Suzy Says

Holiday candlelight

Henrietta got an excellent report card, though she doesn’t play well with others.

Dr. Karen told me that Henrietta is at least 10 years old, but her test results were perfect. She excitedly showed me the results, pointing at things which of course meant nothing to my uneducated eye, and kept saying “I’m amazed!” She tested for low thyroid and anemia in particular, since Henrietta is such a lightweight, but there’s nothing wrong with her at all, other than a broken tooth and a bad ‘tude.

I have to admit that I was a little worried that she’d end up having something horribly wrong with her, or something complicated and expensive, so it was a huge relief. Also the final bill was actually less than the estimate, and when does that ever happen? Merry Christmas indeed!

Though heavily sedated, Henrietta was still pretty darn crabby during the proceedings, and expressed her displeasure. When we got home, she started clawing at the bars of her carrier until I let her out, whereupon she ran to her food bowl, meowing in her harsh, yet muted way. I couldn’t feed her until 5:00 that evening, and the vet said she probably wouldn’t be hungry, but she’s a tough little cookie from the mean streets of Oakland. She chowed down enthusiastically and showed no signs of sedation. I’m pretty sure she’s been through a lot worse than a trip to the vet.

When I first started feeding that little stray cat, I never thought the day would come that she’d sit on my lap and purr (or that she’d turn out to be a girl). We’ve come a long way together, and despite her age, I like to think our adventures are just beginning. It makes me so happy to see her sleeping beside me, safe, warm, and healthy. And she’ll stay that way for the rest of her life. The best really is yet to come.

It took me more than ten minutes to get the hard frost off the windshield and car windows this morning. Blasting the defrost didn’t do much, if anything, so I found a piece of wood and used that for a scraper, which worked pretty well. The whole car glittered with frost in the bright winter sunshine.

The Ridge was icy, and there was enough frost on the grass at the sides of the road to look like a light dusting of snow. As I approached town, I thought how strange it is to see palm trees lurking among the pines and redwoods when it’s below freezing. Not to mention people mowing their lawns all bundled up!

There was one angry cat in the back seat. Henrietta knew something was up this morning. She hid in the studio, and I had to pull a horrible trick on her by pretending to feed the cats and then scooping up all four and a half pounds of her and sweeping her into the carrier. She howled, spat, and clawed at the bars like crazy.

She was not amused.

She’s spending most of the day at the vet’s, since they’ll have to sedate her to examine her and do blood tests. I’ve used the time by buying Christmas stocking items, groceries, and 200 feet of electrical wire. Apparently the bears have been feeling the cold too and have been eyeing our bee hive, so my brother is going to get the fence surrounding the bees electrified as soon as possible.

I’m multi-tasking here at the Mendocino Cookie Company, enjoying the free wi fi while I participate in a conference call and wait for Henrietta to be ready. I’m looking forward to learning more about her. Stay tuned!

Woke up this morning to frozen pipes. A tiny trickle of water came out of the tap, so I was eventually able to make coffee, for the good of all concerned.

I also discovered that the Amerigas fairy had come by and filled up my tank unbeknownst to me and despite the fact that I still haven’t paid off the last staggering bill. I’m glad he did, though, because I’ve had to have the heat on all day and all night for the past couple of days, and today is the coldest yet.

When it was a more civilized hour, I called Mark and he said all the pipes on our property are frozen, including the water tank. He observed, “You must wonder where it is you find yourself”, and I have to agree. All the papers say it’s record-breaking cold, and I certainly can’t remember the last time I saw snow on Bay Area hills or below-freezing temperatures.

Mark came over to work on the pipes and clear out the little loft area above the bathroom. Among the items removed were an old futon and a couple of mattresses. Lucky the deer wasted no time in pulling apart the futon filling and nibbling on it, while June (and I) watched in horror. Mark and his family are going to visit relatives in Mexico for a month, so he wants to get as much done as he can before he goes. I hope he sends some warmer temperatures up this way!

While the freeze is on, I’ll leave the taps dripping and try not to think of our state’s perpetual state of drought. I’ll also finally get started on those Christmas cards. ‘Tis the season!

It’s a good thing we enjoyed the sun and warmth of Berkeley, because the weather here in Hooterville’s been more North Pole than Northern California since we got back.

It was 27 fun-filled degrees this morning when I woke up and shivered my way to the heater, where Henry(etta) was firmly ensconced, soaking up every one of the 54 degrees I allow for overnight. I turned it up to 64 and peeked out at the thermometer, which showed a below-freezing temperature in the bright, ironic sunshine. I’m pretty sure there was a light dusting of snow on the hot tub* cover and the wooden platform beside it. My brother said there was a dusting over at his place, and the papers are full of photos of snow on the hills in the Bay Area, such as this one at Mt. Diablo:

It’s supposed to be even colder tonight. At 2:00 in the afternoon, it’s still only 41 degrees. I know those of you who live back East and in other areas where it’s freeze or fry, depending on the time of year, are laughing at me and thinking how pathetic I am, but unless you’ve experienced the stupidity of California building first-hand, you can’t imagine how uncomfortable it is. For some reason, insulation is an unknown concept, so it’s basically like living in a tent.

Even though I’ve visited here many times over the past several years, I never really “got” how cold it was. It was 45 in San Francisco this morning when it was 27 here – a pretty big difference. I honestly think that San Francisco may be the only climate this princess can tolerate. Its entire range of temperature is from say, 40 to 80 at the most. Don’t forget the ocean breezes and fog, the natural air conditioner for the summer.

At least it won’t be unbearably hot here in the summer. Will it?

*The hot tub kind of works. I think. But it works by a combination of electricity, which Mark pays for, and gas, which I pay for, and neither of us want to pay for anything that isn’t strictly necessary. So let’s guess it will remain unused, other than a place for the cats to pounce on each other.

I just had some really bad in-room coffee and burned my tongue. The beverage which I sort of enjoyed turned out to be extremely hot. Maybe I can sue the motel and stay somewhere better next time. Actually, the room is, as Jacques Pepin would say, pairfectly fine, and it is conveniently located within walking distance of last night’s party. It is also located in a strange convergence of sari shops, marijuana growing suppliers, and gas stations.

Yesterday afternoon Megan and I left our remarkable amount of stuff in the room and took off for Telegraph Avenue to do some shopping, mostly of the window variety. It’s full of students, hippies, and general weirdos there, so we fit right in. We also fulfilled one of Meg’s long-cherished dreams: getting a henna tattoo.

Megan’s dream comes true

The world being as miniature as it is often claimed to be, the artist who did our tattoos happened to be the very one whose work Meg was lusting after at last summer’s reggae festival. Megan and Lu go every year to work as medics at the festival, and didn’t have a chance to get their artwork. But this year, they’re going to meet up with the artist a day before the festival begins, and get artwork all down their arms. Yay! Megan picked out this design for me:

After that, we had some coffee at Peet’s and then put on some make-up and went to the BAD RAP party.

When we packed for the party, I laughingly set aside my Manolo Blahniks, but I both could have and should have worn them. You should have seen the girls there! Black stockings with rhinestone seams, the latest in handbags, shoes, and accessories – I loved the girl wearing a black and white dress with a red hem and red stiletttos, and the elderly grande dame with the fur-trimmed cashmere sweater and suede kitten heels – these women don’t just read “InStyle” and “Vogue”. they do something about it.

While I was admiring the fashionistas and considering that I had never considered pit bulls to be a fashionista cause, Megan managed meet the founders of BAD RAP and talk to them about her goals, and they were not only impressed, but willing to help. It was a win all the way around.

Today we might go to the city before heading back to Hooterville. It’s been a fun little break.

I really like this theme, but it’s kind of hard to read. Also links within posts don’t seem to work, as in “party” below. I guess it’s a lot to ask for both form and function in one pretty package.

Megan and I are heading to Berkeley today to attend BAD RAP’s tenth anniversary party. You may remember her fifteen minutes of fame protesting Michael Vick’s playing at the Oakland Coliseum a couple of months back and her general passion for pit bulls, sparked by her own little Schatzi.

Well, this party is to celebrate a decade of BAD RAP helping pit bulls, and some of the rescued Vick dogs will be there. There will be food and music and chances to win prizes, but what Megan most wants to do is network with other pit bull lovers. Her dream is to set up a small rescue operation of her own, and the more people you know when attempting something like that, even in the future, the better.

I have to admit that I’m a little nervous about attending the event, because I can’t bear to hear or read stories of cruelty to animals, even when there’s a happy ending. When the news of Michael Vick’s atrocities was on the news, I couldn’t stop crying, and when Megan casually refers to the appalling abuse Schatzi endured in her early years (which I will spare you), I literally get nauseous and beg her to stop. So I may not be the best candidate to be in a room full of rescued dogs. But I want to support them, and Megan, so I’ll have to gather up my few shreds of courage and go.

We’re leaving later on today for the four hour drive. We’ll stay in a motel overnight, where I am planning to take a bubble bath and emerge from said bath into a warm room, a thought that fills me with excitement. Hopefully we can do some city-related shopping, such as a new DVD player for Megan, and pick up some of the Bay Area’s famed delicacies to bring back to Hooterville on Sunday afternoon.

I wonder what being in a city will be like after six weeks in the country. Stay tuned!

On Thursdays, it’s my turn to make dinner.

My sis is coming off three twelve hour night shifts, and is exhausted. I don’t know what she did before I lived here, but I’m glad to take that burden off her overburdened shoulders*.

This week was much worse than usual – she’s been having pain and complications following a routine dental filling replacement, and it’s made it impossible for her to sleep. In addition to that, the pain kicked into high gear when she was at work on Wednesday night.

If you’re going to be in sudden pain, the ER is a good place to be, but also means that your exhausted ass is going to be dopy on top of being worn to a frazzle. But she fought her way through it, slept for a couple of hours on Thursday, and then had to get up and go back to town.

Rob had an appointment with the constant glucometer doctor, and Meg had an appointment to see the dentist. Both went well, though the dentist still isn’t sure exactly what happened. While Meg was waiting for her prescription, she called me and told me they were on their way home.

It was about 6:00 in the evening, so I took my flashlight and the chicken stew I had made earlier in the day and headed over to her house. As I negotiated the puddles, I hoped that Santa will bring one of us a little red wagon, which we can use to haul things back and forth between our houses. Fun and cute.

Once I arrived, I put on the heat and lights, started warming up the stew, and assembled the ingredients for cornmeal dumplings. I noticed that the sink was full of dishes – one of Rob’s less endearing habits is that he saves the dishes for Megan to do – so I put away the clean ones and started washing the dirty ones. I reflected on how nice it is that we know our way so well around each other’s houses, and felt a little pang remembering how Dad’s kitchen used to be as familiar to me as my own (and vice versa).

Just as I put the last dish in the drainer, I saw the car’s headlights through the kitchen window. Megan and Rob were so happy to come home to a warm house, with the lights on and dinner nearly ready. And the bottle of wine I grabbed on my way out the door didn’t come amiss.

Both of them do so much for me, and I was so happy to be able to do a little something for them for a change.

*Despite being the youngest, she has somehow become the head of the family. When she was little, she used to tell me “I’ll catch up with you. You’ll see!” She not only caught up with me, she passed me!

Yesterday, I took Henry to the vet.

Partly a fact-finding mission, partly because Henry has been having…issues. He often rents his food very briefly, to the detriment of the living room carpet (why do cats always vomit on carpets instead of the much more easily cleaned wood floors?), and as for the bedroom carpet, well, let’s just say he frequently mistakes it for a litter box. Needless to say, the carpet is a very light beige and shows every spot and stain.

I tried moving all the food bowls up there, on the theory that cats don’t poop where they eat, but apparently this theory is incorrect, or Henry never heard of it. I then moved the bowls back to their original location and borrowed an extra litter box from my sister (there is also a litter box in the cold storage section of the house) and put that in the bedroom. This met with slightly more success, though sometimes Henry decided to treat the carpet and the litter box with equality.

I’m not sure if it’s the stress of moving, or living with two other cats, or an attempt to alert me to a health issue, but what with that and knowing nothing about Henry’s shady past, I made an appointment with Dr. Karen, who has served my brother and sister well for many years.

Henry was much less enthusiastic about the carrier than he was when we moved. There was hissing and clawing madly at the bars and growling in an “Exorcist” type manner. It was kind of unnerving. I feared for the vet’s safety. So did she, because she unscrewed the carrier top and lifted it off so she wouldn’t have to reach in. Henry was a puffball of rage as the assistant covered most of him with a towel and the shots were administered (rabies and FVRCP). Dr. Karen was barely able to get a peek at Henry’s derrière, but the peek revealed that he is in fact a girl (big surprise) and also old.

Henry weighs all of four and a half pounds!

In order to examine Henry properly and take blood to find out if her near-weightlessness is caused by thyroid issues or something like that, she will have to be sedated and then kept at the vet’s for half a day to make sure she recovers properly. Yesterday’s escapade, including topical wormer*, cost $138, and next week’s estimate is in the neighborhood of $265. You’d think I was living on Park Avenue instead of Hooterville.

Henry: the world’s most expensive stray cat.

I figure I’ll just keep calling her Henry. I’ve been calling her that for almost two years, so it’s kind of late to change it now. I can tell the curious that it’s short for Henrietta, and anyway, she’s clearly a tomboy (if not an actual tom).

I thought she’d hate me for the Great Vet Adventure, but when we got home yesterday, she came and sat on my lap as usual. How’s that for forgiveness?

*Henry is so light that the vet called the medicine’s manufacturer to find out the correct dosage. It was about a third of the whole dose. Dr. Karen put it in a syringe for me and I applied it while Henry sat on my lap last night. I don’t think she noticed.

This is going to be mostly a pictorial, since the working (and digging) of wells is beyond me. Megan and I have limited our involvement to bringing the boys lunch and picking up essential items from the store, like candy bars and cigarettes. Add in some nylons and you have your basic WWII GI rescue kit.

As we walked back to the car yesterday, there was a heated argument going on behind us about kinetic energy. I observed to Megan that our roles were clearly divided along traditional lines, with us doing the cooking and laundry and the boys doing the manual labor.

“Yup,” she agreed, opening the car door. “And I’m just fine with it.”

The first thing I learned was that the well looks like this, not a big hole in the ground that will one day have a stone Jack & Jill type wall around it.

Though we could definitely use a wishing well around here.

The pipe comes out of the well and over this basketball hoop looking thing to a muddy hole and bucket, where the mud, rock, sand(!), and clay are pumped out of the well.

Here’s the bucket and resulting mud pit. Schatzi found this the most interesting part of the operation.

This is the compressor, which powers the whole thing. Jonathan found it on Craigslist (where else?) and went all the way to Concord to buy it from some skeevy guy who tried to rip him off, but failed. You have to get up pretty early in the morning to put one over on Jonathan, especially where machinery and mechanics are involved. He ended up getting for a fraction of the original asking price, though he and Rob spent a couple of days repairing and refurbishing it. But it costs $162 a day to rent one, so it’s already paid for itself.

This is some kind of doodad (that’s the technical term, of course) which has oil and water in it. It has something to do with the actual drill.

The well is sort of done now. All the digging is complete, but there are other things to be done which are beyond my limited grasp of well digging. I’m so proud of the boys!

Of the many words used to describe me, “patient” has never been one of them. But living in the country seems to require patience, along with rubber boots, fleece, and a tolerance for bugs (so far, I don’t have any of these, either).

Of the many things that either don’t work or sort of work, the worst, to my citified mind, is the internet. I want it to work swiftly and speedily at all times, instead of sluggishly and unreliably some of the time. I want a week to go by without having to call tech support. I want tech support to be in the US of A, instead of Indiah. I want the tech support people to know what they’re doing. It would be a bonus if we could actually understand each other, too.

Yesterday, I spent an hour and a half of the rapidly dwindling remains of my lifespan on the phone with a guy who called himself Jimmy, but who sounded exactly like Apu on the Simpsons. I seriously considered offering his god a peanut as time dragged on and my internet still refused to work. Finally, Apu decided that I would need a technician to come out and try and figure out what was wrong.

Someone was supposed to call me within 48 hours to set up the appointment, which would cost $36. Hmmm, let’s review: I’m paying for at least three days of no service, plus an extra fee so they can figure out why I’m not getting service? Riiiight.

I took my trusty little iBook over to my brother’s place to borrow a cup of internet. It was a good thing I did, since I had some emails from my boss asking me to do some things, which I did while the bees buzzed and the sun shone in the background.

The prospect of no internet was so horrifying that when I got home, I started fiddling around with the various blinking objects, unplugging things and plugging them back in. The desktop computer came back to life, but my iBook had an IP configuration problemo, necessitating yet another call to the far East. After another half hour of trying to explain what was wrong, Apu 2.0 told me I had to call the router provider to get the IP address fixed – even though the destruction of the IP address was caused by all the numbers the earlier Apu had had me type into my system preferences on the first call.

I called the router people, who are also thinly disguised Apus, and they told me I had to call the internet service provider.

I threw the phone across the room.

Later, when I had recovered sufficiently, I unpacked the hub thing my brother bought me the last time he was in Santa Rosa, and tried connecting both computers to it. It worked, though I now have cables snaking down from the loft and through the living room.

I steeled myself to call Apu and tell him that the house call was no longer required, and got a confirmation number. Then I made a drink. Or two.

This morning, I was heading into the icy embrace of the shower (I do have a nice view of the back yard from there, though) when the phone rang. It was a guy who actually could have convincingly called himself Jimmy, asking to set up an appointment to come and fix the internet.

Story time

Even though Thanksgiving is not generally considered a gift-giving occasion (to my mind, one of its more delightful aspects), Jonathan couldn’t resist bringing Jessica a book which gives the real dirt on the Three Little Pigs. It’s authored by the Wolf himself, and you can see that it held Jessica spellbound. She wasn’t the only one, either. Jonathan seems to have inherited our father’s gift for reading stories and doing all the voices. It was great.

When the story was over, Jessica went up to bed. She had permission to read as long as she liked on this special occasion, but spotted my jewelry box. Immediate exploration was called for, and here you see Jessica wearing the earrings I wore at my wedding (my dress was a 1940’s emerald green taffeta gown), along with a string of jade beads my Dad brought me from China and a string of rubies from India:

Sparkle time

In going through the collection with Jessica, I realized how many beautiful things he had given me over the years on his many travels.

While Jessica was being delighted and I was getting nostalgic, there was channel surfing going on downstairs, and we were alerted to the fact that the Rockettes were on. I dragged Jessica down the stairs as fast as I could, and sat with her on my lap as the Christmas Spectacular unfolded in front of us in all its glory.

During the first number, where the Rockettes were wearing their Candy Cane outfits, she observed, “They look like little Christmas presents.” After a while, she said, “They’re the most beautiful girls in the world!” I was about her age when I became enchanted by the Rockettes and the Weeki Wachee mermaids, and the enchantment has lasted all these years. It was so fun to share it.

The next day, Erica told me that Jessica dressed up in a leotard and danced around the house saying “I’m a Rockette! I’m a Rockette!”

This sleeping beauty was awakened with a kiss on Thanksgiving morning.

My sister stopped by on her way home from work to make sure I was awake. She even made coffee, and there are few things nicer than lying in bed and smelling coffee you didn’t have to make yourself.

After checking with Erica, I learned that she was bringing pumpkin pie. As a family, we are the pickiest eaters ever, and in retrospect I feel quite sorry for my parents and understand all the cocktails that feature in many of our childhood photos. Every year, my mother would ask Jonathan if he wanted a piece of pumpkin pie:

“No, I don’t like it.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Well, you used to.”

I know that he never did like it and still doesn’t, so I decided to make an apple pie. I haven’t made a pie in years, but it’s surprising how it comes back to you. I’d say it’s like riding a bicycle, but that is one of the many accomplishments I don’t have, so I’ll just say it was easy as pie.

I was about halfway through when I realized I was making it the way my grandmother used to. If you look carefully at the picture, you can see that I pricked the crust in the shape of an apple with a leaf, the way she did:

The turkey brining seemed to be successful. After brining it for 24 hours, I rinsed it off and let it rest for a further 24. On Thanksgiving Day, I mixed herbs from Megan’s garden with butter and rubbed it under the skin and then roasted it.

It was a pretty simple menu: turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberry-bourbon relish, green beans, chestnut dressing, gravy, and two kinds of pie. We had hard cider the boys had made last year to accompany the feast. It wasn’t until we were all eating that I realized I had made nearly the whole thing.

After dinner, we gathered around the chiminea outside, laughing and talking. We all have a lot to be thankful for, especially each other.

You can see that the bear-proof fence is almost in place. The posts are sunk deep into concrete, and the wire was a huge score Rob made at the dump. The wire is expensive new, and someone had discarded it, so once again, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. All that’s left is to attach the gate and electrify the fence, so if a bear does try to raid the hive, he won’t try it again.

I hope we chose the right site for the hive. It’s supposed to have both sun and shade, and you can see that it does, but we’re a little concerned that the sun might not be sunny enough. So far, they seem to be pretty happy, though.

Since winter is approaching (and some mornings, it feels like it’s already here), the bees need some extra food to keep them happy and healthy. So every other day, I make them bee food: two cups of sugar, one cup water. It’s kind of zen, stirring it and watching to see when the granulation vanishes. Then I let cool it out on the porch while I do other things.

When it’s ready, I bring it over to the hive and pour it carefully into the modified Mason jar which is now the feeder:

It usually takes a daring bee explorer to be the first one to venture in and have a snack. Once he reports back to the hive with his tales of free sweetness, others follow. This is big news for bees, because they die when their beautiful gossamer wings wear out. The less they fly, the longer they live. Bees can range up to six miles in seeking food. That’s a lot of wing beats.

It’s almost impossible to see from this picture, but the two bees returning to their hive are loaded down with pollen, so they’re still finding non-Suzy sources of food, even this late in the year.

Other than the bees, the big project of the moment is digging a well. The boys have been spending every day this week on it, and they’ve dug down 23 feet so far!

View from the bookstore

In addition to picking up unglamorous necessities at the unglamorous Rite Aid (why do I always run out of all my drugstore items at once?), I also stopped off in Mendocino to pick up the organic, free-range Thanksgiving turkey from Mendosa’s. Fortunately for me, my sister had prepaid it, so all I had to do was put the box in my cart along with the last minute T-Day items: a bag of fresh green beans the size of my head, and equally fresh cranberries for my (in)famous cranberry-bourbon relish.

The last time Meg and I were at Mendosa’s, we noticed that they had ribbon candy for sale. Hand-made ribbon candy. My grandmother, whose wedding photo you recently admired, used to keep ribbon candy in a cut-glass covered dish at the holidays, and looking at the bright candy curls instantly brought me back to her wonderfully festive holiday celebrations. We bought some of the clove flavor, and it was even better than I remembered. I looked for it this time but alas! Others seemed to have discovered it, too, and they were out. They did have candy coal, though, which might be good for Christmas stockings. We’re all a lot naughtier than nice.

With that out of the way, I decided to stop by the bookstore, which has the view you see above. It also happened to have Christmas cards by the wonderful Snow & Graham, so I picked some up, while resisting buying new books, including the latest by Michael Connelly, even though it was autographed. It’s a great place to browse.

I spent much of today being shockingly domestic. I set the turkey to marinate in the brine I made while simultaneously making syrup for the bees (more later on that subject); made a shepherd’s pie with ground turkey also bought from Mendosa’s; did about 5,000 loads of laundry (some for Rob, some bedding for our T-Day guests, and some of my humble own); made lunch for the boys, who started digging a well on the property today; walked Schatzi on the logging road, and etc.

The plan is to brine the turkey overnight, rinse it and let it rest tomorrow, and either smoke it, if Jonathan isn’t on well patrol, or roast it if he is. Tomorrow I’ll cook the cranberries. Erica is bringing the pies and stuffing made with chestnuts she harvested herself, so all we’ll have to make on the day is the turkey, the mashed potatoes, and the green beans.

The first Thanksgiving in my new house! And no travel required.

The road to town

The town

You have to get a lot more up close and personal with your garbage here in Hooterville.

I mentioned earlier that I invested in allegedly animal-proof garbage cans when I moved here. I say “allegedly” because so far they have remained animal-proof, but I’m figuring that it’s a case of “them that have and them that will”, and one of these days I’ll walk out with yet another armload of empty wine bottles to discover that a hungry bear or a determined raccoon has stopped by for a snack and left the leftovers all over the place.

Even when unmolested, though, the cans of garbage tend to get pretty gross pretty fast. And it’s winter (or at least winter-esque), so when I think about what it will be like to lift the lids and add to the unlovely contents in the height of summer, my tiny mind runs away screaming.

There’s no garbage collection, so when the cans are full and/or I can’t take it anymore, it’s time to haul them to the dump. You have to pay to leave your garbage there, presumably for a decent burial, but recycling is free. How’s that for motivation?

The truth is, I do actually have garbage collection. It’s yet another service provided by the long-suffering Rob, who must at least once a day reflect on the fact that the “worse” part of his wedding vows eighteen years ago was not supposed to include taking out his sister-in-law’s trash, relighting her stove’s pilot light, and answering her ridiculous questions on a daily basis.

I came home the other day to find that he had not only emptied out the cans, he had compressed them into fewer cans so it was cheaper. How’s that for thoughtful? He also puts up with my compost contributions. Compost grosses me out, so I take it over to Megan and Rob’s compost box, where I steel myself to open the lid, dump it in as fast as I can, and run away, trying not to scream. All those bugs! Eeyagh!

By the way, it’s a total mystery to me how there can be so many spiders in my house and so many bugs. Maybe my spiders are slackers. As far as I’m concerned, they can play Catch Me If You Can outside.

I went to the Rite Aid today in the big town (not to be confused with my little town, pictured above), and I have to say that my current garbage situation made me think a lot more about all that wasteful packaging. Why is hand cream inside a box when it’s already in a plastic tube? When I looked at my Chico Bag of drugstore items, all I could think of was breaking down the packaging so it would take up as little space as possible in the recycling cans.

I’ve made some fun discoveries during the un-fun process of unpacking.

I found my grandparents’ wedding announcement (they got married in a field of flowers on a summer day with one attendant each, so Nana’s parents sent out “At Home” announcements after the fact. I wonder if there was a great big noisy fuss over that wedding) and put it aside to show Megan. She was six when they died, and doesn’t really remember them, but she was charmed nonetheless.

The best man; my obviously overjoyed grandfather; the grumpy minister; my beautiful grandmother in her home-made wedding dress; the maid of honor.

Today I came across a battered old book called Outdoorland which belonged to my father when he was a boy. His name and address are written in fountain pen on the inside cover. His schoolboy hand, to my eye, looks very little like the characteristic script he had later in life. I’m saving this one to show Meg, too. I loved that book when I was a child.

Yesterday, I discovered a Chinese brass box engraved with an elaborate design of dragons and lotus blossoms. I’ve had it since I was twelve years old.

Dad had a lot of fascinating and influential friends, and Dr. Kellogg was one of them. We went to visit him in his grand old house one day, and the brass box caught my eye and my fancy. I admired it and asked if I could pick it up to get a better look. Dr. Kellogg put it in my hands and said it was mine. I looked at him in shock, then looked to Dad as if to say, “What do I do?” Dad told me to thank Dr. Kellogg, and I did. For the rest of the visit, I held the box and made sure not to admire anything else. At least out loud.

I learned later that Dr. Kellogg and his wife had bought the box on a trip to China many years earlier. They used to keep cigarettes in its wood-lined interior. I have miscellaneous foreign money in it now, including Russian, French, and Italian, but what the box really holds is memories.

Frost burning off the post*

Yesterday it was raining so hard that it woke me up before 6:30. I lay there listening to the rain on the curved roof, wondering if the power would go out, and realized that the propane heater needs electricity to start and stop, just like my gas oven in Oakland. Clearly a design flaw, especially in a place where you (a) know the power is going to go out at some point in the winter, and (2) also know that your town is the lowest priority for power restoration in the area.

When Mark came by to fix the flickering lights in the living room (I forgot to ask him about the flickering porch light and the leaking washing machine, again), we talked about generators, yet another subject in the vast pantheon of rural things I know nothing about. As long as I have enough power to keep the refrigerator and heater going (ironically) and a couple of lights lit, I should be fine. But that will be another $200-300. I guess this is another country style investment, like allegedly animal proof garbage cans.

Another investment on my wish list is a heater for the studio space. Also it has come to my attention that my wardrobe is inadequate for current circumstances, since I only have one fleece and no boots, at least no boots which I’m willing to sacrifice to the muddy gods of winter. Sometimes I look at my lavender suede Manolo Blahniks and my stack of “Vogue” and “InStyle” magazines and just laugh. I wonder what their recommendations would be for a suitable country wardrobe?

*Looks like I should invest in a new camera one of these days.

Apparently, I have a boat.

I really shouldn’t be surprised. James was the king of the pack rats. I’m not sure that he ever threw anything away, just in case it came in handy one of these days. And to be fair, both he and my brother have shopped the junk piles in the woods while doing repairs on cars and other things.

But there are always new discoveries to be made.

The other day, Megan showed me the easy way to get to the logging road from my house. This is the same road I used to run every day when I was staying in a tent at Megan’s to help take care of Mom a few years ago.

We passed the trailer full of Rose’s pottery, and I noticed that there are also shelves on the outside of it covered with miscellaneous objets (d’art and otherwise). Then I noticed the derelict shell of an ancient VW van, also filled with things and stuff which had witnessed much wind and weather over the years. To the point that they were pretty much unrecognizable.

But wait! There’s more!

Behind that was yet another rusted out corpse of a former trailer, filled to its decaying brim with, you guessed it, still more things and stuff.

Sense a theme going on here?

Even Fred Sanford would run away. He’d be clutching his heart and yelling, “‘Lizabeth! I’m coming to join you!”

And he just might.

Yesterday’s rain, today’s sunlight

My new house and I go back a long way.

My brother lived on this property for fifteen years or so, and my sister and brother-in-law have lived here for a decade. James and Rose, who lived here before me, were friends as well as neighbors and landlords.

Our good friend Paul, who put me up (and put up with me) in Florida and the Hamptons a few years back, rented this house while James and Rose were in Mexico one winter (I now appreciate the wisdom of this plan).

That Thanksgiving, Paul’s daughter and her then husband-to-be* were visiting from LA, and my Dad was visiting from London. The day after Thanksgiving, Dad and Megan went for a ride on the scenic Skunk Train. When they came home, he decided to head over to Jonathan’s to soak in the hot tub before dinner at Paul’s.

Several minutes after he left, Megan and I noticed that he had forgotten to take a flashlight to light his way back. We called Jonathan to tell him, and he said Dad wasn’t there. We all hung up at once and went to look for him.

Megan found him half-sitting, half-lying against a tree, making strange and horrifying animal noises. He had had a stroke.

I freaked out, and Megan, who was not yet an EMT, told me to knock it off and sent me to Paul’s house (now my house) to call 911. Dad was helicoptered, with me in attendance**, to Ukiah, and his life was saved. This experience inspired my brother to become a volunteer firefighter and my sister to become an EMT, joining the very same emergency services teams that saved our father’s life. I wrote a grateful letter to both departments which was posted at the Albion store until it became too faded to read.

Nine years later, it’s that time of year again. And every day, I pass by the tree where we found Dad on that cold night, and am so thankful. For finding him. For his being my best friend. For my sister’s strength. For my brother’s courage. For my family.

For my life.

*He’s a drum technician for the Red Hot Chili Peppers. He’s known them since high school.

**I later learned my brother and sister decided to send me with Dad to “give me something to do” and keep me from driving them crazy on the long drove to the hospital. They know me well.