go ahead, come on into the yard and pick! But the fellow from down the road smiled. According to That Spouse, a big, toothless grin. Oops. No apples for that guy. Well, that Spouse o' Mine did take it a notch further and explain to the fellow from down the road that he could make apple sauce from the ripe apples. The fellow from down the road said he was not going to make apple sauce.

Too bad, fellow from down the road.

We Armstrongs froze 10 quarts of applesauce this morning.

Happy kids home from college
who LOVE to be invited to do the Amish/Martha Stewart/
bond-with-your-mother things when they come home.

I love my kids. They are good sports.

Home

I've lived in many houses in my adulthood. My childhood was spent in one house, the house my parents still live in, 51 years after they purchased it, relatively new. All of my adult houses have been old. Relics. Charming. Having character. Needing repair.

East Lansing held three houses for us Armstrongs. The North Lansing house adjacent to Motor Wheel was an old two-story, with gorgeous dark wood trim and hardwood floors. It had a huge yard complete with big old barn, and I was convinced it was haunted. Odd and inexplicable things happened in that house. (But that's a Halloween tale for another day.) The 24-hour rhythm of sound churning from Motor Wheel (they made car wheels; hey-we lived in Michigan, OK?) was troublesome to ignore at the onset, but eventually we were no longer aware of the regular beat in our background. My Mom likened it to hearing oil and gas wells in the distance when she was a kid on the farm. This house was not in a nice neighborhood, we were once burgled, but there was charm to the house, happiness in walking to the Thai restaurant down a few blocks, and beautiful music emanating from the gospel church just a block from our house. I loved late Sunday morning walks in that direction. (Sorry, but our Lutheran music does not hold a candle to the beautiful gospel music sung by a congregation of African American Baptists. No contest at all.)

Our next house, in our very own "Movin' on Up" episode, was simply what we called The Summer House, because we only had it for 3 months. Terrifically large bedrooms, wonderful sun room windows, a large backyard for two nursery school kids, and that's when we discovered we had Babe #3 on the way. I loved that summer.

We moved on to House #3, in East Lansing. Park Lake Road. Older home, HUGE back yard that backed up to 6 other back yards, with gloriously-mature pine trees. A growing family's mecca, complete with neighbors growing appropriately-aged kids of their own. We threw kids back-and-forth (quite literally) over the fences to each others' yards for playtime. Even in winter, we Moms would congregate out at the fence for coffee. (One day? 11º. It's what Michigander moms do, ya know.) Our finished basement contained laundry, pantry, and a full rollerblade/skate-o'rama area for those long winter months. It was perfect.

Older homes..moving on...pun sort of intended...we Armstrongs moved south to Oklahoma and our alma mater, OSU. Looked at a house on day 1: loved it. But no one in their right mind puts an offer on their first house, right? So we looked at quite a few more houses, and THEN went back and put an offer on the old house on University - the first one we looked at. It was old! Charming! Spacious! Sunroom! Hardwood!

We raised our youngsters here, in a neighborhood full of friendly folk, a good elementary school, cyclable or walkable to the University. This has to be the favorite house we lived in. We had people stopping by our home all the time - kids, parents, strangers, students, whomever. We LOVED it. And we had lots of parties and get-togethers here. Ours was a really casual household, so who knew what they might find when they knocked on our door. But we loved our house, and we loved company.

Fate, economics, good fortune, whatever - all played a part in our most-recent-last move, 9 years ago. When we found that we would be moving to Kansas (K-State) with two teenagers and a pre-teen, of course all sorts of red alerts appeared on our horizon. The one thing all three kids requested? A home out in the country. Huh. OK. It made sense, I guess, in that we had quite a few horses - maybe they were sick and tired of riding their bikes 3 miles every morning and every afternoon for equine feedings. Whatever. That Spouse o' Mine and I felt like it was worth it to find a rural home to keep healthy harmony during this move.

So we found This Old House after much searching. It was certainly not perfect, and is STILL certainly not perfect, but it is home. Circa 1887, original hardwood floors, original dark wood trim, very interesting original basement (unfinished, but my goodness, the craftsmen that dug & built it knew what they were doing - dry as a bone!) The barn is truly a sight to be studied - no nails, only peg-barn construction, with the two widths of the barn joined by hardwood peg through mortise-and-tenon joints. Everyone should look at this art of construction!

The minuses to This Old House? Well, Daughter #2's cat Puzzle seems to think the upstairs is haunted by Cat Ghosts. The windows are not energy-efficient. We have hardwood through-out, and some of the floors are bowed. When we first moved in, I commented to a new neighbor about this, in our house. She quickly replied, "Oh - you get used to that." And she was right.

Such is the charm of an old house. Funny rooms and closets, wood the likes of which you "new home" owners will never ever experience, incredible history (a civil war vet took this land, made a small hut {now, our duck house}, and proceeded to build what is now our home.)

But above all the architecture and history and hardwood and nooks...all of our houses have glorious memories attached to them because it was our family.

"That house was the perfect house, whether you like food or sleep, or storytelling, or singing, or just a mixture of them all. Merely to be there was a cure for weariness, fear, and sadness." JRR Tolkien

I hope that's what all my family & friends think.

~ T.

Art

I like art. Paintings, sculpture, quilts, music, architecture, landscaping, colors, patterns, - oh, I could go on...

Am I an artist? Well, I dabble in lots of artsy things. I am neither gifted nor savant about art, but I like it. I like doing it, creating it. I hold no degrees in art, but I like to study art and artists. I love museums! A while back I was meandering through art posters in a store. I kept coming back to one which was a print of a Modigliani painting:

Madame G. Van Muyden, 1917

Why do I like this? When I got home after seeing the poster of this painting, I looked up Modigliani and perused his work. (I only recognized the Modigliani name from some childhood I Love Lucy episode. Sesame Street's got nothing over some of those old TV shows!) Anyway, to use that humorous phrase, the works "spoke to me". And I think they spoke to me because, I am sorry, Amedeo, but I think I could paint something like this. And I don't think that's a BAD thing, at all.

Years ago, in another season of my life and in another city, I was the "Picture Person" for the local elementary school. My job, as volunteer art cheerleader, was to acquaint students K-5 with art. Each week I would pick out an artist, aquire prints, posters, whatever, to show the elementary kids the works and tell them stories about each artist. Picasso, Degas, Neiman, Monet, Pollock - I made it a point, each week, to tell the kids, "You can do this, too!" I wanted them to know that each of them can create. I wanted them to know that there are no wrong answers in creativity.

I just wanted to urge them to create.

There's more to come on that note,
but right now I would just like to share some of Modigliani's work!

Kariatide, 1913

Portrait of Jeanne Hebuterne in a Large Hat, 1918

Tete de Femme

Wordless Wednesday

(Ok, just a few words:
Worker at carbon black plant. Sunray, Texas, 1942.
Reproduction from color slide. Prints and Photographs Division, Library of Congress)

Nipping at the Heels of the Dog Days?

It was an auspicious day in the Darwinian Garden.

We in rural Kansas have been weathering triple-digit temperatures for nearly two weeks, and I myself have been hunkered down in the air conditioning for most of that period. OK - I ventured out, only occasionally, to move the sprinkler from banana tree to banana tree. But that's it! Every other green thing was on its own.

Until today: overcast and somewhere between 68º-75º all day long. And no wind.

Omigoodness me.

I have been walking outside today in awe, as if I were just getting out after 4 months of snow and ice to see the first green blades rising. I have looked at the hostas (brown), the fruit trees (fruit: sort of ok), the bamboo (hmmm...might come round...), and the lantana down the front walk.

The ONLY thing thriving in this desert month:

(That's me, telling Biserka that she needs her face shaved. Poor girl.)

Many months ago, if you recall, I planted: a row of gladiolas, a row of zinnias, three rows of assorted sunflowers, a row of New England Pie Pumpkins, a row of ornamental gourds, and a swath of birdseed. What did my Darwinian cutting garden look like today?

The gladiolas won the springtime race, and like the hare, quickly fell to the wayside. The zinnias are still doing their thing, but with the recent solar blast on them, their colors aren't quite as magnificent as they might be. They're almost bleached out.

Sunflowers: Sunburned and black and done.

After looking at those rows, I tramped and I tramped through thigh-high weeds, looking for any sign of my New England Pie Pumpkins. Huh. Nothing to see there. I moved on to where I had planted the row of ornamental gourds: just one piddly thing that really doesn't resemble any ornament I want to look at. I stared at the birdseed garden, over Manley Peacock's burial site. Lots and lots of weeds, yes indeed, but also some tall tall millet and sunburned, dried-out sunflowers. I moved through the birdseed garden (it was kind of icky, walking through all the tall weeds), over to the grapevines. The concord grapes were purple and oh, so sweet, three weeks ago. Now the vines are crispy brown. There are still grapes, but these are clear and color-less and sun-bleached. But they still have that sweet concord taste. I ate quite a few off the vine while I stood there looking around.

All of a sudden, my eyes landed on something bright orange - in the birdseed garden!

WOWEE!!

I have New England Pie Pumpkins!!! In the birdseed garden!

And creeping up and down alongside my concord grapes!!

Who knew gardening could be so exciting?!!

I have no idea how those silly pumpkins made their way over the gourds and across the weeds and what-have-you, but it looks like we Armstrongs are good in the Autumnal Pie Department.

Three other rural Kansas notes for the day:

Mongrel ducks that have no clue
that grasshopper duty is in their job description:

Euripides the Cat knows his job description
(attack anything that moves), and takes it seriously:

And lastly,
the pretty volunteer petunia,
peeking out of the weeds now drowning it,
in what WAS the New England Pumpkin Pie Patch:

Wasps!

Things are bugging me this week, in This Old House.

Yesterday the College Boy had mentioned that there were a bunch of wasps upstairs in the art room. I told him A) Close the art room door until dusk. B) Spray the hornet's nest in the storm window after dark.

I went up there this morning to get a glimpse of the situation, and my gosh, he was not exaggerating. And he had also not A) Closed the art room door until dusk. B) Sprayed the hornet's nest in the storm window after dark.

So I did it this morning. It gave me the willies. There were 3 wasp nests in the storm window (obviously a very energy-efficient collection of windows in This Old House), and a creepy row of many wasps were lined up side-by-side on top of one of my window blinds.

And I sprayed them and shut the door, and will not think about them anymore this morning.

Call me Scarlet O'Hara.

Nature. Kill Them.

My banana trees, in my grotto, and underneath, imagine a pond with a few big ol' goldfish (not Koi), and a couple of little frogs lolling about.


And then, the hideous grasshopper colony: they were not part of our pastoral contingency all summer long - until this week. WHAT THE HECK? (as our daughter might exclaim.)



That Spouse o' mine was off to the local Man Store. I asked him to acquire some bug spray for my grotto. This was with some sadness - I have never, ever opted to resort to bug killer in my gardening. But I have had it, with the heat, the wind, the reports of 90-mph winds, the lightning, and WHATEVER.

All I can say is: Grasshoppers, I am taking you out.

And also? Come on, autumn...you are SO WELCOME.

Good Iced Coffee

There was an article yesterday in the Wall Street Journal, about making "good" iced coffee.

Reading it took me back to my introduction to iced coffee: a summer afternoon in Pasadena with my very dear Aunts Lois and Alpha. They asked me if I would like some iced coffee.

I had never had iced coffee.

I loved it.

Now, a few decades later, it's a regular beverage here at the Armstong home.

How is it made and served? Very simply, compared to whatever the coffee joints about town and WSJ might present:

Brew some strong(er) coffee.
Make ice cubes out of this.

Brew some more strong(er) coffee.

Put in your refrigerator to cool.

And then, find some nice "tall" glasses, and serve up the cool glass of iced coffee.

If your guests like cream (yes, thank you), and sugar (no, thank you), you will have the creamer and sugar cubes on hand. Right?

Wordless Wednesday

Be Still My Heart

See this?

See this?

Do you hear that?

No, no - not that deafening sound of the cicadas,
singing their heat o' summer song -
That other sound - that one, off in the distance.
Could it be?

Hope springs eternal.

Hot Monday

Today I ran, watered lots of plants and lawn, picked okra,
quilted, and canned pickled okra.

It must be summertime.

~ Van Gogh ~

Sunny Sunday

It is 6:30 pm and 103º outside. And windy. Like God's blowdrier is on high. The corn which was green last week has suddenly taken a turn for brown. As has our grass, the day lilies, and my mental well-being.

But this morning I managed a 2-mile walk/run, mowing more pasture and front yard, groceries, and neighbor's animal care before my afternoon hibernation. Napping and quilting after that, and now pizza dough rising in the oven. (Yes, I am baking. I don't quit baking in the summer, even in 103º weather.)

Tomorrow morning I hope to get out and do another walk/run, sans stupid motorist staring and glowering at me - what was that all about this am, anyway, and sans the 3-dog threat I got from the idiot neighbors down the road. I don't want to even get into either of these, because it pretty much broke up what should have been a glorious-albeit hot-hot-hot morning run.

What was FUN about the run was the 18+ Canada geese in the field just south of our house. For no particular reason did I enjoy it...I guess it was nice to see something out of the ordinary. Kind of like my anticipating a giant pterodactyl on last week's ride. I am fully up for surprises.

Tomorrow holds another walk/run (this term changes into run/walk at some point, and then "run". But this will be when the temps go down, say, about 60º.), followed by a bit more mowing and then going over to a neighbor's to pick okra while they are vacationing.

Love that okra!

Grateful

The Grad Student (above, formerly monickered as Daughter #1) and I went to a USPC Rally today.

USPC: United States Pony Club
It was very fun to watch the show jumping and not be white-knuckling with worry of MY KIDS out there competing. I enjoyed being an unbiased spectator, for once. (Although the 14hh pony in the last round surely did make me yearn for another wonderful pony like our own Dollie Golightly:)

Dollie Golightly, moving cattle at the Downey Ranch.

This afternoon brought back so many memories of our kids and their ponies. (Now I should mention that Pony, as in Pony Club, is not a diminutive of the equine species, but rather reflective on the child's age. I dunno...some Brit somewhere coined the term, and PC is a Brit-originated Club.) Our kids rode and kept innumerable ponies and horses in their time in Pony Club.

OK - my post's title: Grateful:

I am grateful that our kids were involved in Pony Club.
Pony Club taught all three incredible discipline. Incredible, incredible discipline.

"Take care of your pony before you take care of yourself", I still hear one instructor call out after a hard ride in really high temperatures.

And how about those sub-zero mornings, when the kids would have to break ice and feed before heading off to school? And when our kids rode their bikes 3 miles to feed their ponies, twice daily?


The Standards of Proficiency, the Horse Management, the ratings, Knowdown/Quiz, and the mounted meetings...

And how about the Christmas Mounted Meeting, riding around neighborhoods, caroling upon jingle-belled horses? And Halloween ponies?

Fun, work...much more work than a kid's typical day.

And, sadly, life, and death. I don't know how to describe it, but somehow the death of a 1500-lb friend is tremendous burden. Words do not describe.

So, yes! I am grateful that our kids, now all adults, were members of Pony Club. Responsibility, kindness, leadership, athleticism, science, and much more. I frequently encourage our three to turn and repay the volunteerism which enabled what was given to them: a great experience.

Moon, Socks, Zephyr, and some Armstrong kids

106º

106º

At least that's what NOAA reported this afternoon.

Yes, it was hot.
It still is hot. Whoever heard of 100º at 8:00 pm, anyway?

I ventured out the 120 seconds it took me to focus and yell "Smile!"
and scurry back into my air conditioning:

He is grilling tuna and scallops for dinner tonight. Then we can pretend we live on a coast of some sort. And pretend, that after a late dinner, we can go for a swim, or catch low tide, and watch the sunset, underlined by sea and sand. Yes, and then pretend, still, that the moonrise will shine down on the curling waves as the cool of the ocean breeze overtakes our tired bodies.

Aw, SNAP!

Dorothy, I've a feeling that we're still in Kansas...