Suzy Says

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.

Swine flu* is just so passé. All the cool kids have library-itis.

Its onset can be insidious. You can have a library card for years, lurking in a drawer or making your wallet a little snugger than you’d like, but never take it out or even think about it. But when you come into close contact with a person suffering from library-itis – especially an advanced case – you’re probably going to catch it, too.

This is what happened to my unsuspecting sister. I told her about the joys of requesting books on line, how you follow their progress as you move to the head of the line, the thrill of seeing “In Transit” when you check your holds (as you do, at least once a day), and how picking them up for free is like getting a present.

Now, I went home and requested thirty books as soon as I got my shiny new card (which my sister tells me is a parvenu tourist card, whereas hers, though much less pretty, is a long time local resident’s, which clearly has much more Coast cred), and my sister only requested a half dozen or so, but she was just as excited when she learned she had three waiting for her.

She left for work early in order to pick up her books, and I kindly gave her some of mine to return. This evening, she called me on a break at work to tell me that she actually had four to pick up. Oh, and she had returned my books.

There is no known cure.

*Sorry, powers that be: “H1 N1”, as a term, is never going to catch on. It’s just like make-up: it’s more fun (and memorable) to be Cherries in the Snow than Number 42. Except for Chanel Number Five

Audrey on the porch

It soon became apparent that my in-house doorman* gig had to end.

The door in question is this one, which separates the (somewhat heated) living quarters from the (completely unheated) studio. The studio was where Rose created her pottery – her kilns are still there – and now is home to The Boxes, both litter and otherwise, and the cats’ dishes.

Rose must have been altogether more stoic than Suzy, considering the outdoor shower and outhouse (only recently replaced with the current, indoor bathroom) and the arctic weather in the studio. The studio has cement floors and big sliding glass doors and no heat, so it’s the next best thing to actually being outside. Throw in some grass and you’re practically camping.

Whenever the cats wanted to eat, drink, visit the salle de bains, or just explore, I had to open the door, letting Siberian winds sweep into the nearly warm living area. This is what is known of as a “setback”. When they were ready to come back into the warmth, they’d claw the door to alert me, and I’d open it yet again. When you consider three cats and the multiple reasons for going in and out of the door, you have several very good reasons to buy a cat flap.

Which is what I did. I brought it home and was surprised that Rob installed it immediately, while Megan and I were making dinner. I thought he’d save it for a rainy day, or maybe tomorrow, but he seems to feel it’s good to get things done as they arise. Probably because he knows that tomorrow, or on the rainy day, I’ll have another project/silly question/unreasonable request.

I was happy, but the cats…not so much. They seemed to find it pretty undignified. I shoved them through it a few times, and then they saw how it was. Needless to say, Adventurous Audrey was the first one to go through and come back unassisted.

I have learned a lot about Audrey since we’ve moved. I always thought she was the sweet, quiet little sister, following June around, but here she’s struck off on her own exploring, is often the last one in at night, and calmly sits beside Megan’s pit bull and Lu’s Rottweiler, completely unconcerned.

*I refuse to say “doorperson”. If “chairman” and “doorman” are the accepted words, use them, instead of coming up with some clumsy sexless form. Another of my (many) pet peeves is people who refuse to use the feminine form, such as actress, calling Marilyn Monroe an actor. What’s wrong with being a girl?

Library

Literary Cat

One of my few talents is being able to spot a misspelling or typo at twenty paces. I rarely read a book without finding at least one spelling or grammatical mistake*. I guess that makes me pretty white, but I can’t help it. Possibly it’s the aftereffects of having an utterly useless degree in linguistics**.

I might tell someone about it, especially if they happen to be nearby when I read it, but I’ve managed to resist the urge to actually write in a correction. It’s surprising how often people feel the need to write their comments or corrections in library books. That, and the horrible habit of dog-earing pages. There ought to be a fine for that.

Among the most recent crop of library books was Peter Mayle’s “A Good Year”, one of his enjoyable novels set in, of course, his beloved Provence. An exasperated reader had annotated the book as follows.

On a wine-tasting scene:

“With but 3 bottles, the wine would be swallowed, followed by water.”

Good to know.

“No, she wouldn’t care for a goddam [vigorously scribbled out] drink.”

Apparently our oenophile objects to profanity.

*I have to admit to a certain smugness when I find one in “The New Yorker”. I recently noticed that they spelled Mary Beth Peil’s name “Piel” in a review of the TV show “The Good Wife”. My Dawson’s Creek addiction finally paid off (Ms. Peil was a recurring character in the show).

**I have never had a job which had anything to do with my degree.

Waking up is hard to do.

Some of us don’t even try.

What should I do today?

Morning light

The past couple of nights I’ve dared to sleep in my bed, although for some reason it makes my aches achier. But I couldn’t handle the Elephant Man thing of sleeping partly sitting up on the couch anymore. Why is life full of unpleasant choices instead of, say, one fun’n’easy option? Hmmm?

In the morning, I hobble carefully down the stairs, clinging to the driftwood banister to prevent any further fragility and the girls follow me – or precede me – in their headlong rush to the “front” door. If you’re wondering what the deal is with my irritating quotes (at least they aren’t air quotes!), it’s because the door is at the side of the house. But it’s the one we all use to come and go, including the cats. Except when they use the sliding glass doors in the living room.

I let June and Audrey out before going to make coffee and turning up the spectacularly ineffective propane heater. No matter how cold or wet it is outside, they bound out happily, looking for trouble and fun wherever they can find it. Henry, on the other hand, prefers to huddle by the heater or cuddle up with me as I read my fan mail. He is superbly unperturbed by the girls calling him a mama’s boy.

I have come to know who is coming down the stairs by the sound. June busy and bustling; Audrey light and graceful; Henry has a characteristic drag in his back leg, whether he’s walking or running, probably from a past injury.

Lately, Henry has taken to drinking from my ever-present water glass. June used to be the only one who did it; now they all do. It’s as if Audrey is copying her big sister and Henry figures that’s what inside cats do.

The girls come back in for breakfast, which is the usual mêlée, and then I let them out again. And in again. Lather, rinse, repeat. My sister says, “Cats are New Yorkers at heart – they all want doormen.”

…but it’s not – it’s Fiona!

The Impostor

The Real Thing

Meet Fiona, my neighbor.

She belongs to Rose’s daughter Catrin, who also lives on the property. Fiona stops by whenever she feels like it. Although (or perhaps because) she and June look so much alike, they tend to growl and snap at each other. It’s weird to see mirror images fighting with each other.

I guess I really am the crazy cat lady, with three full-time cats and two part-time ones.

Lucky pays a visit

Meet Lucky, my neighbor.

She was rescued as a tiny baby by Mark and Citlali from the scene of the accident which cost the lives of her mother and brother. They bottle fed the little fawn, and she grew into the lovely scenery-eating lady you see here. Mark and Citlali’s dog, Luna, took good care of baby Lucky, and I’m pretty sure Lucky thinks Luna is her mother and vice versa. Luna is very protective of Lucky, despite the fact that Lucky is about five times bigger, and you rarely see one without the other.

When I first met Lucky, Luna kept trying to get between us until she was sure I wasn’t going to make any trouble. Now I often look up and see the deer and dog, just passing through my garden.

Gertie

Henry and Gertie have switched places. And I feel guilty.

Gertie, an unlovely name for a lovely cat, lived in what is now my house for all of her 13+ years. Even after her owners were gone, she stayed. But once I moved in with my herd of cats, she abandoned the premises, though not completely.

She hangs around, meowing sadly, and I put food, water, and a blanket in the shed. After I feed my cats, I go outside to feed her.

Sound familiar?

She’s supposed to be living with her former owner’s daughter, but she can’t understand that they are gone and she has a new home.

She lets me pick her up, and she purrs happily, but she won’t come in the house. I thought she’d venture in when all the doors were open, but no. I’ve picked her up and brought her inside, but she just runs out again as soon as she can. It’s getting colder lately, especially at night, and we’re supposed to get rain this week, so I’m worried about her.

It seems ironic that bringing an outdoor cat inside basically made an indoor cat an outdoor cat. Though I’m glad to have Henry safe and warm (as I write, he’s curled up next to me on the couch), I’m sad that Gertie is homeless because of me.

Any thoughts or ideas welcome! Leave them in the comments or email me at sjpeakall AT gmail DOT com.

I could have borrowed the title of this post from the title of Haven Kimmel’s delightful memoir She Got Up Off the Couch: And Other Heroic Acts. Yesterday, I performed my own heroic act by getting up off my own couch and accompanying Megan (and, more importantly, Princess Schatzi) to the Mendocino Headlands.

The quaint town of Mendocino is perched on rocky bluffs which jut out into the ocean. The trees there are windswept and bent into fanciful shapes from years of wind and weather. The headlands are bordered by blackberry bushes and rose brambles, and there are trails all along the rugged coastline.

It was a beautiful day, and there was a high surf advisory, so the ocean was even more spectacular than usual. Schatzi bounced happily along, wearing her cozy sweater (pit bulls have very thin fur and really feel the cold. Schatzi literally dances on her hind legs for joy when Megan gets a sweater out for her) and sniffing the exciting smells. I walked along more slowly, careful to look for unexpected rocks and gopher holes. It was good to move again, even if it was somewhat painful. I loved the sea air and the spray on my face and the sun on my aching bones. And the company.

Before

After

You can see that Rob’s been a busy bee. He found two pieces of driftwood and some redwood (the house, including the staircase, is made of redwood) and Suzy proofed the loft over the past couple of days. If I can ever sleep upstairs again, it will be good to know that it’s unlikely I’ll roll off. Once was more than enough, no matter what Jacqueline Susann says.

I’m slowly improving, but still can’t sleep in my bed. For some reason, lying down riles up the bruises on the left and the rib-related injuries on the right. I tried again last night, but ended up dragging my pillows and blankets back downstairs. I propped them up on the couch, where I slept like the Elephant Man for the fifth night in a row. I now fantasize about sleeping on my side in my bed instead of having dinner with George Clooney in Venice.

How the mighty have fallen. Both literally and figuratively.

Speaking of busy bees (and Italy), the bees have arrived. There are 40,000-60,000 of them, and they are Italian Blondes. Megan and I stopped by our brother’s place for a quick inspection. We could smell the honey and feel the heat through the netting on the top of the bee hive:

Now that Rob has Suzy proofed my house, he’s going to help Jonathan bear proof the bees, building an electrified fence around them. While they’re doing that, I’ll start reading “Beekeeping for Dummies”. Will Calamity Suzy and bees be a bad combination? Stay tuned!