A Cup of Kindness

When I was a kid, I wondered why the end of one year and the beginning of the next went by with no physical change to the earth that I could see. Seemed to me that one day was pretty much like the one before, unless we people did something different. The earth seemed not to notice that 1955, let's say, had given way to 1956. There was no noticeable pause in the rotation of the planet, no shifting of gears - like in my Dad's pickup - that caused the earth to lurch ahead with a grinding or creaking noise. The sun still looked the same, and so did the moon and its cycles. What was the big deal?

...

What was especially confusing was the song we sang to mark the passing and the coming of the two years in question. What exactly did "Auld Lang Syne" mean, anyway? None of my teachers could answer that, though most guessed that 'auld' meant old, but no one could tell me about 'lang syne.' Eventually, I stopped wondering and accepted it as part of the year-end holiday traditions.

...

This year, though, the question came back, and I used one of my favorite research tools, Google, to search for the answer. Wikipedia told me the song was a poem by Scots poet Robert Burns, set to the tune of an old Scottish folk song. (Okay, okay, for all those who knew that already...I'm a late-bloomer/late-learner, and it was news to me that Burns had written it.)

...

Wikipedia kindly gave me a translation, and all the lyrics. "Auld lang syne" is a song of friendship, of the celebration and remembrance of friends past and present; a toast of heartfelt love, friendliness, well-wishes and kindness.

...

Good answer.

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So, to my old friends and loved ones who are no longer with us; to old friends and beloveds still here; to new friends I hope to know better; to the unmet friends the new year promises to bring -- I wish all of thee a happy new year, a peaceful new year, a new year full of promise and success.

...

"And there's a hand, my trusty friend!

And give us a hand o' thine!

And we'll take a right goodwill draught,

for auld lang syne."

...

(c) Martha McLemore 2008

Hunger

(Picture of grilled cheese sandwiches by Lenn Thompson. http://lennthompson.typepad.com/photos/uncategorized/grilledcheese.jpg)

Many things have transpired since my last post, some of them interesting, most...well, most not so much. I will post some of the interesting things later, but today is all about one of the most comforting of comfort foods -- the grilled cheese sandwich. As soon as I finish this post, I'm going to make one for myself, using some leftover Italian bread, some Asiago cheese, and maybe some paper-thin slices of apple, like Lenn Thompson put in his sandwich, pictured above.

...

This also is a cheater post, in that I'm using something I wrote over 11 years ago, back when I used to post regularly to rec.food.cooking newsgroup. Partly because I cannot say anything any better about grilled cheese sandwiches than I did then, but mostly because I am in a hurry to get to making one right now, I offer this essay.

.....

.....It begins with a gurgle in the throat which builds to a gnawing sensation in the stomach. Soon, the whole body is in yearning, driving the spirit to move into the kitchen where the food shrine stands, humming its mantra as it performs its cooling ritual.
.....One hand moves with urgency to open the food shrine. The body is illuminated by the Light within, all 15 watts of its glory lighting the supplicant and the cabinets beyond. On and on, the shrine hums, oblivious to the worshiper at its door. Darting eyes scan the shelves for something--anything--with which to sate the hunger, some quick-fix morsel to quiet the Gastric Beast. The spirit droops. Of all times to be without leftovers.
.....Time to make a pilgrimage to the lesser shrine, where temperature is not so critical to the nourishment inside. Alas, no quick snacks to be found. Must be approaching that time of the moon when the funds have run out and only long-cooking staples are left in the pantry.
.....Without thinking, the supplicant returns to the major shrine and peers inside once more, not really seeing the contents. Her hand moves over plastic-wrapped parcels of miscellaneous contents until she senses a familiar form.
.....Ah, it is the heels and a couple of slices of the Italian loaf from the weekend spaghetti feast. Her nose picks up the scent of sharp Provolone. The supplicant scoops the treasures to a plate and prepares to eat them.
.....But, wait...wouldn't these treasures be better made into a sandwich and grilled? The Gastric Beast twists and growls its disapproval. "Feed me NOW!" it demands.
.....The supplicant lays her bits and pieces on the counter. In an attempt to calm the Beast, she stuffs one of the small bread heels into her mouth and chews slowly. Be patient, she soothes, the wait will be worth it.
.....A glance in the major shrine reveals there is no butter, but she remembers the bottle of emerald olive oil on the counter. The supplicant turns the heat on under her cast iron skillet, retrieves the oil and returns to her finds.
.....She selects two slices of the bread which are nearly the same size and brushes them with olive oil. Next she shaves several pieces of the hard, sharp cheese until she has enough to fill the sandwich. Again, The Beast fumes and rumbles, coiling and uncoiling inside her belly. Again, she speaks quietly and soothingly of the rewards of patience.
.....Layer by layer, the cheese is laid upon one slice of the oiled, dense bread. Then its mate is placed atop the cheese. Maybe it's because the supplicant is so hungry, but she imagines she can smell the earth in the groves where her oil was produced. The warm Mediterranean sun beats down upon her shoulders as she transports the unfinished sandwich to the heated skillet.
.....The heat from the hot iron vessel releases the fruity perfume of the oil. The supplicant inhales and sighs in anticipation. Again, The Beast rumbles, but it, too, sounds in anticipation.
.....Two minutes on one side, then two more on the other. The aroma of warm olive oil is accompanied by the drool-inducing fragrance of melting cheese. At last, the sandwich is finished. The supplicant removes it from the skillet to her plate, which she has in the meantime garnished with kosher dill slices and ripe tomato wedges.
.....A few steps from the shrine room to the dining room and the end of her journey is at hand. Before her lies the crisp, browned body of a perfectly executed grilled cheese sandwich.

.....The Beauty and Truth of the moment have at last stilled the growlings of the great Gastric Beast. The feast begins.

.....Silence reigns, broken only by the muted crunching of teeth upon food and the tinkling of ice in her glass of Golden Assam. Her longing answered, the supplicant enters a state of grace. Nirvana.
Martha McLemore (c) October 1997

There is a light dusting of snow upon the ground and the wind is howling its song to the gods of the season. The tea kettle is on, heating water for some recumbent Lapsang souchong leaves at the bottom of my favorite beat-up old teapot. I have the house all to myself for a few hours and I am going to spend some of that time indulging in nesting.

.....

It is good to be alive.

Tur-kenstein!

When I was in the Navy, I worked in the Hospital Corps. While stationed at Charleston, SC, one of the doctors there allowed me to put a couple of sutures in the chin of a very drunk, very loud and obnoxious chief petty officer. I was supervised at all times and followed the doctor's instructions to the letter. What I lacked in experience, I made up for in enthusiasm. Somewhere in this world is a 70-plus-year-old retired Navy veteran with a slightly crooked scar on his chin, just under his lower lip.
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Fast-forward to Thanksgiving, this year. I'd like you to meet Tur-kenstein, the guest of honor at our dinner.

..

Whoever butchered the turkey slit the skin across its breast. Knowing that the flesh underneath the split would dry out during roasting, I used some of the trussing needles to pin the skin back together to prevent that from occurring. As you can see in this photo, my suturing skills have not improved with time.

This bird is huge (we like lots of turkey leftovers in this family), filling the roasting pan almost from edge to edge. In fact, I had to remove the parson's nose (tail) after I stuffed the bird to get it to fit easily in the pan. I had set the nose atop the bird to do something else and was amused by the sight I beheld when I returned to the turkey.

With all those needles and the suture-like trussing down its breast, the parson's nose on top made me think of Frankenstein, all cobbled together from various body parts, stitching scars everywhere. Immediately, the bird was named Tur-kenstein.

I never listened when Mama said 'don't play with your food, Martha,' so I borrowed Ball's googly-eyes (weren't doing him any good, anyway) and gave Tur-kenstein the appearance of sight.

Really creeped me out, after I stopped laughing.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
(c) M. C. McLemore, 2008

Homecoming

Donovan gets to come home for Thanksgiving and the weekend. This will be his first time home since he was admitted to his residential treatment facility in August of this year. He is excited and a bit apprehensive about being away from the hospital for so long, and about spending time with both his parents.

Donovan needs only a few things to feel secure and safe: he needs to know what the "order of the day" is, he needs as few surprises to his routine as possible, he needs to know where his mother is at all times, he needs Blue Blankey, and he needs a night-light.

On a recent trip to Penney's department store, Kareema and I were admiring tree ornaments when she spotted the penguin light in the photo. She agreed when I said it would be perfect for Donovan's room, so I added it to my too-large balance and brought it home.

One of Donovan's favorite (recent) movies is "Happy Feet," the story of a penguin that marches to a different drummer...or, dances, I should say. I imagine Donovan connected with the character, who is rejected and scorned by the rest of the flock because he can't sing like the others. Never mind that he could tap like Gregory Hines, the little guy brayed like a jackass when he tried to sing. It's a cute movie.

Anyway, the night before Donovan was to come home, Kareema and I fixed his room. The last thing we did was plug in the penguin. We sat watching it to see what it was supposed to do, because we thought it was supposed to bubble, like those old time Christmas bubble lights I remembered from my childhood. We watched for what felt like five minutes with no results, then were startled when silvery glitter inside the candle part of the light shot up like a rocket and started a dance of its own. Cool! Sparkly! (Crow!)

For the next half hour or so, my 38-year-old daughter and her 61-year-old mother lay across Donovan's bed, in the dark, and silently watched the magic of light and shiny stuff dance around that small patch of wall next to his pillows.

I haven't felt that delighted and peaceful - and safe - in a very long time.

(c) M. C. McLemore. All rights (such as they may be) reserved.

GRUMP!

The sky has been threatening snow for the last couple of days. Layer upon layer of blue-grey, gloomy, swirling clouds have occluded the sun, off and on, and hung over the landscape like some fluffy sword of Damocles, so to speak. As much as I enjoy blustery weather, I don't like being threatened, so snow, dadgummit...or get off the pot!

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One of the funniest things about this part of the country (and it may happen elsewhere) is the panic run on grocery items when the forecast suggests we might be in for a snowstorm. Around here, it's bread, milk, toilet paper and ice-melt granules that disappear off the shelves faster than they were loaded onto them. My sister Sandra says substitute panels of plywood for the ice-melt and add bottled water to the list and that describes the panic runs when hurricanes head into her part of the Gulf of Mexico. Oh, yeah, and candles. Up here, we grab batteries instead of candles. Probably because many people around here use kerosene heaters for emergency heat and candle flames mixed with kerosene...you can see where that's headed.

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This is probably a good time to make sure the snow shovels are in good condition and close at hand, that the tub I use for ice-melt is full, and that my tires are fully inflated. Better put the winter emergency equipment tub back into the car and might better get new flares...the ones I have are nearly ten years old. Got new wipers and anti-fog fluid last month. Time to check the anti-freeze and other fluids in the car, too.

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Gotta clean the leaves out of the gutters and downspouts, put the garden hoses away and winterize the outdoor faucets. Already took the ACs out of the windows, but haven't put the storm windows in place yet.

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Okay, okay...I'll check the pantry for bread, toilet paper and batteries, too.

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Yep, it's going to be a busy weekend.

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Like I said...grump!

Glowering sky photo (c) M. C. McLemore, November 2008

Body Parts

There is an arboretum near my house. We call it Squirt Park, because that's where we used to walk our dog, and he would leave liquid messages for all the other dogs who came along later.


In Squirt Park, there live a great variety of birds: flickers, woodpeckers, an owl, nearly a dozen crows, several pairs of jays, sparrows, finches, juncos, starlings, umpteen hundred pigeons and doves, and three mated pairs of Cooper's hawks. The hawks are fierce hunters, even fiercer defenders of their nest sites. I found bird remains under a tree in the arboretum and watched an adult hawk feeding half-grown chicks the carcass of a plump dove. Gruesome, but fascinating.

In recent months, I've noticed that some of the hawks come to the flat roof of my carport to eat their prey. There, they also leave the remains. The crows saw these remains as windfalls and would keep the rooftop fairly clean.

However, since the kittens arrived and grew big enough to climb trees -- from which they leap onto the carport roof -- the crows haven't been so tidy. Consequently, the nearly grown kittens are the beneficiaries of the hawks' garbage. They've brought down rabbit bits (mostly fur), squirrel tails, leftover bird pieces, and last week the wings, head and feet of this hen pheasant. I picked up several feathers in the yard that show the teardrop shape of a bird of prey's beak, and bones that have been separated from the body of the pheasant with almost surgical precision. No cat nor crow peels the fur off a rabbit in order to get to the flesh, but a hawk will.

Until I found the body parts, as far as I knew we didn't have pheasant running wild in downtown Hanover. We have several wooded areas and farms just on the outskirts of town, so maybe the hawks have been hunting there. I heard foxes barking about four, maybe five blocks away one evening this spring, and my friend Ann spotted a coyote out at her place, so city-dwelling pheasants aren't beyond the realm of possibility.

There are wild parts of this town I've not suspected existed until now. With all this other wildlife around my neighborhood on a daily basis, what makes me think a pheasant is so unusual? I mean, we used to have bison and wolves in this state not that long ago, for heaven's sake!

What's next...Sasquatch?

Photo of Cooper's hawk (c) Lloyd Spitalnik. Photo of hen pheasant found at http://www.wildaboutkent.com

Reggae Requeim

(Sung to the tune of Bob Marley's "I Shot the Sheriff.")

I killed the toaster, but I did not touch the microwave.

Yeah, I killed the toaster, but I didn't touch the microwave.



While brewing up my favorite roast,

The acrid smell of burning toast

Filled my nose and burned my throat.

Toaster needs to be cleaned, I made note:

Yeah, man, needs to be cleaned, make note.

I say:



I killed the toaster, but I did not touch the microwave.

Yeah, I killed the toaster, but did not touch the microwave.



It seemed a simple job to do

Just loosen a screw or two,

But nothing ever works out that way;

Not for me, and not today.

Oh, not for me, not this day!

I said:



I killed the toaster, but I did not touch the microwave.

Yeah, I killed the toaster, but did not touch the microwave.



With screwdriver in my hand

Toaster's compliance I did demand;

I was met with steely defiance.

Now it's another dead appliance.

Just another dead appliance.

I say:



I killed the toaster, but I did not touch the microwave.

Yeah, I killed the toaster, but did not touch the microwave.



All I wanted to do was clean it;

Now it's dead - I didn't mean it.

Can't find all the screws I broke out.

I have looked for them all about.

The cats scattered them, no doubt.

Listen to me now:



I killed the toaster, but I did not touch the microwave.

Yeah, I killed the toaster, but did not touch the microwave.



Parts are on the counter in a heap;

I bet I'll see them in my sleep,

Dancing all around the room

By the light of the waning moon.

Reggae toaster in my room.

I say:



I killed the toaster, but I did not touch the microwave.

Yeah, I killed the toaster, but did not touch the microwave.



Should have left the crumbs on the trays;

They'd been there for several days.

Didn't care 'til they started to burn.

What lesson from this must I learn?

Don't force a screw that won't turn.

Oh, yeah:



I killed the toaster, but I have not touched the microwave.

Yeah, I killed the toaster, but have not touched the microwave...

-

...yet.

Photo of dead toaster (c) Martha McLemore, November 2008.

Naked November

Last week, the leaves on the maple in the front yard were bright yellow, with splotches of wine-purple, cardinal red and pumpkin orange. By the weekend, the tree looked like it was on fire in the late afternoon sunlight. Gorgeous!
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Today, they've withered, most of them, and fallen in a blanket of dejection at the foot of the tree...and onto the sidewalk...and the steps to the porch...and onto Glenn's sidewalk and front lawn. Naked November fast approaches, flinging her leaves as she arrives.






Here, in the second photo, you can glimpse some of the maple's brilliance from last week in the leaves still clinging to the branches.

This is the melancholy part of Fall for me, the lingering demise of the leaves. Yet, this is also the time of year when I savor being alive the most. Maybe that's because the beauty is so fleeting. I have a friend, Kathy, who used to say she couldn't look at beautiful things for too long because she began to hurt inside. It was a good hurt, if that makes sense. It makes sense to me. For me, the pain (if that's what it is) of Naked November is due to knowing I can't hold onto the riotous, exciting, uplifting enthusiasm of all that color once the trees are bare. I take photographs of the leaves almost every year, but they don't do the real thing justice...probably because I can't capture how the light shines through the branches as it bounces off all those colors. I need to learn to take better pictures.

I don't know the name of this shrub that pops up in odd places in the back yard. It is one of the best reds in my fall landscape, though, changing from a fiery red to a cyclamen-rose color. Its leaves are among the last to fall to the ground every November.

That's a wayward rose-of-sharon cuddled in its branches. I like the color combination, the contrast.

At the side yard between my house and neighbor Glenn's, there lives the paw-paw tree/shrub I mentioned several posts ago and a viburnum (one of those whose name I couldn't recall in that post.)

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The viburnum's leaves turn a heart-aching deep red, reminding me of winesap apples, minus the white speckles. I put a few together in a sort of composed-salad arrangement, with the yellow paw-paw leaves.


If the changing seasons offer a life-lesson, it must be to savor each moment of beauty for the joy that it brings, for they are fleeting and sometimes far between.

Photo images above (c) Martha McLemore, November 2008

Flotsam and Jetsam...

...A collection of miscellaneous items of little importance...en.wiktionary.org/wiki/flotsam and jetsam.

That's what this post is - bits and pieces, random observations and questions that cross what passes for my mind these days. If any of these fragments end up related to one another, it is by pure happenstance, not conscious design.

• This morning, two days post election, I feel like the day after the great party: a little let down, now that the excitement is over; taking a look at the clean-up ahead of me. Don't want to clean-up. Want to still be celebrating, whooping it up and drinking the bubbly 'til I can hear the fizzy in my head. Now the real work begins. Where to start?
• The carillon in the arboretum behind the Mansion is playing "Camptown Ladies." My feet are tapping time with each peal...and then we hit a bell that sounds like it's made of lead. Since I know the bells are non-existent, that the music is a recording played over an elaborate sound system, what made them choose a piece with a flat bell? Authenticity?
• Guess I should close the back door; left it open (after I tossed the cats out this morning) because of the fragrance of the witch-hazel at the gate. We are entering the nakedness of November, when the remaining leaves and the outside temperature are in a race to see which can drop faster. Right now, it's almost neck-and-neck. I'm hoping the leaves win...not ready for sub-zero weather just yet.
• Watched "Meet Joe Black" the other night. Movie reminded me that I'd made a vow when my mother died that (1) I would make damned sure my family knows I want to be told if I have only a few days left, (2) I would try to tell those I care about how much they mean to me on a regular basis, so there wouldn't be any love left unspoken, no friendship left unrecognized, and (3) that I would not put my life on hold, waiting for "permission" to live. How have I done so far in keeping the vow? My daughter knows to tell me when I am that ill. I try to tell family and friends the value they have added to my life, although I think it unnerves some of them when I do that. I'm still seeking "permission," but not like I used to do. Some things are harder to overcome than others, I guess.
• With three half-grown kittens underfoot, I have observed that one doesn't live with cats so much as one lives for cats. I am known to my owners as She-Who-Feeds-Us. From Sunday past until last night, my sub-title was She-Who-Puts-Medicine-Down-Our-Throats-and-Whom-We-Will-Kilz-Someday. (http://www.icanhascheezeburger.com/) One other thing: you know it's time to change your socks when your cats paw at invisible litter to cover them up. This is particularly disconcerting while you're still wearing them. (The socks, I mean...still wearing the socks.)

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Time for lunch. It's a good soup-and-sandwich day today: grey and overcast, chilly out. I made some bean-and-bacon soup the other day, from scratch; sounds good, with a grilled cheese sang-witch, as my grandson used to call them.

Making History

No matter which party wins tonight, this election will change American politics forever. One way or another, we will have broken the all-white, all-men barriers to the highest political offices in our nation.
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All Americans of voting age, not otherwise restricted from casting a vote, will have had a hand in the outcome, even those who did not vote. We not only have witnessed history being made, we've helped make it.

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We make history every day, personal history, made up of the ordinary bits and pieces of living. In doing so, we rarely ever give any thought to the fact that we're historical figures. Few of us will become famous for our history, but each of us is important. Our lives and deeds make up the fabric of our families, our communities, our states and our nation.

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Oftentimes, it is the material goods we leave behind that tell our history - the tools we used, the books we read, our various collections of objects and other artifacts, perhaps our diaries or other writings, and so on. Always, the people we leave behind tell our histories, as well, though they will tell it from a slightly different perspective, depending upon how they viewed us. (I hope those I leave behind will remember me kindly and tell my history with love and good humor.)

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One of the things I will leave behind, treasured as much as my three postcards from Isaac Asimov, and the brass anvil my father made for his father, and the letter my mother wrote to an aunt talking about me as an infant (while the newness of motherhood still held its wonder and charm), will be the sticker I picked up after voting today and the give-away card from my candidate's campaign office here in town.

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Today, I made history.

(Image of John Trumbull's painting from
http://www.ushistory.org)

...did you?

Light and Magic

I am drawn to light and color; things that sparkle and shine and glitter and glow. What can I say? I am Crow.
-
(Didn't intend to have that rhyme, but it's okay that it does.)

At the Halloween parade last week, the vendors of light sticks and flashing scepters and swords really came to life after dark. Show time! They were the best entertainment for three or four blocks while we waited for the parade floats and bands to get to us. The vendor below is from Maryland. There were two other carts, full of similar glowing objects, meandering back and forth along the parade route, so I'm guessing they all came to Hanover together.
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Her wagon of magic had stuffed toys, baseball caps, light sabers, fairy wands, scepters and all kinds of things I couldn't determine a specific use for, other than to bring the magic of light and color to the darkened streets.



The flash on my camera washed out the brilliant, neon-like colors of the lighted trinkets. You can see some of the other things she offered for sale.
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-
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-
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Just noticed the feather boas! Cool!

In the center of the photo above, two light sticks diverge just above some red thing. Doesn't look like much in the bright flash, but...






...in the dark, it becomes a Light Monster!

Its eyes are askew, but maybe that's normal for Light Monsters.

These light toys flickered, some randomly, some in rhythmic patterns; some changed color, others didn't.
-
-
-

What do you know? A little bit of Vegas has come to Hanover.


The first images I took looked like the camera wasn't steady, until I watched the lights and realized that the different flashes bounced off surrounding surfaces from all directions, making it look like either my hands were shaking or the light sticks were, which wasn't the case.





This one is my favorite. Makes me feel like a little kid again to look at it. It's Christmas tree bubble-lights, and carnival ride lights, and fireworks (minus the noise) all in one.
-

What magic!











These butterfly lights seemed to flutter in the flickering lights around them.

Some of the wands had color moving up and down the tubes.
-
Lava lamps on a stick!

This is one of the lamp posts in front of the Warehime-Myers Mansion here in town. The mansion was given to the historical society where I work a year ago through the generosity of William Warehime.

I like the reflected ball of light on the left edge of the lantern -- don't have a clue how that happened, but I'm sure glad it did. Makes the photo more interesting.


The magic of the evening had an effect on my camera, I think, for most of my photographs usually aren't very good. Not saying any of these are all that, but I'm pleased with how they turned out, for the memories they evoke, if nothing else.
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Hey! Did you vote today?
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(All photos copyright Martha McLemore, October 2008)

Democracy in Action

I used to take elections and voting for granted. That's what we do, sometimes, when a given thing is an accepted, expected, part of our culture. But, the first opportunity I had to vote after September 11, 2001, I did so with a new found respect for and appreciation of the political process in America. Much media focus was on the horrors of life under the Taliban in Afghanistan, especially for women. I was grateful for the chance to have my voice heard through my vote. I haven't missed an election since.

On Tuesday, 4 November, we Americans can once again exercise our franchise to vote, to have a say in who guides our country for the next four years. This year's Presidential election is a milestone for us, one I hope we won't take for granted and ignore.

Four years ago, I voted for Barack Obama. I had to write in his name in order to do it. My ex-beloved and a few others thought I threw my vote away because I didn't choose from the ballot that was offered. I voted my conscience, my beliefs and my hopes, so I did not throw anything away.

This year, fortunately, gloriously, happily, I don't have to write in his name. It is on the ballot for anyone to choose. I hope you will.

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Go vote, America! Vote for whomever you like, but get out there and speak your piece!

-

Martha McLemore/The Crow

(Image of Barack Obama from his campaign headquarters just up the street from my house...don't know who created it.)

Costume?! I Don't Need No Stinkin' Costume!!

Cone wanted to dress up as a giant piece of candy corn. Wouldn't have taken much of a costume for it, but he would have had to stand on his head most of the evening. Being as bottom heavy as he is, that wouldn't have worked so well.

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Ball wanted to be a peg-legged pirate and wear an eye patch. Russel rather unkindly pointed out that since Ball had neither a leg nor eyes, he'd look pretty stupid trying to pull that one off.

-

"Yeah?" answered Ball. "So what are you going to dress up as, bird-brain?!"

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Russell snorted through his beak.

-

"I don't need any costume, No-eyes! Crows already wear the best costume in the universe -- glossy black feathers that shine purple and midnight blue in the sun. Top that, you roly-poly bag of air!"

-

Cone sat in the rear passenger seat, buckled in (Safety cone!), trying to ignore the fight that was brewing in the seat next to him.

-

After about five minutes more of their bickering, I threatened to let them walk home if they didn't knock off the noise. I suggested Cone and Ball try to find something that would fit their shapes best, instead of things they wouldn't be able to keep together. Told Russell he could always go as a parrot. He thought about that for a few seconds.

-

"Yeah, I could do that," he began civilly enough, "and you could go as a sack of potatoes!"

-

We rode the rest of the way to Wally-world in silence, selected costumes and paid for them in silence, then rode home in utter, mind-numbing silence.

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Cone decked out in wizard hat, complete with plastic spider dangling from the point, and a sequined mask, which dropped sequins by the score if you even looked at it. He accessorized with a straw broom.

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Ball was going to be a jack-o-lantern, but didn't want the triangular eyes or the chunky stem.

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"What's wrong with jack-o-lantern eyes?" Cone asked.

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"I can't see with them," came the reply.

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Russell just couldn't resist adding his two-cents.

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"You can't see without them, either, so what difference does it make?"

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"I want some googly-eyes. I can see with those."

-

I dug through my doll-making supplies and put a pair of googly-eyes on Ball's cleanest side. He certainly looked like he should be able to see.

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"Okay, roly-poly, what do I look like?" Crows sometimes don't know when to leave things alone.

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Ball mumbled something to himself and rolled away.

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"What? What was that you said?" Russell hopped after Ball, relentless in his teasing. "Say it again, Ball. I couldn't hear you before."

-

Ball came to a stop, one googly-eye underneath him.

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"I said, wiseguy, that I don't know what you look like. I can't see."

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Russell puffed himself up, fluffed his neck feathers, strut-hopped in circles around Ball.

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"I rest my case," he said, to no one in particular. Crows like the sound of their own voices and don't seem to care whether they have an audience when they are in a pontificating mood. It is enough that they speak to the wind .

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I helped Cone and Ball into the little red wagon, adjusted their costumes, then put Russell in behind them.

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"Here, Your Haughtiness," I said, placing the treat bag around his neck. "You're the only one with shoulders, so you get to be the bag-man."

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Ball chortled in glee; even Cone chuckled at that.

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"How apropos! A bag-man!" Ball was delighted with himself. "Talk about dressing to type -- wo-o-o-hoo!"

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It was going to be a long evening, I could tell.

Photo of the three plastic posers (c) M. C. McLemore, October 2008

Bath Time in the Ol' Stock Pot

Last night was the Halloween parade in our town. The local Jaycees sponsor it every year, and it has grown in popularity over the last 10 years from a hometown event to a regional happening. We have folks coming from 5 or 6 surrounding counties in the state and a few more from down in Maryland. Vendors arrive from the rest of Pennsylvania, from Maryland, New Jersey, maybe even New York. I usually stay home to avoid the crowds, but I thought this might be a good time to take Cone and Ball around for Halloween.


First, though, they needed baths. Cone has been run over a few times -- lots of tire marks -- and Lord only knows what that grey-green-brown stuff is on Ball. I used to have a galvanized washtub, but it rusted through, and I didn't want to put Cone in the bathtub. Thought one of my stockpots might work, so I squirted dishwashing soap in the bottom of it and hit that with the hard spray on the garden hose. In practically no time at all, it looked like the pot was full of whipped cream.

Cone is permanently marked, I'm afraid, but at least it's now a brighter orange than before. Ball was easier to clean, but harder to rinse -- kept rolling off the picnic table right back down in the dirt, until I got the canner rack and placed it in that. Perfect! A ball cage.

Once rinsed, they sat in the late afternoon sunshine to dry off. What a Mutt-and-Jeff pair they make.

Before long, Russell -- another plastic thing, only it isn't a cube -- decided to keep Cone company while it dried. Good thing Russell is plastic, or I might have had to bathe Cone again!

Time to go shopping for costumes!

[All photos (c) M. C. McLemore, October 2008]

Soup Day

The October winds are late this year, by a couple of weeks, but they have arrived with purpose and dogged determination. All those leaves I raked up last week (but didn't put in bags yet) have been blown helter-skelter all over the neighborhood. Yep, ol' Mike-the-Tree-Killer has been blessed with several hundred of them, plus fresh ones that hadn't fallen yet. Heh-heh-heh.

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The weather changed suddenly last evening from being a "beautiful Seattle day" to weather more typical of November. The temperature dropped about 10 degrees in about as many minutes, the clouds settled downward and sprayed the neighborhood with needle-sharp raindrops, while the slight breeze changed direction and speed from northwesterly to northerly and from slight breeze to knock-you-hat-off.

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I awoke this morning to a steady, heavy drizzle and wind gusts of 45-50 MPH. I absolutely love, love, LOVE days like this! I love the howl of the wind through the trees and the song the leaves make in it. I love the groans and moans the house makes when some of the gusts wrap around the chimney and tickle the shingles.

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And aren't I lucky that the winds are here today, my day off. I can stay home and make soup!

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When I can, I like to make soup from scratch, which means browning bones for broth, peeling and chopping as many of the vegetable ingredients as possible, and simmering the meat (if it's that kind of soup). I am a person of the senses: the aromas of roasting bones, then broth and seasonings; the sounds of simmering stock with wind accompaniment; the sight of the steam rising in a sinuous column to the ceiling; the feel of the vegetables in my hand followed by the action of cutting and chopping. I am, physically and sensually, fully engaged in the process.

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Today's soup is vegetable-beef. It is made with the roasted-beef-bones broth, chili-ground bottom-round, onions, carrots, celery, potatoes, parsley, tomatoes, limas, corn, cabbage, green beans, crushed garlic, marjoram, chervil, bay leaves and one stinking petunia...no, no...I'm kidding...one parsnip. Vegetable soup isn't the same, to my taste buds, without parsnip. Turnip makes a good-enough substitute for parsnip, but it's stronger and sharper in flavor, and you really have to like turnip (I do) to put it in your soup.

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I love to cook. Someday, I'll have a home that is mostly commercial grade kitchen with a small bedroom and bath off the back. The rest of it will be dining space for a couple hundred people. I will feed all my friends, family and kind strangers who come knocking at the door.

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How will I do that, you ask, given that I am nearly broke all the time? I don't know, but God provided all those loaves and fishes, didn't She?

(Image courtesy [unasked] of http://www.galensgarden.co.uk/vegetables/images/parsnip.jpg)

The Dark Side of Pumpkinhood

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These photos are by Dan Haskell.
http://www.geekus.org/

Some of the others on his website are even darker in mood. They remind me of Disney's "Night on Bald Mountain," in Fantasia. Oooooooooooooo!

I like these. The pictures send chills up and down my arms.

(Either that, or the furnace has kicked off for the night.)

[All photos this post are (c) Dan Haskell.]