BEAUTIFUL BEANS

My small, shady garden has a delicious secret this year. Tucked behind the lavender hedge, below the mountain ash tree is a patch of bush beans - green, yellow, purple. The purple are a glistening deep regal color that glows with the shifting sun like the color of grape juice. They are by far my favorite. Crisp, shiny, tasty - and surprising in that I really had little hope I'd get a crop - too shady I thought. This is one of the times I'm glad to be proven wrong about something.











Aren't they spectacular? I've been picking a fist full of lovely fresh beans twice a day all week. We've enjoyed them stir fried with garlic and Walla Walla Sweet onions, made into bean salad, and today as a key participant in chicken vegetable soup. I'm feeling quite the farmer. When will we begin to tire of beans every meal? Hard to tell but should that unlikely thing come to pass my freezer will fill up with bright beans to enjoy on dark winter days.

The Pleasure Dome

(son Paul and cousin Eric "skin" the dome)
"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea."
(Samuel Taylor Coleridge)

During the past month while I continued to struggle with computer/internet problems a second major project was in the works around here - the creation of my poetic get-away, The Pleasure Dome (son Paul christened it). Years ago my friend Rick gave me the makin's of a geodesic dome, a wooden framework we bolted together at the bottom of my back garden. We stapled greenhouse plastic over the frame and for 3 or 4 years I used the dome to grow bushels of sweet tomatoes and spicy peppers. But the plastic eventually started to disintegrate - after I stripped it off, the dome was a rather odd sculpture for the next few years.

Then this spring, with retirement looming and visions of glorious produce firing my imagination, I decided it was time to set up the greenhouse once again. Unfortunately I hadn't taken into consideration how my garden had changed over the intervening years. The trees had closed over the top of the dome, making it too shady to grow much beyond ferns and moss. To grow sun-lovers like tomatoes I'd have to remove two Western hemlock trees, limb up the English oak and the Chinese juniper, chop down the neighbor's sick old apple tree. Major forestry. None of which was going to happen. What to do?

Change plans, of course! My greenhouse would transform into a place of peaceful refuge where I can sit and write (as well as surf the internet if I can ever manage to get the wireless thingy up and running), listen to birds in the sheltering branches, decompress! I've run a long extension cord from the house, hung Chinese lanterns, arranged furniture, plugged in a fan. There is one tomato plant just because. Oh, the comfort! Tonight as fireworks light up the sky I'll be in the Pleasure Dome writing a poem to liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Techno-conspiracy Theory

14 June 2009
I have come to believe that tech writers deliberately leave out important instructions in order to stymie non-techies who foolishly think they can upgrade their technological appliances all on their lonesome. Perhaps it’s in retaliation for childhood bullying inflicted by “normals”. Who knows, perhaps their are just intrinsically evil. Whatever may be the cause, I’ve again been the victim of techno sabotage.

It all started months ago when my internet browser suddenly went senile. A newer version of Firefox popped into existence and refused to play nicely with my two fairly mature computers. I tried to download the new browser to my laptop and ended up deep-sixing the previous version, at the same time that I learned that I didn’t have the right stuff after all to upgrade - new browser didn’t browse so much as just sat there in the dock like a lump. My operating system was too old, I didn’t have enough RAM, bla-bla-bla. This was coincidentally (or not) about the same week I decided to switch from my dial-up modem to something speedier and called Comcast to “bundle” me. A month later when they had finished the installation, I no longer could access the internet from my laptop but had to use my antique iMac, “Blueberry”, which cannot be upgraded in any way since it is destined to become a key exhibit at the Smithsonian.

This was the same week my 401K plan’s web site stopped functioning with the previously mentioned earlier version of Firefox (and Safari for that matter) and I could no longer check my net worth (a mixed blessing). Since I couldn’t upgrade the browser on either computer because of the elderly operating systems I sprung for OSX.5 to the tune of . . . well, you don’t want to know. Suffice it to say, there went the lunch money for awhile. I also bought an Airport Express thingy that theoretically would let me use my laptop wirelessly, my notion being I’d upgrade all the bells and whistles on the laptop (the iMac being firmly stuck in the 20th century like an ant in amber) and be blazing away on the keyboard in no time, writing great novels, blogging, poetizing . . .

That was the vision. Understand that the Airport Express needs OSX.4 or higher to operate - so my new OSX.5 would do the trick, right? Wouldn’t you think? The instructions were so clear: stick disk in the slot and follow the prompts. Piece-a-cake. Even I could do this, I thought. I slid the disk into the slot, whereupon several prompts moved me toward my goal - I hesitated only briefly before pressing “install” - the computer made loud grinding noises and started to sweat. Two hours later the little swirlything-of-death was still swirling in the upper left hand corner of the screen. I tried to abort using every combination of deletes/escapes/ejects that I could think of to no avail. It would not spit out the dang disk. I was ready to reach for a can opener. Finally I just turned off the computer and wept like a baby.

First chance I got I took the laptop to the Apple store for a disk-ectomy. The twelve-year-old at the help desk had the disk out in two seconds flat but delivered the news that, no, I couldn’t possibly install OSX.5 on my laptop because it needed twice the RAM available. He recommended I go up to 1G to be on the safe side. And no, he didn’t have any RAM to sell me at that location. And no, even if he had some they didn’t install at the store - he wrote down the numbers to several Mac guys who could do the upgrade for me (You better believe I wasn’t dumb enough to start taking my laptop apart by myself!).

I have to wonder why the guys (and it’s always guys) who work in these places feel they have to make their customers feel like complete idiots. I toted “Pippin”, my poor little laptop, off to the repair joint to get its memory augmented and the first thing the guy said to me was: “Why do you want OSX.5 on this machine anyway? You really should be going to OSX.4. You got a late 2004 G4 here. OSX.5s goin’ to be slow.”

“But I already bought the OSX.5, so what do I do? Are you saying it won’t work?” I was beginning to panic.

“Oh, it’ll work but it’s going to be slow.” I wondered what that meant. What would “slow” prevent me from doing?

“Well, if you have a .4 could I trade my .5 for it?” I asked.

“Sorry, I don’t have an OSX.4. You could try Amazon.” I didn’t tell him that was where I bought the OSX.5 which was the only one they offered.

“But you’ll install the 1G stick for me?”

“Sure, no prob. Just so you know, OSX.5 is goin’ to be slow.” He looked at me as if I had just asked him to install a turbocharger on a tricycle.

I get it, it’s going to be slow.

Update: When I got “Pippin” home I managed to install the OSX.5 without any problem - though I can’t see a bit of difference aside from two new icons on my dock, the function of which is a mystery. This morning I set about installing the Airport Express so I can go wireless. You can guess where this is going. I plugged in the proper plugs, inserted the install utility disk thingy, followed all the instructions to the letter. Nothing. To post this blog at the end of this paragraph I will have to save it to thumb drive, move it to “Blueberry” (which still has a functioning internet connection albeit with an earlier version of Safari), paste it to my blogger account and PRAY it posts! Now do you understand why my posts have been sporadic of late? I had no idea my computers would retire before I did!

CLOTHESLINE ENVY

My fixed income prompts me to examine expenses from fresh angles. Do I need this item? How might I reduce the cost of this service? It seems on the surface to be an austere and negative stance yet as I go back to basics I’ve been finding that the “belt tightening” process is producing unexpected joys.

This week as the weather revs up toward summer, reaching for record temperatures I gaze with longing over the backyard fence at my neighbor’s clothesline - to the crisp fragrant sheets and bright shirts. A few years ago her husband had scaled a fir tree at the property line and attached a pulley half way up in a horizontal line from the back porch. Soon laundry was flapping cheerily in the breezes forty feet across the yard. If I gave it any thought at the time it was to wonder if it would adversely affect our property values!

But heck, in an economy when property values are in free fall anyway there are other values to consider - energy conservation for one. (And consequently saving a buck or two on the electric bill!) So I dragged my antique wooden drying rack out of storage. How it had escaped becoming kindling decades ago I’ll never know - could have something to do with being buried under boxes of Christmas ornaments and a selection of dusty mouse traps. I washed off the spider webs and grime and set the rack on the deck in the sunshine.

As I write, my third load of wash clings to the rack in the heat - jeans, underwear, towels, polo shirts. At twilight I’ll fold each stiff, sun bleached item, proud of my enterprise and frugality. I’ll bury my face in the towels luscious with the scent of fresh air and lavender - while being alert to the possibility of hitchhiking honey bees. I have no idea how much money I’ve saved by giving the electric dryer a rest this week - probably no more than a few cents - but I have taken an enjoyable trip back in time, have resurrected memories of my mother’s double clothesline from our back porch to the apple orchard.

Memories of the womanly lore of wash day - which as I remember was usually Monday. Remember that there was a particular order in which the wash was hung. Supposedly every woman knew from birth the proper way to hang a load of laundry - though beyond the importance of hanging like items together, the vast storehouse of hereditary knowledge seems to have passed me by. Mom tells me her Irish grandmother’s laundry line was a masterpiece, a legend in the land - but then Great-grandma Tierney was a pro, doing laundry for the mansions “up on the hill” in Cincinnati in the days when rich ladies wore starched white cotton gowns dripping with lace to afternoon tea parties. Great-grandma Tierney would be utterly horrified if she could see how ineptly I’ve managed the ancient art - not to mention how scandalized she’d be by the items themselves! Jeans and polo shirts for women! Horrors!!

THE INFAMOUS DANDELION LUNCH

A mere three working days left until retirement! And I’ve never worked so hard - stocking the shelves for the long fixed income fast, tidying the garden, preparing instruction books for the three women who will be replacing me on the route. (I like to think it takes three people to replace me but it’s just that the boss can’t hire anyone new just yet so she’s divvying my clients up between three existing routes.)
Enough about that - I promised to tell you the story of the “Dandelion Lunch”.
It was the mid-seventies. I was the divorced mom of a seven-year-old son - unemployed, barely surviving on Welfare and Food Stamps. One day in early April I was down to pocket change. It was time for desperate measures if I was to feed my hungry kid. I took to the streets (No, it’s not what you think! Shame on you!). I walked up to the store, bought a few chicken wings and on the way home I foraged along the roadside for dandelion greens.
“What’s this weird stuff?” asked my sweet son pointing to his supper plate.
“It’s gourmet,” I said. “They pay big bucks for this in fancy restaurants downtown.”
He stared at the mound of greens as if it had tentacles.
“But what is it?”
Here it comes, I thought, no way out now.
“Fresh Spring greens sautéed with shallots and chicken wings, topped with grated parmesan cheese.”
“Looks like weeds,” he said, prodding his lunch with one fork tine.
Having been backed into a corner I pulled the mother card.
“Just eat it or go hungry!” I almost added the bit about starving children in Africa - my mom’s particular favorite - but I’d pushed things too far as it was.
I can’t remember how much of that lunch my darling son actually ate - after all it’s been in excess of thirty years - yet I do remember enjoying it myself. Pretty tasty to my way of thinking - not to mention creative! But then I also believed he bought the “Spring greens” description. He was a grown man when he finally revealed he’d been wise to me all along.
“Jeez Mom, kids know a dandelion when they see one,” he said. “Even without the fluffy foofies.” I smiled at the use of his childhood term for the seed heads.
“I’ll have you know dandelion greens are extremely high in calcium and all sorts of other vitamins and minerals,” I countered, sinking fast.
“Sure, Mom,” he said with a smile.
Every April since, I’ve asked him over for lunch as soon as the first succulent dandelion greens sprout in the back garden. Most of the time he shows up. Laughing.
With retirement only a few days away I recall those long ago hardscrabble times - recall the lessons learned and how good it felt to survive on my wits. I was proud to be self-sufficient and resourceful in a desperate time - just as my parents were to have survived the Great Depression. In this new blog, “Dandelion Lunch”, I’ll explore nearly forgotten skills I am going to need to marshall once more as I learn to live well on a fixed income. But no more foraging on the side of the road - YUCK!

Retirement: Creative Frugality Rediscovered

In a few weeks I'll be retired from Geekatopia (see old blog: www.raintownlowdown.blogspot.com) It's turning out to be much more work than I expected. So many considerations - Social Security paperwork, Medicare paperwork, budgets to hone, bills to pay off ahead of impending poverty - that sort of stuff and much more. Cutting ties with my employer is not something done lightly or easily. I'm up in the middle of the night wondering how my route will get done without me - wondering what I may have forgotten to pass on to the people taking over my work. I've given them many months notice but there is still so much to be done before I can make a clean break.

But it's a great adventure. Kind of like setting off into a vast wilderness with a daypack filled with granola bars. Scary. And exciting. I couldn't have picked a weirder time in which to give up the day job - imploded economy etc. When I tell people I'm retiring they inevitably say, "Oh, I'd love to retire but I can't afford it right now." Well, who can??? But did we wait until we could afford it before we: bought our new car, had a baby, went back to school, signed the mortgage? Nah. We're the children of the generation who survived the Great Depression - we're exhippies who lived on Food Stamps and airy illusions - we muddled through. Our idealism is boundless. Along the way we learned some valuable lessons about our own creativity and stamina. Wisdom and skills that we must now revisit as we set off in the unknown.

What's with the geodesic dome in the above photo, you ask. It's part of my retirement plan. Remember back in the 70s when people were "growing their own"? Now the term means something slightly different. It means raising a few organic vegies to stretch the Social Security check. In this new blog I'll chronical my rediscovery and recycling of nearly forgotten Hippie values and skills - ideas that are coming back around to serve me once more - things like repairing, reusing, recycling - rethinking how I live my life. In the next post I'll explain the name of this blog: Dandelion Lunch