My Life in the Movies--Camelot

With little fanfare but much wringing of hands, a bit of Camelot shone down on my part of the Frozen North recently.

It was the "Lusty Month of May." I didn't have to "Wonder What the King was Doing Tonight," I knew. He was kicking himself for getting a PhD in Philosophy instead of learning the trade of plumbing.

The kitchen sink had developed a COUS (clog of unusual size, but that's a different film.) My attempts at repair had at least ruled out a minor stoppage in the trap underneath. The problem was obviously somewhere in the bowels of the basement, a place those faint of heart did not dare to go.

Do you have any idea how catastrophic 48 hours without an operable kitchen sink can be? Needless to say, when Sir Wrenchelot of Plumb arrived on his shiny white steed,



I was overcome with more than "The Simple Joys of Maidenhood." "Follow Me" I called over my shoulder as I led him to the field of battle.

After dealing with the dragon in the bowels of the basement and chasing away the COUS (clog of unusual size), Sir Wrenchelot returned everything under the sink to its former glory. All was now shiny. (name that canceled Joss Whedon scifi epic) Literally.



In gratitude, I felt my heart being drawn away from my king, though only for a moment. I wracked my brain for a suitable second quest and came up with this.



Ladies (and gentleman, if there be any reading this), just trust me. If your pipe looks like this, it needs replacing. The true test is if you turn on the water and it gushes forth from the side of the pipe instead of through the faucet thingie at the pipe's end.

Once again, Sir Wrenchelot sprang to my rescue, artfully wielding wrenches with the grace of fencing foils and wearing plaid.



I was convinced he knew "How to Handle a Woman," or at least her plumbing problems. A thought came to mind, "What Do the Simple Folk Do?", but was brushed aside as the knight handed me his bill. Evidently, the upkeep on shining white steeds is a bit pricey these days.

As he rode off into the west, uh, actually east, I waved my hanky in his direction and turned my attention to washing 48 hours of dishes piled in one side of the sink. The work went quickly as I sang wistfully, "Don't let it be forgot that once there was a spot for one brief shining moment that was known as Camelot."

Granny's Garden

One of the things that I remember about my Mom is her garden. She tended it like everything else in her life, with lots of love. Here is my favorite picture of Mom, aka Granny, aka Momma, with two of her five grandchildren.



The eldest niece (on the left) is now grown and in the throes of wedded bliss and new home ownership. Mrs Fer's Mom, iPodite, and I have agreed that in the terrible event of the unthinkable happening--divorce--we get joint custody of Adorable Hub. He's just that adorable. Mrs Fer and Adorable Hub have recently returned to Texas, the motherland, from New York City, the foreign mecca.

Mrs Fer tells me she was inspired by my gardening post to go out and build one for herself (a garden, not a post), using only her bare hands, a few power tools, and her Adorable Hub. They chronicled it all here.



I responded that what she was feeling was not inspiration, possibly indigestion, but most certainly her grandmother's latent garden muse springing forth. Let me explain.

(at this point the screen gets all wavy and watery to simulate going back in time, WAY back in time. Just humor me, ok?)

It was the dawning of the age of aquarius, whatever that means. I don't remember what iPodite was into then, but I was a closet hippie. (after bearing three children and 30 years, my hips are no longer in the closet. They're out there. Way out, dude.) Imagine granny glasses, long brown hair, and a wardrobe that tended toward corduroy, denim, lace, and a shocking pink pantsuit that I will never live down.

The counter culture revolution was trickling down, deep down, into the heart of a 40something conservative, naive, country loving Georgia peach. (That would be Mom, aka Granny, aka Momma.)

When Mom and Dad first moved into the home where they spent the rest of their lives, there was a little creek at the bottom of a big ditch which ran behind and parallel to the backyards. Of course, we didn't call it a creek. In that part of Texas we called it a bayou. (pronounced slowly, and with lots of syllables between the first and second part, bah-yoo)



The bayou was a (dundunduh!) forbidden zone for us kids because it was a breeding ground for water moccasins and copperheads. Of course, that meant the bayou was exactly where we wanted to play. (Sorry Mom and Dad, it was just too tempting.) And somehow, we never ran into any snakes.

What Mom and Dad did not know was that the snakes feared the kids more than the kids feared the snakes.

It was the city department of public works that ended the standoff between parents, kids and snakes by bringing in huge concrete pipes and filling in the ditch/bayou. The easement now became extra backyard for all who lived along it. And we were gifted with a big manhole on our part of it.

Mother was out mowing the yard one day and heard a moving, hissing sound underneath the manhole. The public works department sent out two workmen who removed the cover so they could say they "looked into" the situation, and then replaced it without further investigation. There was some mumbling about the possibility of alligators working their way through the slimy, wet darkness. Hey, it was a bayou.



Anyway, after falling under the spell of JI Rodale, Adelle Davis, and a local gardening expert named Bob Flagg, Mom decided she wanted to plant an organic garden on the back forty (feet, not acres.) I think maybe she was just tired of mowing the extra lawn.


(Mom's gardening notes. I loved her handwriting.)

There was a flurry of activity involving tillers and dirt and planting, and the second year that manholed grass covered alligator alley of a city easement had turned into a 30 by 50 foot organic garden. In the late afternoons, Mom would grab her handled basket, don her gardening hat and gloves (a proper Southern lady always wears gloves), and disappear to the back 40 only to reappear 10 or 15 minutes later with a basket full of okra, beans, tomatoes, corn, or cucumbers.


(first okra plant, picture taken with an old Argus 35mm film camera by a young amateur photographer who shall go unnamed.)

Mom loved her garden. Somewhere I have a short video filmed after we had moved away to the Frozen North. Our Principessa, still in her nightgown and barefooted (a proper Texas native spends most of the summer barefoot), had followed Mom out to the garden and I managed to film a second or so of conversation before Mom realized what I was doing and protested.

And so, my dear Mrs Fer, although I appreciate your thanks, it's not me but Mom/Granny/Momma you should thank for the gardening inspiration. We are both, in a sense, flexing her green thumb in our dirt filled endeavors.

Here's hoping our gardens will be filled with as much love as hers.

(note--the younger niece, the Animal Whisperer, has a different garden I need to tell you about sometime.)

Our Town, or WWTW Say?

Let me introduce you to our town. We live in the country, but my Dear Professor works at the college in town. It's a grueling 6 minute commute each day. And that's one way, mind you. It's worlds away from his hour and a half bus commute when he was an attorney at a big law firm in the big city in Texas, or even the 45 minute commute to the university of his post grad days in New York.

It's a hard life, I know, but my Dear Professor loves his family enough to make the sacrifice. And the free books. He loves review copies of books.

Where was I? Oh yes, our town. It's your typical two block town. I think Thornton Wilder would find many things here very similar to his fictional Grover's Corners.

The only high rise is the retirement condo on main street. All eight floors.



The natives, and you have to go back at least seven generations on the same block or farm to claim that distinction, call life here "living in the bubble." Every now and then the bubble bursts, but we don't talk about that.

Let's see, we have everything one could want: a real movie theater with resident bats,



(I am told by one of the natives that the bat colony probably predates the theatre. They keep the lights low, but you can hear fluttering on rare occasions. The bats add a certain, umm, ambience to horror flicks. And mosquitoes are never a problem.)

a ratio of one hairstyling salon for every two women and one pizza place for every three college students,



more Gothic Presbyterian churches than a Southern Baptist can shake a stick at,



one US Post Office (currently under renovation),



railroad tracks that separate the two blocks of downtown from the "suburbs",



three banks in a row,



a local coffee house that serves sandwiches and a caramel macchiatto that can give Starbucks a run for its money,



an uptown block,



a downtown block,



and right smack dab in the middle of Broad Street, wait for it, wait for it,



a tattoo parlor!

Now I ask you, in all seriousness, what would Thornton Wilder say?

Gardening by the Square

I need to mow the lawn again. Bad.

But there is an alternative. I'm dreaming of a lawn turned into a beautiful, geometrical, Martha Stewartish, orderly garden. I'm great at making plans, but the follow through is the tough part.

Fortunately I have a young energetic partner in crime--Rachael.



That's Rachael, saying the word "poo" and holding a big, dark, clump of aged straw and manure. I have piles of the stuff from 18 years of cleaning out the horse stall, goat barn, chicken house, and rabbitry. All but one funny bunny are gone now, but a little of them all remains in the dark, rich, composted pile of garden gold.

I like the idea of square foot gardening, growing plants in a minimum space for optimal yield. I tried it once, many moons ago in Texas with a 4 by 6 foot garden bordered with concrete blocks. I raised broccoli, sweet peas, tomatoes, parsley, celery and who knows what else.

My favorite informational website is journey to forever. Plan on spending awhile there. They have educational stuff for kids, alternative technologies for developing nations, online publications, you name it, they've got it.

If that journey is too overwhelming, then run, do not walk, immediately to this website and download the sf step by step guide. It should answer most of your questions and is very simple to follow and includes a planting guide as well. All you need to do is convert the metrics to inches.

And this is how the final product might look. (I used the dimensions 12 feet by 4 feet.)



I wonder what Rach planted in this corner?



Have fun!

What are you planting?

(for more square foot garden deliciousness, click here.)

Driving, Miss, Daisy (for iPodite)

Coming home from the airport I almost missed them. There they were, pristine white, standing tall in the middle of the highway divider. I couldn't resist. So I pulled over on the shoulder, and climbed out of my truck. (I'm a closet redneck, remember? I drive a truck.)



I know I must have looked like a crazy lady, clicking away with my camera. But they were just begging to have their picture taken.



So, I happily obliged. All were patient as I searched for just the right camera angle to showcase the white petals against the green background.



Of course, I had to try a skyward shot. I had a passing fear that I resembled a reality version of those plywood cutouts of ladies bending over with their pantaloons showing. Oh, you don't see those yard ornaments where you live? Lucky you!



I had fun, and I think they did, too. I could almost hear them chuckling in unison as I turned to go. I looked back over my shoulder and actually caught one in the act!



(dedicated to my baby sister, iPodite, with whom I share a love for movies, Blue Bell Ice Cream, and Daisies.)

Golden Book Acres

After a comment by iPodite's eldest, Mrs Fer The Writer, I am thinking about changing the name of Iron Acres to something more appropriate. Let me explain.

It was our love of peace and quiet, much like Mr. Flibberty-Jib's, that led me and my Dear Professor to move to the country 18 years ago.  I remind myself of that each time I spend a few hours mowing our huge lawn.  Watching a sun set across an expanse of green and listening to the tune of birdsong makes the labor worthwhile.


Two of our three children were supportive of the move.  Son #1 The Preacher enjoyed having friends over for a campfire and late night musing over the meaning of life.  Principessa loved the numerous kittens whose birth in the barn loft seemed to coincide with her birthday on more than one occasion.  The holdout was Son #2 The Dreamer.  His longing was to be able to walk or ride his bike to his friend's houses in the nearby town.  And that is how this farmer became a chauffeur.

We enjoyed being awakened each morning by the rooster's crow.  All would agree that farm fresh eggs from happy free range chickens improved my cooking considerably.

When I did cook.

Although we never had a poky little puppy, our critters have been under the watchful eye of two adopted farm dogs, Bandit and Misty. (Misty the freecycle wonder dog is appropriately named as it is a wonder when she comes when called.)

I loved our goats.  They were a compact dairy alternative to cows.  I like animals that are conservative on the feed and, ahem, fertilizer factor. And kidding season was always fun.  Baby goats are like kittens with more fur and hooves.  Their antics were always amusing.  I've loved horses from childhood, but I believe I bonded most closely with our goats. 

There were horses, too--Lucky, Buster, and Mia.  Lucky, the mischevious gray pony , stayed here for a year while her owner was in Scotland.  Buster was an Appalousa with the smoothest gallop I have ever experienced.  Mia, a palomino colored Arabian/Quarter horse mix was my dream horse.  She spent her final days in retirement here.





Most of the farm animals are now gone.
(I had to make room for visits to the Sprittles!)  But a few of our ducks and geese are still on lawn patrol.


So there you have it, my life in Golden Book illustrations.  What do you think?

Should Iron Acres be renamed Golden Book Acres?

Herbday--Lavender

So, did you have a memorable Memorial Day? Did you check out any of those links I posted? My favorite was the lavender one. I cannot imagine how I have lived this long without an olive wood herb grinder.

I love lavender.



I like to think it's because my father's family was from France, but it's more likely because lavender is so, well, lavender. What's not to like about it? Lavender is the second herb I fell in love with. (Mint was the first.)



And I am not alone in my fascination for this particularly fragrant plant. All over Texas, well, at least in the dry, arid areas, lavender farms are springing up. Principessa and I visited one a few years ago.



Perhaps it is because lavender is so versatile, the swiss army knife of herbs. Mood enhancing, headache easing, and body fragrancing are just a few of the ways lavender is used to enrich our lives. And I didn't even mention lavender's culinary (teas, cookies, sorbets, or breads) or decorative abilities (wreaths, flower arrangements, sachets.)



I fell in love with lavender all over again after the birth of our first grandchild (Hi Boo!) Beautiful Mommy used Lavender and Chamomile baby bath and lotion on the little darling. I went right home and bought a tubful of the lotion to remind me of Boo. (Ok, maybe not a tubful, maybe just a large bottle.)



My dream is to travel to Provence one day to experience the lavender fields. (And visit a goat dairy.) But for now, I will be satisfied with my own little plot of lavender right outside my kitchen door.

Entertaining

Martha Stewart I ain't, but here are some entertaining sites to ponder on your day off. You do have today off, don't you?

Still trying to make up your mind what to cook today? Mosey on over to homesick texan for a mouthwatering ribs recipe (and some sides to boot!)

Mental Floss has a great round up of weird news for the week.

Just when I thought the internet couldn't get any weirder, Lifehacker came up with a website that gives you tips on when to "go" during a long movie.

This one is for owners of pampered, size challenged, furry friends. What they do to Cheekywawas is just criminal, but wickedly amusing. (Sorry Spike.)

I would die before allowing someone to point their camera at my refrigerator. But some people are proud of theirs. Go here to see the pictures. (warning, not for the squeamish)

After the refrigerators, it might be time to clear both your palate and your nose. For a truly lovely contrast, try this site.

Oops, gotta go put on the burgers. Have a great holiday!

(play us off, keyboard cat)

Memorial Day

This weekend we celebrate the beginning of summer.  There will be grilling, time with family  (in some cases a time of grilling the family!), the Indy 500, and ultimate frisbee.  Enjoy, for those 100 days of summer pass far too quickly.

In the midst of this time of gratitude for the return of a delightful season, let's stop a moment to thank those who have given their lives to preserve our holidays.



As the Greatest Generation is leaving this world, another generation is engaged in a present conflict.  What I fear most is that many of them do not understand how heroic they were, and are, both on the battlefield and the home front.



We stand on their shoulders, and they are indeed tall ones.

Thank you.

"The 30th day of May, 1868, is designated for the purpose of strewing with flowers, or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village and hamlet churchyard in the land. In this observance no form or ceremony is prescribed, but Posts and comrades will, in their own way arrange such fitting services and testimonials of respect as circumstances may permit."

Young at Heart

It has been said that we tend to become childish as we, ahem, mature.  I now have proof.

Jack Bauer the master spy and defender of truth, justice, and the American way,  must have planted some videotaping device in our home, because I stumbled upon this recording recently.  I swear it is an authentic conversation between myself and my Dear Professor.

Or could be.



(You do know who Jack Bauer is, don't you?  "The Man" from the tv series 24.  If you don't know who he is, then you must immediately rush to the nearest video rental place and grab all copies of the last 6 seasons to bring you up to snuff, as Grandmother was wont to say.   You'll thank me.  Honest. And have a wonderful Memorial Day weekend!)

Fowl Play

This is something only Gary Larson could have imagined. It is a cartoon he might come out of retirement to draw.

A trench coated individual is standing at a major intersection in a major city. As the cars come to a halt at the red light, he sidles up to the driver's window, whips open the coat to display its bulging contents and says, "Psst! Hey, wanna buy a live chicken?"



I am not exaggerating. Read this. The current chic (pun intended) contraband in urban settings is the chicken. There are anti chicken city ordinances that have been rescinded in some places, but not others, for example, Washington, DC. So, some folks, addicted to fresh eggs from happy hens, must resort to illegal possession of poultry.

I miss the rooster crow that awakened us for 17 years here at Iron Acres. The chickens are all gone, but I am seriously thinking about starting another flock later this summer. There is nothing like the sound of a contented hen clucking, or the taste of a fresh egg.


(Yes, Virginia, eggs do come in more colors than white. Many more colors than white!)

I suppose that is another reason country living appeals to me. I can enjoy the crowing, the clucking, and those wonderful fresh eggs without breaking the law.

The only foul play at Iron Acres will be fowl at play.

(Sorry, couldn't resist that one. *wink*)

I Love Clouds

I am happy to report that I am much less conflicted today, notably due to the efforts of the Great Bundini, rabbit hypnotist extraordinaire. After spending some time in garden therapy, which the Great Bundini insisted was necessary, (especially since her fee was the green of a type that is more likely found in a garden than in the US Mint)I can truthfully say that my mind is in the clouds.

Literally.

I love clouds--

blue,


white,


pink,


or bright.


I love all clouds alike.


But I suppose, if truth be told, I like the ones


that have the sun


peeking through them best.

Have a wonderful cloud and sun filled day!