Past Blogs

Woodchucks, a.k.a. groundhogs, are the largest members of the squirrel family. Their name comes from the Cree Indian word, wuchak, so don’t expect any wood chucking behaviors from your local groundhog.

You may be wondering why I did not address this topic on February 2, America’s official Groundhog’s Day. I am not overly fond of that day, nor, I would suspect, are the groundhogs.

Bear in mind that groundhogs are true hibernators. After a hot shower and a cup of coffee, we non-hibernators wake up fairly easily. For hibernators waking up is a big deal. Seven month slumber sessions involve a vastly slowed down heart rate (100 beats a minute to 4), breathing (one breath every 6 minutes) and temperature (97°F to less than 40°).

It’s positively unkind to bother these guys in the middle of their winter naps especially when we already know that six more weeks of winter is a certainty, shadow or no shadow.

We celebrated Groundhog’s Day two weeks ago. That’s when we spotted our newly awakened groundhog sitting in the middle of the birds’ seed table, stuffing his face with oiled sunflower seeds, the perfect lunch for a herbivore.

A few days later we watched him ambling down the path the animals have made along the edge of our bluff. He would stand up and look around, sentry duty, every foot or two. We’ve noticed that Woody is a cautious guy.

This morning we put out a few stale cookies on the birds’ feeding table. Shortly after, we saw our favorite guy in a state of groundhog bliss shoving cookies into his face… Groundhog’s Day for him. (Click thumbnail for full size Woody!)

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Most of us are blissfully oblivious to the number of words we read each day. This simple fact hit me like an unabridged dictionary when I was in Japan a few years ago.

Not only can I not read Japanese, I can’t even sound out the words in my head. In Europe I can wander around reading all sorts of great words. Of course, I don’t have a clue what most mean.

An oxymoronic sense of calm and frustration descended on me in Japan. I could sit on the train, focus on the scenery and not have to read the plethora of billboards and signs that flew by my window. In this situation, I was illiterate.

On the other hand, it would have been nice if I could have read the signs at the hot springs, “Beware, poisonous fumes are omitted by the volcanic vapors”. Luckily, a Japanese friend took pity on me and supplied that translation.

After Japan, I am cognizant that being a reader doesn’t just provide hours of pleasure with the books, magazines, newspapers and movie subtitles I choose to read. Since I read automatically, loads of non-elective reading happens daily. Much of this reading is inane, superfluous, redundant or all three. Here are a few examples from recent months…

• Raspberry creme walleye dinner
• Please remove your ski mask before entering the bank.
• Normal is a setting on my washing machine.
• Receive collect calls from jail or prison to your cellular.
• Dogfish Head Craft Brewery Chicory Stout
• Do not feed the coyotes.
• Express your inner beauty with cosmetic surgery.
• Please request doggie paper dinnerware.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Many people are not enamored of grocery shopping. I’m not in that group. Even after working all day, I can actually enjoy buying groceries.

Of the many reasons I find food shopping pleasurable, the foremost is serious. For my entire life I’ve never walked into an American grocery store and faced empty shelves or unaffordable prices. If I were a resident of Zimbabwe at the moment, I would have to lug two suitcases full of cash to the market for a few items.

One of the greatest joys of shopping is, to borrow from the author Diane Ackerman, “The Pleasure of the Senses”. Colorful fruits and vegetables artfully stacked, displays of cheese from around the world, the smell of breads baking and coffee being ground… how could I possibly not want to be in such a place?

And then there’s the truly selfish aspect about being the family’s grocery buyer. You get to buy what you want. No chicken livers, frozen pizzas, herring, kielbasa, rutabaga, turnips or orange sherbet will ever make it into my cart. Conversely, if the asparagus is young and tender, I can toss my menu plans and buy the asparagus… grocery shopping improvisation.

When traveling, I almost always check out a few local groceries. I definitely regard a city’s best grocery stores as tourist attractions. If you doubt this, just stop in at Uwajimaya when you’re in Seattle, Dean & Deluca in Soho and Georgetown or Albert Heijn in Amsterdam.

I once had a job that involved visiting about twenty grocery stores a day. That job didn’t cool my ardor for food markets, and I suspect nothing will.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment

Unbeknownst to me at the time, our family lived for thirty years in an atomic ranch. That is the 21st century name for mid-century modern houses. Now there is even a magazine of that name, Atomic Ranch, which is completely devoted to 50’s and 60’s design.

At first sight, I fell in love with our 1950’s atomic ranch. With 1,100 square feet, it featured a low-pitched gravel roof, cathedral ceilings, huge floor to ceiling windows, redwood paneling and a carport. There was no attic, basement or garage. Is it any surprise I’m a minimalist? I had no storage for 30 years!

Our wonderful house also was sans stairs. This was a delightful feature until our young children started walking. Navigating stairs is a learned skill. We had to go to grandma’s house for stair practice.

Appropriately, we furnished our mid-century house with mid-century furniture. Bertoia, Saarinen, Panton, Eames and Knoll are my design heroes, and I expect their chairs and tables will last us a lifetime.

The house, however, had a sad ending. When our kids were grown and married, we decided to pack up and move to the lake.

My husband and I made superhuman efforts to find buyers who would appreciate the architectural value of our home. But we couldn’t even find a realtor who understood design. She tartly informed us our house was in “mint condition, but badly in need of modernizing”.

After we moved, my son advised me never, never to drive past our old home as it had been “brutally remodeled”.

I have taken his advice. Our dear mid-century modern home lives happily in my memory – exactly as it was.

Purple is a secondary color, the marriage of red and blue, but it is primary to me.

My affinity for purple began early in life. On a whim, I bought a pair of purple shoes only to discover that they matched everything in my clothes closet.

Historically, purple was the color reserved for royalty. Liturgically, purple is the color of penance. Mary O’Neill in her book, “Hailstones and Halibut Bones”, suggests that purple is the great-grandmother of pink. I view it as a lush, elegant, but decidedly counterculture color.

Naturally, I was shocked when the “When I’m Old I Shall Wear Purple” poem swept across America a while ago like a grape avalanche. I couldn’t believe women thought they had to wait until they were old to wear a color they loved. If chrome yellow is your thing, girl, go for it now is my advice. Why defer happiness?

I fear that many people would prefer purple stay in its proper places… amethysts, asters, plums, grape jam and bruises.

Fortunately, some of us think purple should be allowed to venture into many more venues. Houses and walls come to mind.

Please click here if you wish to send me a comment