Magic Marbles

I can trace my collecting tendencies back to the mere age of two. One of my earliest memories was that of being “babysat” by a woman who didn’t have much interest in her job. Each day I exploded into hysterical tears as my mother rolled my stroller up to the babysitter’s door. The rest of my day consisted of having my beloved stuffed doggie wrenched from my grasp, and his ears ripped off by a gang of rambunctious and unsupervised boys. And when my mother had to work late, the traumatic days were punctuated with the shouting of the babysitter’s surly husband at the dinner table. Even at that tender age, I understood my family’s situation and the value of affordable childcare. Each night my mother patiently sewed or glued the felt ears back onto my stuffed companion. Things soon changed when my mother divorced my father and moved us back to the farm with her parents. There aren’t enough words to describe the incredible character of my grandfather. This is evidenced by the vivid memories imprinted in my mind at that tender, young age. His battle with cancer tragically ended when I was five; but not before he fueled a lifetime of curiosity, independence and humor in his adoring granddaughter.

My grandparents’ home was filled with fascinating and delicate objects dangerously displayed just within reach of my inquisitive hands. I learned to ask permission to handle the heavy glass paperweight so that I could contemplate how the colorful swirls got inside. Although my grandmother was sometimes cranky, there was no one to torment me anymore. Instead, my grandfather set about filling my days with a kind of extreme joy that I’ve rarely experienced since. He took me for rides on his horse and he let me tag along on his antique tractor as he plowed the fields. Each morning I raced out to feed the chickens and collect the eggs. After a bit of training, I was allowed to do this on my own. Perhaps this sparked my interest in finding things, as well as my fierce sense of independence; or maybe it only gave a venue for expressing a predisposed inclination. Although I can’t say which came first, I am tempted to say that collecting eggs was either the “chicken” or the “egg” when it came to my passion for finding treasures.

Magical and fantastical things began to happen in Grandpa’s presence. He was a great storyteller, and preferred to sit on the floor and entertain the children over the prospect of engaging in meaningless small talk or gossip with the other adults. First, there was the story about toy rabbits that came to life; and about how they would sometimes make their way onto the roadways. Like mysterious cartoon creatures, they only moved when no one was looking, quickly turning back into toys whenever a person came around. The genius behind this story was that a small child happily got into the car, no matter the destination, and stared intently (and quietly) out the window searching for these mythical creatures. I wasn’t to be disappointed. One warm afternoon, we were bouncing along the dusty road, on our way to town, when Grandpa slammed on the brakes. Mom and Grandma grumbled in protest as he opened the door and reached under the car. In his hand was an old rubber rabbit squeak toy, which he presented to me. “I told you we’d find one.” he said “That was close. I almost ran over it.” The rabbits were probably the childhood toys of my mother and her brother; and I don’t remember how many there were. I do believe I had acquired them all before it was over. The end of that era seemed to pain him as much as it did me; and his eyes teared up on the day he had to tell me that there would be no more magic bunnies.

We moved back into town when my mother remarried and got pregnant with my brother. It was a favorable arrangement to all parties that I was allowed to visit the farm for weeks at a time. Sunscreen was not an option during my grandfather’s life, and the years of working in the fields finally took their toll as melanoma began to eat away at his body. By the time I was four years old, he was confined to the living room, as he could no longer make the trek up the steep staircase to their bedroom. The pain and weakness stole away all of our games except “Keepsies”. “Keepsies”, also known as “For Keeps” was a popular game played with marbles when my grandfather was a youngster. The objective was to use a giant “shooter” marble to knock the smaller marbles, or “ducks” from a large ring drawn on the ground. A player would “knuckle down” by placing his or her knuckles on the ground and propel the shooter into the ring with the purpose of knocking ducks from the ring. The prized shooter was many times the size of standard marbles; and a great loss was suffered when it failed to make its way back out of the ring. This game was “played for keeps” meaning that the winner got to keep any marbles which crossed over the line. It was commonplace for these games to continue until one child had scored all of the marbles. An inexperienced or unfortunate player might be said to have “lost his marbles”. The saying “Toe the line” and “Ringer” can also be traced to marble games. The game called “Ringer” was invented in 1923 because “Keepsies”, being a game of chance, was considered too immoral for children to play.

Grandpa Merritt was said to have been a legendary marble player. He had a large metal coffee can filled to the top with those multi-hued spheres of glass and clay. There may have even been some made of actual marble. He taught me how to play the game; and when he was no longer able to get down on the floor, he would sit on the edge of the sofa-bed and watch for hours, as I took turns playing against myself. He taught me another lesson of responsibility by explaining the importance of getting every marble back into the can, when I was done. Even in his decline, Grandpa continued to mesmerize me with his stories. Upon one of my last visits I raced straight to the marble can and began to pry off the brittle, cracked plastic lid. Hunched over on the edge of his seat, he smiled down at me with a mischievous glint in his sunken blue eyes. “Have you ever heard of ’Magic Marbles’?” he asked. Stopped in my tracks, I listened in awe, as he spun a tale of the elusive marbles which had mystical qualities. “Sometimes, when a marble gets really, really old it turns into candy.” Astonished, I reveled in the prospect of finding marbles that had turned to candy. Suddenly the can of marbles in front of me seemed to vibrate with possibilities. I begged him for more information “How old do they have to be. What do they look like? Are there any in here?” “Oh, I don’t know…I think they’re usually white… You’ll have to look and see if you can find one.

I was halfway through the can before my grandmother came in and realized what was happening. I endured quite a lecture on the dangers of putting marbles in my mouth before Grandpa caught her eye. A moment later she left the room, shaking her head and muttering under her breath. With my grandfather’s approval I continued to risk deadly choking and germ infection in my quest for the magical candy marble. The marbles were cool and slick and clacked against my teeth as I rolled each one around on my tongue. I could feel the nicks in their surface, inflicted by many years of knocking against each other. By the time the white marble surfaced I was quite familiar with the taste of lint and grit, and was starting to doubt the legitimacy of Grandpa’s story. “Is this what they look like?” I asked with fresh hope, as I held the marble up for his inspection. “Could be. Give it a try”. And sure enough, my mouth was instantly flooded with an overwhelming sweetness. The marble changed colors as it shrank, and I proudly produced it for viewing with each new manifestation. Despite his labored breathing and  papery skin I caught a momentary glimpse of the child behind my grandfather’s eyes. My long visits ended as Grandma became his nurse and could no longer manage both of us. The last time I saw him he was only a frail specter of his former self. There were no more “Magic Marbles”. Not long afterward, he died from complications of heart surgery, leaving a great void where laughter and amazement once reigned. Many years passed before anyone was able to convince me that jawbreakers were not really geriatric marbles.

As I ponder my obsession with finding hidden treasures, it becomes clear that my Grandpa Merritt was responsible for it’s inception. He taught me that incredible things can be found in unusual places, that nature gives us the gift of nourishment and that things are not always as they appear. For these lessons, and the joy he gave me, I am eternally grateful.

I miss you Grandpa Merritt.

How you can get rid of illegal aliens

Mike (my employer) recently gave me an unexpected compliment. He told me that I was such a good auditor because of my analytical nature. In thinking about my thought processes over the course of a day I realize that he is right. Sometimes being analytical is a boon, like when it comes to solving a problem. It can also be a curse, like when I want to explore alternative angles in a conversation and come across as “argumentative” as AJ recently reminded me.

Now that I’ve gotten that little self-analysis out of the way, I’d like to get to the meat of this post. That first paragraph is relevant because in order to be analytical I must first be observant. A theme that has been on the minds of so many people is illegal immigration. The level of anger and, dare I say, hatred towards our fellow humans who weren’t so fortunate as to be born in this country, is swelling like the belly of the “Octomom”.

The Nationalist sentiment has taken a stronghold with people in my circle. Whether via chain emails or in person, I get almost a daily dose of immigration indignation. The messages are crafted to stir up resentment towards those who are perceived as stealing away that which we hold so dear (namely our jobs and social services) without reciprocation in the form of taxation and citizenship. The idea seems to be that if we could just wall off our country and keep those dirty immigrants on their side of the fence we could continue to exist in our Utopian States of America.  Since I’m so analytical I find myself with a lot of unanswered questions about our immigration dilemma.

What I do know is that many of those, who complain the loudest, are far removed from the actual immigrants. It is so much more difficult to harbor ill will towards another human when you are in direct contact with them. I was raised in the Nazarene Church. One of the things I really appreciated about the Nazarene teachings is that there wasn’t a whole lot of fire and brimstone. The overwhelming theme was one of compassion and acceptance. The verses “Love thy neighbor as you love thyself ” and “Judge not, lest ye be not judged” were commonly quoted in the sermons I attended.

It wasn’t until later (when I came to live in the South, actually) that I found out that religion wasn’t all about love and kindness. I read the Bible, from cover to cover, when I was 13 and became confused by the contradictions; but I believed my Sunday School teacher when she said that we must choose to live by the good parts. So, even then I began to see that the practice of Christianity is a highly subjective process. What it seems to come down to is that you can justify a great deal as long as you put forth a good amount of effort trying to convert others. As I grew older I found that other people put as much stock in the negative teachings as I did in the positive. While I was practicing “Turn the other cheek” I was dealing with those who practiced “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth”.

The South seems to have a special talent for discrimination, and so many of the Christians down here are often full of venom towards those they consider inferior. Granted, this is a sentiment that transcends religious bounds. Plenty of “heathens” express hatred towards selected groups as well, it’s just that they haven’t made a commitment to be nice, so they are “excused”.

I’m composing this post in the “stream of consciousness” style, and while surfing the net I found an article that former President Jimmy Carter wrote: “Losing my religion for equality”. It appears that he has defected from the Baptist Church in disgust with their discriminatory treatment of women. I found his words to be quite apropos to my own thinking.

We are calling on all leaders to challenge and change the harmful teachings and practices, no matter how ingrained, which justify discrimination against women. We ask, in particular, that leaders of all religions have the courage to acknowledge and emphasize the positive messages of dignity and equality that all the world’s major faiths share.

The carefully selected verses found in the Holy Scriptures to justify the superiority of men owe more to time and place - and the determination of male leaders to hold onto their influence - than eternal truths. Similar biblical excerpts could be found to support the approval of slavery and the timid acquiescence to oppressive rulers.

This sums up my perspective fairly well. Unfortunately, Christianity is often used to manipulate and control the masses. Because the teachings of the Bible are so antiquated and full of contradictions, anyone can tease out the scriptures that suit their purposes, while abandoning the rest. Honestly, this doesn’t work for me. I just can’t force myself to believe that I am going to burn in an eternal lake of fire because I didn’t follow some modern day man’s interpretation of an ancient text. And that is what it boils down to. Furthermore, if I were to try and force myself to believe something I just can’t believe then I would be headed to the fiery lake anyway, because I’d be an unrepentant liar.

So, I’m going to take my own route (incidentally based on my early Christian training) and say that I don’t resent illegal aliens and I don’t will them back to the hopeless, squalid conditions from whence they came. I don’t believe that God roped off this big patch of land so that we could live our lives of excess and wastefulness while condescending towards those who have been born under less fortunate circumstances. If this were the case we wouldn’t have had to take the country by force in the first place. And let’s not forget that all of our ancestors might be considered “illegal aliens” had the Native Americans believed in the concept of the earth as a possession.

The irony that strikes me is that Jesus was the ultimate liberal. The Bible would have us believe that he wandered around associating with social outcasts and sick people. He was quite busy helping and feeding the disadvantaged while compelling others to give up their belongings and follow him on this path. I have to imagine that not only would Jesus support the idea of helping the illegals, but would encourage his followers to go across the border and make a hands-on effort to improve their situation. At the very least he would inspire us to stop supporting the corporate entities and government policies which are heavily responsible for this crisis.

Now, before I continue to fuel the uproar I may be starting, let me say that I do believe in equality of responsibility. And that’s what we are really talking about when it comes to illegal immigration. We want them to follow the rules we have set up for getting into the country. We want them to pay taxes and not be a drain on our welfare system; the system that was set up for the unfortunate few who are not able to get by in this “Land of Plenty” that we now “own”.

In order to address this point I am going to have to trample all over the false religion we have all been raised to worship, “The Cult of Growth”. The concept of prosperity through growth is just a big, fat, reeking lie. A “Growth Based Economy” is nothing more than a one way street from our resources to the landfills. If you don’t believe me, look around you and tell me how many of those items do you truly expect to have in a week, in a year, in ten years? In order for the rich to continue getting richer (and ultimately more powerful) it is imperative that we live covetous lives of continuous consumption. This is an unsustainable system, and in order for us to constantly acquire more than we have earned with our labor we must pave this one way street with the blood, sweat and tears of our neighbors.

Although we are to believe that we live in “The Land of the Free”, we are being led to slaughter by our corporate masters. We have been tricked into thinking that life should be cheap and easy and that we shouldn’t have to worry or think about where anything comes from, or how it got to us. I challenge you to look around you, once again, and try to guess the true value of each item you see, had it been manufactured here in the US, by legal US citizens. Use your imagination. Assuming you had the skills and materials to produce a given object, or grow a particular vegetable, would you be willing to work a 12 hour shift making that object for just enough money to put a roof over your head and some rice or tortillas on your plate? Would you volunteer to do it with no health care and while putting your health in danger? Would you ride a bus or a bicycle to that factory or to the fields and everywhere else you needed to go? I’m going to stick my neck out and guess that you wouldn’t do these things unless you had no other choice. Yet isn’t that what we are asking of these people, these fellow humans, who simply had the misfortune of emerging from the womb in the wrong place, at the wrong time?

We are so smug as to sit onour throne as a (current) world superpower and expect others to suffer in silence so that we may continue on just a little longer with our Grand Deception. Did you know that a portion of your precious tax dollars goes towards corn subsidies which flood the Mexican markets with corn priced below market value, thus forcing millions of Mexican farmers out of business? Do you care?

How would you feel if Canada suddenly dumped their wheat on us in the same fashion? I have family in the agriculture business, and I can guarantee that if we were faced with starvation, while the country that destroyed our livelihoods prospered, we would find a way to get work and feed our families. I would break the rules and do whatever I had to in order to survive. It is especially hard to respect the rules of a nation that doesn’t play fair; and if you look closely, we don’t play fair.

To make matters worse, our injustices are not relegated to beyond our borders. If you dig a little deeper, you will see that many of the U.S. corporations, that you patronize, knowingly and willingly employ these illegal aliens in order to produce their cheap goods services. I’d collect a bunch of examples and post links if I thought I had to convince you, but I suspect that most Americans are very well aware of this fact. If you really want to make a stand, walk into the kitchen of your favorite restaurant and demand to see the documentation all the kitchen staff. You may not be surprised to find that there is a work visa for an immigrant. What you might not realize is that the documents may be forged; and if they are legal, there may be a few of his friends or relatives working under the same visa. Next, you should go to the restaurant owner and demand that they hire only American citizens and raise their prices accordingly. If you follow this process through the source of every food item in the restaurant, you will have successfully priced yourself out of dining out (and dining in, for that matter). It may be uncomfortable and you may have to start growing your own food, but you could easily solve the illegal alien crisis by simply putting your patriotic energy to work on your own buying habits.

Another pinnacle of irony is the fact that the same people who are pissed about the illegal immigrants seem to be thrilled to send their tax dollars off to destroy and “rebuild” Middle Eastern countries based on a huge lie told by their beloved former leader. When this man was leading us down the path of financial ruin the overwhelming sentiment was “We must support our president, no matter what”. Funny that I’m already hearing a different tune regarding our current figurehead “We must respect him, but we don’t have to support him”. Isn’t that convenient? Honestly, I’d prefer that my tax dollars went to help out a Mexican family who came here looking for a better life than to bomb out a city in Iraq so that U.S. oil companies can take control of the oil fields (which they have now done, by the way). I’m still mad about the billions of dollars lost (and by “lost” I mean “stolen”) at the hands of U.S. defense contractors in the Middle East. I’m still disgusted that we are attacking just about every other country except the one from which the supposed 9/11 terrorists were from, namely Saudi Arabia.

Isn’t it convenient that we are embroiled in this immigration debate while the money we are wasting overseas could be used to rebuild the economies in the hometowns of the immigrants, thus giving them a good reason to leave on their own accord? It is much less difficult to exact hatred towards a nebulous bunch of people than it is to go directly to the source of our problems and convict our criminal leaders of treason.

Really want to solve the immigration problem? Call your representatives and inform them that you will no longer be paying taxes until they stop taking money from all corporations which benefit from the use of illegal immigrants or even legal immigrants who harbor illegal friends and family members. Voting along party lines will get you nowhere because representatives of both parties are beholden to their corporate sponsors. So, it’s back to the corporations which run this world. Stop patronizing them and the immigration problem will be solved on its own accord.

Screamy, Fiesty, Good Food and Silly Cat

Well, I’ve gone and let weeks go by without any proper updates. Nothing much has happened that would pass for exciting, so I guess I don’t feel too bad.

The Oasis is looking lush and tropical.

Screamy the Pepper has ripened. AJ thinks I could sell him as a Michael Jackson likeness on ebay. I’m letting him dry above my desk to see what he looks like when old and wrinkled.

This is “Feisty” the Cuban Anole. How these miniature dinosaur replicas have escaped extinction is beyond me; because they are none too bright. Every day, without fail, he takes his post on the grill lid handle, puffs up his crests and struts back and forth in an attempt to intimidate his perfectly matched opponent.

Every day, he gives his best fight, only to be equaled by the foe with the steely  bites (which leave both of their noses battered and raw). Neither will relinquish their territory in this daily ritual. This is one neurotic lizard!

Talk about neurosis. I got a little obsessed with this eggplant. As it grew larger and more regal, I began to get paranoid about its well being. My research warned that eggplants lose their goodness once they get too ripe. They grow tough and seedy. They are meant to be picked while young and shiny.

This is the first eggplant I have ever grown, and with all of the dangers of over-ripeness, insects and critters I gave in and picked it. AJ chastised me, saying that they were meant to be much larger before harvesting.

I sliced it up to find firm, seedless meat. I marinated in Olive Oil and Balsamic Vinegar with fresh chopped garden herbs. Then I grilled to perfection. Captain Kym came over for dinner. This is when I realized that eggplant (especially my version) is not for everyone. AJ and Kym politely nibbled on the vegetable, while we all devoured AJ’s roasted, stuffed pork tenderloin. Oh well, I thought the eggplant was good.

AJ’s pork tenderloin was delicious. However, just as in everything he does, he immediately criticised his recipe and began planning for the improved version. We still had half of the large cut in the freezer, so a few days later he set about perfecting his stuffed, smoked pork tenderloin technique.

Here is his recipe:

AJ’s Smoked Stuffed Pork Tenderloin

Sautee Italian Sausage.

Butterfly tenderloin lengthwise to flatten.

Spread Cream Cheese as bottom layer.

Add a layer of fresh Baby Spinach

Next layer: Prosciutto

Sprinkle with Grated Cheese.

Spread the browned sausage.

Layer on Ricotta Cheese.

Roll up and tie with cotton string. Season with Rosemary, Dill and Ken’s Greek Salad Dressing.

Smoke uncovered, spraying with mixture of Olive Oil, Pineapple Juice and Ken’s Greek Salad Dressing until internal temperature reaches 150°

Remove from heat, wrap in foil and let rest for 10 minutes.

Unwrap, slice and enjoy!

The mystery guest’s children overran the garden, eating up all of the dill and most of the parsley. I moved at least ten ravenous caterpillars to the carrots, where they quickly matured and went on “walkabout”, looking for places to pupate.

This one chose a green onion. Hope the wind doesn’t blow too hard.

How’s this for camouflage? I found this fellow on the broccoli. The next day was a perfectly hidden chrysalis that I would have never seen had I not known where to look. I have been aching to try broccoli greens, and carefully harvested the most tender leaves, while taking care not to disturb the sleeping beauty.

Roxanne’s Broccoli & Collard Greens

Harvest a bundle of tender Broccoli and/or Collard Greens.

Wash thoroughly, taking care to remove all insects and insect eggs. Cut into medium-sized pieces, removing central vein from larger leaves.

Blanch by submerging greens in boiling, salted water just long enough to tenderize, and then plunging into ice water. This preserves the bright green color.

Chop bacon, onions and peppers (I used a red pepper and Poblano from the garden). Once the bacon is almost cooked, add pressed or chopped garlic.

When bacon is cooked and onions are tender, toss in blanched greens. Drench with white wine, cover and simmer until greens are thoroughly wilted.

AJ, who had previously stated his reluctance to try broccoli greens, enthusiastically ate his portion and raved about how good they were. We enjoyed this dish as complement to his scrumptious smoked chicken. All in all, a week of good, down-home cooking.

And as if on cue, Smokey the Silly Cat has found yet another way to chill while looking ridiculously uncomfortable.

Hope everyone is enjoying life with peace and happiness! See y’all soon.

Abundant Bounty

Lots of goodies coming from the garden and the Universe over the past couple of weeks.

The tomatoes are still on full bore. I’ve been picking an average of ten to fifteen per day.

Here are a couple of harvests. This is not nearly everything I gathered over the past two weeks, just two of the bigger days. I collected the muskmelons because the vine was mostly dead. They could have ripened a few more days, but they were OK. The middle melon is the one I did not protect with the pantyhose. In retrospect I don’t see the value of doing this. The skin was thin and split on the protected melons, and the netting did not develop normally.

I made salsa for the first time. I didn’t realize how large the green onions were getting until I cut this one! These were store onions that I just stuck in the ground. They grow back each time I cut them. I also picked a puny red pepper and a smallish Poblano. The salsa is still a work in progress.

The past week has been very active for the eggplant. It grew…

and grew…

and grew! Since I’m not familiar with what these are supposed to look like, I am not sure when to pick it. I’m thinking I’ll pick it this weekend, since the consequences of waiting too long seem to outweigh the risk of picking too soon.

Here is Super Eggplant’s sidekick. I don’t know why it looks so different, but I think a bug got ahold of it.

The second batch of bananas is looking good. First batch is also coming along nicely, too. They sure are taking a long time, though.

This is the string lily AJ brought back from the river. We keep it in a container under the AC condensation drip. It is going great, and bloomed this week.

The blooms were short-lived, but very delicate and pretty. I can’t say my husband doesn’t bring me flowers! The kind he brings are much more interesting and thoughtful than those bought in a store.

Not only that, but he can smoke a mean pork tenderloin! Yum!

Yesterday was a special treat. We stopped in at John Roger’s to pick up some bamboo. John is a local horticultural guru and, as I’ve said before, one of the most knowledgeable and unassuming guys you could ever hope to meet.

Even though he was on his way to run errands he took the time to give us another tour of his property to show us some of the things he has growing, as well as some nice mounds of mulch and compost. Had you told me, a year ago, that I’d get a thrill from compost I would have looked at you askance!

Nor did I even know of heirloom and heritage varieties, about which I am now quite excited. John Rogers is a true steward of the land and cultivator of native and unique plant varieties.

As we headed to the compost heap we stopped to admire his massive watermelon and squash vines. He promptly plucked this little jewel and bequeathed it upon me. What’s the big deal? This is a renowned, historic gem of the squash persuasion: A Seminole Pumpkin Squash (Cucurbita moschata), to be exact.

At the recent Funky Chicken Farm seed swap, John Rogers encouraged me to get some Seminole Pumpkin Squash seeds. I had never heard of this variety, but have since learned that it is a true heirloom, indeed developed by the Seminole Indians. They planted these hardy, natives at the base of palm trees, and allowed the vines to grow up the trunk and fronds. Considering how robust the plants seem to be, I imagine that this was quite a sight! Wish I had brought my camera to John’s place!

I cooked the squash in the smoker, using my father’s recipe for acorn squash: A chunk of butter, a sprinkling of brown (raw) sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg. It looked beautiful, and tasted much like sweet potatoes. AJ, didn’t take to it, since he is not much for sweet food. Strange for the guy who can devour ice cream and candy bars like they are going out of style, and who is currently drinking a Pina Colada! Oh well.

I’ve got some seeds and will be planting Seminole Pumpkin Squash this weekend.

Here they are in the smoker, which was still hot from the pork tenderloin.

The original reason for going to John Roger’s (AKA Bamboo John) was to pick up a cutting of the lovely striped bamboo (Bambusa Vulgaris), which I managed to kill last time. I think we will get it right this go round , and hope to have a stand going soon. Thanks again, John!

So far, a good two weeks. I will try to get the wrap-up posted on Sunday evening.

Have a Happy 4th of July!

Mr. Fix-it and more Silly Cat

Why should these last two weeks be any different than the rest?

There are two things I can always count on around here.

1. AJ will be fixing something or researching how to fix something at all times. Here he is preparing to replace the radiator on the car:

He also helped the neighbors work on their broken stuff and is now working on the broken computer that has a devastating virus (thanks to me). When he isn’t fixing, he’s doing something else like smoking a pork loin. Yum. I’ll post photos of this (as well as a great gift we received yesterday) in my next edition.

2. The other thing I can always count on is that our neighborhood cat, Smokey, will continue to nap in entertainingly silly postures.

How can any of this be comfortable?

Smokey follows me around on all of my garden inspections, and (as though to demonstrate his cat prowess) he runs up the palm tree and hangs there for a brief few seconds before jumping to the ground.

Good times.