I am not a hot-weather fan. Most of you have probably heard me say that after growing up in the heat and humidity of St. Louis, I announced that I would only go to college in either Wisconsin or Minnesota. I headed north and never looked back.
You’d think that for such a weather wimp that I would have invested in central air at some point. Nope. Or that at the first sign of summer I would install my bedroom window unit to get some cooler air. Nope. Normally it takes three or four days of over 90 degrees in a row to get me to deal with the air conditioner and this summer all our 90+ days were spread out.
So it seems particularly unfair to me to have such a hot weekend towards the end of September. Right now it’s getting dark and I’m sitting in my bedroom with three fans going: ceiling fan, oscillating fan on the floor and a box fan pointed right at me. I will admit that if my window unit were installed, I would have turned it on tonight, but I can’t bring myself to get it out of the closet and install it for one night.
I do realize that there are quite a few spots in the world whose weather has been undeniably worse than ours the last month but thinking of it hasn’t made my mood any better or my room any cooler. Guess I’ll just sit here and pout some more.
My sweet corn finally got ripe. It’s not good. But Dammit, I’m going to eat it!
I get sweet corn from the seed corn dealer. Two small bags slightly bigger than what you’d pick up from Fleet Farm in the spring.
I use the first bag as I test the planter as I start corn in the spring.
I divide the seed into 3 rows of the planter and then plant the sweet corn testing depth and the monitor and just making sure the planter is working properly.
This year, the first 50’ I had the depth wrong so the corn never emerged. And the last 75’ was next to the pasture and woods and the deer ate all that before it even got tassels. But I kinda expected that.
Then I plant all the rest of my regular corn. And then, before switching the planter to soybeans, I plant the second batch of sweet corn. Some years that might only be 3 – 7 days. This year it was about 2 weeks between batches.
I plant the second batch in a different field, close to the house and on the other side of the field from the trees and deer.
This year with the weather being so cool, it took a long time for that second field to get ripe. The bottom of the ear was tough and the top and middle were just OK. I don’t know if was the variety of the sweet corn or just the way it ripened. And there was a lot. 12 rows 100’ long. I knew it was too much but I take a lot to the my siblings and I freeze some and I invite others. This year, I bought corn earlier to freeze as I didn’t know if mine would ever get ripe
But darn it; I look forward to sweet corn all summer and I’ll be darned if I’m going to not eat it just because it doesn’t taste good!
A little over one week ago, I shared the story of Peanut’s taking leave of this world. Little did I know that an ordeal a few hours later would completely distract me from grieving the old guy.
Peanut’s Last Day
I have what I refer to as a ghost cat; a 10-year old calico rescue named Izzy. Peanut was her best and only friend. It took several years before she’d even approach me for affection and it was unrequited. Everything spooked this cat, even seeing headlights coming down the driveway. She spent 18 hours a day hiding behind the furnace, only emerging after dark to be with her friend, Peanut.
Peanut died on a Friday. Izzy was suddenly on my lap and behaved the role he’d played all of these years, as though she’d been waiting for her opportunity and only been an intern who learned how to be a companion from observing him for a decade. I loved it. We soaked each other up with mutual affection for hours. I think she knew all along how to do it, but Peanut stood in the way because all of her affection was used up on him.
About 2AM, I went to use the bathroom and smelled gas. My furnace and water heater are behind louvers in the bathroom because there’s no basement here. I called the gas company and they sent out an emergency tech. He found carbon monoxide coming from the 50-year old water heater and shut it down. While standing there, I noticed a 5” hole in the floor, below which the dungeon exists. This is a crawl space beneath the cottage made up of a maze of tunnels with a rocky dirt floor and about a 20” clearance to the studs above which hold the place up. I knew at that moment that she’d gone down the hole.
I called and called her name, put tuna in a baggy with a string to tease her up, and opened up the trap door to the dungeon below. In the dark with a flashlight, swiping away a hundred years’ worth of cobwebs, I crawled through the scary tunnel looking for her. My mind went to thinking the gas tech’s commotion scared her into the vast duct system snaking throughout the underworld.
The next morning, the guy who used my dock walked by. I ran to him, hysterical, and asked for his help to find her. He then entered the dungeon and came out empty-handed. This tunnel is so tight that it can only be exited by crawling out of it backwards. An hour later, one of his friends went into the dungeon and found a collar she’d lost many months ago.
The light went on. I realized in that moment that she had not been hiding behind the furnace all of these years; she’d taken up residence in the vast dark underbelly beneath the cottage! She’d been leading a double life all along. Still, I clung to the vision of her being so spooked that she’d dived into and gotten stuck in the venting system, so I called an HVAC guy to come and dissemble the entire network of ducts. He said he’d be glad to for only $200 an hour. I told him I’d hold off until the next day. Next, I called Animal Rescue, Pest Control, and ultimately the police.
Two officers showed up, full of empathy for the little old lady who’d just put down one cat and now lost the other. One of them was hefty in size but insisted on crawling through the dungeon anyway. I truly worried that this brave cop would get stuck.
Every minute she was gone felt like I was letting her die down there. Later that night, Mary texted that she’d probably breathed in carbon monoxide and peacefully died. This seemed like a plausible reason that she hadn’t emerged from the hole she’d dived into, so I crawled the dark tunnel one more time, only this time looking for a body, then went outside to break a small window to peer into the dungeon. I’d resigned myself that she’d died down there. The thought that I’d forever live on the floor above my deceased cat was very unpleasant. I even posted her obituary on my Facebook wall right above Peanut’s obituary.
On Sunday, I decided to force myself to go dancing because my favorite band was playing. I got home around 1AM, went into the bedroom, and there she sat on the window box right outside my window. She obviously had exited through the broken window. Shocked but indescribably relieved, I popped open the pull-down screen and she flew in right past me to the second floor. My heart sank recalling that I’d removed a panel up there which allows access to the plumbing behind the wall. Sure enough, she dived into it. I gave up at this point.
Another 12 hours passed, then, out of nowhere, she sauntered into my bedroom, acting as though none of this had even happened and took up residence on my lap. Now I am the one living a double life because my generous son paid for two purebred Ragdolls last Thursday. I knew that these exotic cats would not only heal my heart, but would be the best companions for what remains of my life. I’ll be 88 by the time of the average lifespan of these kittens. That’s why I wanted two: so they have each other if I die first. It’s also mesmerizing to just sit and watch these fur balls rolling around and chasing each other. The name “Ragdoll” comes from the fact that when picked up, they go limp in your arms. They look like giant, long-haired Siamese and can grow to 20lbs. Years ago, I owned three of this breed and have longed for more ever since. They’re rated as the most affectionate breed there is.
Rag Dolls
My double life resembles Izzy’s, only hers was below the cottage, and mine is splitting the days/nights between my little Ragdolls blocked into my downstairs bedroom, and my all-nighters sleeping upstairs to comfort Izzy. I don’t know if she’ll ever meet the downstairs cats, but she knows they’re here and will not come down.
And so, one door has been shut, and another one has opened, bringing with it new life, peace, and soul-healing.
When has one door opened for you as one door shut?
The header photo was taken September 12, mid afternoon, in New Town, ND. The site is the Four Bears bridge over the Missouri River, and the haze is smoke from Montana and Canadian forest fires. It has been a long, smokey summer. I believe that the smoke made it all the way to the Twin Cities, too. Tonight the visibility here is predicted to be about 2 miles, which is quite reduced from normal. I can’t imagine how awful it must be for people living in western Montana. All we can do is wait, and hope for precipitation.
A friend of mine from the Flathead Reservation in Montana says that the only thing that will put out the fires is snow. I am happy to report that snow is predicted in the higher elevations out there tonight. It rained here today and it didn’t dissipate the smoke at all. All we can do is wait it out.
This has been a summer of waiting on the weather-waiting for rain that never came, waiting for it to cool down (it was 98° here yesterday) and now waiting for the smoke to go away. It is a lesson in human insignificance and the power of nature.
For the first time in several years I took a vacation that lasted more than three days. I renewed my passport and flew to a country I had never been to before, in a part of the world I had never been to either: Leon, Nicaragua. While still technically in the Northern Hemisphere, it sure felt far South to this Minnesota girl. It was hot. Humid and hot. And wonderful. Would I go back again if given a chance? You bet. I missed the entire Atlantic side of the country. And Leon, the city and state where I spent the bulk of my time, is worth a second trip. There are places I want to revisit and explore more of, history to be absorbed (more on that in another post), and more tasty little mamon chinos that need to be eaten.
There is one part of the trip I do not need to repeat. It was great to have done it once, but once was enough: climbing the volcano.
Nicaragua is divided by a mountain range, which includes a string of active volcanoes. One of the volcanoes has its natural steam harnessed for energy. And one you can climb. If you’re foolish enough. And you have a guide. We had a guide. And I didn’t look at how I had to get down once I was up. So up I went.
Did I mention the guide moved like a bi-pedal Nicaraguan mountain goat?
Cerra Negro (“black hill”) erupted last in the 1990s. It spewed ash and pumice for miles – a bit like Mount St. Helens in Washington. Driving through the countryside to get to the park it was easy to think that the farmland was covered in rich, black dirt – until you realized that wasn’t dirt, that was pumice left behind by Cerra Negro. No humans died when it erupted, but plants and farm animals did. Hundreds of people had to evacuate because the surrounding area wasn’t livable. The fauna is coming back, but Cerra Negro itself remains a big black hill with virtually no trees or vegetation of any sort. The locals advise that you start climbing early – that lack of vegetation means you are clambering up a pile of black rocks in full sun. As you get closer to the top you start to get a nice breeze, but that becomes a steady wind that can blow your hat off (and threaten smaller people with toppling over). Did I mention there isn’t a true path? You just have to keep following the route of your native mountain goat guide over the rocks…Good thing he was willing to take breaks on the way up.
As you climb, and once you are at the top, the views are spectacular. It’s lush green in most every direction. The crater of the volcano has its own rust-colored beauty, but it’s not as photogenic as the next hill over. It’s good to stand at the top and recognize you just climbed a volcano. It makes a person feel accomplished. If you are my daughter, this makes you want to do cartwheels and handstands. If you are me, you fret that your child will go tumbling down the steep side of the volcano as she does handstands and cartwheels.
Then you need to go back down. Down is a different route. Down is down through pebble-y pumice that is a bit like deep sand (except it’s far more likely to scrape you). Down is steep, steep like a ski jump that you don’t see part of until you’re on it. Down means leaning back because if you stay upright or lean forward you will fall headfirst down 2400 feet of pumice covered volcano. The guide advised leaning back and going down at a trot. That worked well for Daughter who has no fear of heights (and actually enjoys them). I was less speedy, less graceful, and far more willing after a near panic attack to forgo dignity – scooting and crab-walking down, allowing all fours and my backside to hug the mountainside.
A fair amount of Cerra Negro arrived at the bottom with me in my pockets and shoes (I found yet more in those shoes weeks later back in Minnesota while walking around at the state fair). Up took just over an hour and a half, down took Darling Daughter about 10 minutes and me, um, more than 10 minutes. But I went up, and now I was down, And I can say I climbed a volcano on my summer vacation.
When have you done something even though you were scared?
It’s all your fault that I have too many tomatoes. Six years ago I read Tomatoland by Barry Estabrook, based on somebody’s recommendation on the trail. That made me want to grow my own tomatoes in the worst way. That led me to straw bales which had led me to today; tomatoes are taking over my kitchen!
This past weekend I tried to make a dent. First I made salsa for the freezer (2 jars):
4 cups diced, fresh tomatoes (Roma) – I didn’t peel them because I used an immersion blender after the salsa cooked down
1 medium green pepper, chopped
1 large onion, chopped
4 chopped loco peppers – didn’t seed them so I could keep the heat
1/2 cup tomato paste
1/4 cup vinegar
1 Tbs. sugar
1 tsp. salt
2 tsp. garlic powder
1/2-1 Tbs. cayenne pepper
4 Tbs. chopped cilantro
That didn’t make a big enough dent so then I made Tomato Veggie soup in the slow cooker:
3 cups diced tomatoes – again left the skins on
2 cup water
1 ½ cupsw green beans, cut into bit-sizes
1 cup diced potato
1 cup diced turnit
1 cup chopped cabbage
4 Tbs. cooked onion (sautéed w/ the garlic)
4 cloves of garlic, minced
½ green pepper, diced
2 bouillon cubes (I used vegetarian cubes)
Salt & pepper to taste
Everything into the slow cooker, on low for about 8 hours.
Then today I came home and found another batch of ripe tomatoes on my vines. Help!
What do you like to do with excess garden produce?
Turns out the Mississippi River has its own magazine. I have finally finished reading my latest issue of Big River, which covers news of the Mississippi River from Minneapolis, MN, down to Muscatine, Iowa. Its byline is “Covering the heart of the Driftless Area for 24 years,” although there is usually some news about the Twin Cities. (The Driftless area includes Hastings and Red Wing, as well as La Crosse and Prairie du Chien in Wisconsin, Dubuque and the Quad Cities in Iowa, Galena in Illinois.) It is published six times a year here in Winona.
I devour this magazine. First I read all the Big River News segments, which give updates on everything from the Gulf of Mexico’s Dead Zone to a new plastic pollution problem: tiny plastic particles from people’s microfiber jackets. Besides environmental issues, these paragraphs cover items like a new bike rental system in Clinton, IA, and an expansion of the National Eagle Center in Wabasha. My favorite tells of a new happy hour in St. Paul – the Kellogg Park Craft Beer Overlook: 3 to 6 p.m., Tuesdays through Fridays till mid-October. This September-October issue also has a special sidebar detailing and picturing which ditch weeds to NOT PICK because some part of them is poisonous (poison hemlock, giant hogweed, wild parsnip, and cow parsnip).
Feature articles range from “A Tale of Two Neighborhoods”, about North Mpls. and Northeast Mpls, to a short two-pager on kestrels. For the exploring traveler, an article details sights and places between La Crosse, WI to Winona, MN. Restaurant and book reviews are regular features, as are lots of glossy ads – I don’t mind because they are for things and places that interest me.
I just checked, and Big River is available at Minneapolis’ Central Library, but only for “in-house” use. I’ll bring some back copies next time I get to BBC (Blevins Book Club – see top left of this “page”, under Blogroll).
What river, anywhere in the world, would you like to explore?
As I walked up the driveway yesterday afternoon, I noticed the monarchs having a party on one of my sedum plants. I don’t know if they’re really monarchs but they’re orange. They were only interested in that one plant. All the other sedum plants were bare!
Last weekend I saw this dog sitting in a nearby car. The owner returned as I was standing there and I told her what a well-behaved dog she had. She said “Last week she saw a mouse in the basement and now she won’t go down the basement stairs.”
Barbara in Rivertown’s comment on Name That Carrot: “It’s kind of looking at clouds…” inspired this post.
My mom is a big fan of looking at clouds and seeing various things in them. She has told me, more than once, of how, when she was a kid, she liked to lie down outdoors and just see how many things she could see in the clouds. I suppose when you grow up in Iowa there is a lot of sky and clouds to look at.
This penchant for looking at clouds has apparently passed down to other generations. One day, when the twins (her great-grandchildren) and I were outside, they were looking up at the sky. We talked about what the clouds looked like. Twin 2 said, “I see a…BUTT!” and they both dissolved in laughter.
Tell us something funny that a child you know has said or done.
Trail Baboon 