Thank you, dear readers, for being there

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel November 23, 2009)

Thank you … two little words I don't say as often as I should. In the spirit of the upcoming holiday, I'm devoting today's column to words of appreciation. I'm addressing you, my reader, to thank you for being there, to thank you for listening.

I've always been a person who writes. From childhood on, my most comfortable means of expressing thoughts, feelings and observations has been the written word. I grew up in a picturesque setting in Pennsylvania that primed the pump of my imagination. The poems and essays that flowed from the wellspring of my youth were filled with ponderings and pronouncements inspired by the world at my doorstep.

Although I left Yardley years ago, I never outgrew my love of nature. The wonders of the world around me still fill me with awe. Over the years, I've poured out my feelings through stories, songs, poems and essays. For the past three years, I've been grateful to have a vehicle — my column — to share my thoughts and observations with you.

I am especially grateful to everyone who has supported my efforts. So many people have taken the time to send e-mails or to call and share personal experiences that often mirrored the subjects of my writing. Occasionally you have asked me to speak to groups, and at those times I've been able to meet you in person. As a writer who works from home, I find such meetings to be a rare delight with special meaning.

Recently, I published my first book, Rowing Through The Mist: The Everyday Pleasures of Simply Living. This 164-page collection of 42 essays and 43 photographs focuses on the things I know and love best —nature, family life and the changing seasons. Although publishing a book has been a lifelong goal, I plan for this book to be the first of many. My mind overflows with thoughts and ideas. There are many more words waiting to be written, printed and shared.

In these difficult economic times, when so many people are hurting financially and emotionally, it is especially important to remember the goodness. From birdsongs to sunsets and everything in between, we live in a world surrounded by beauty. Even in the darkest of nights, there are shooting stars to brighten our outlook, spark our imagination and encourage our wonder.

For me, the magic lies not in the blatant glare of the latest techno-toy but in the everyday treasures we tend to overlook. I see it as my job — and what a wonderful job it is — to focus attention on those simple pleasures, the little things in life that help us regain our perspective and improve our mood.

Because of you, my reader, I am encouraged to continue finding ways to express that magic. Your response to my writing has been a most generous gift, and it's now my turn to return the favor. So, in honor of Thanksgiving, a holiday dedicated to expressing appreciation, I offer my most heartfelt thanks. Without readers, a writer is a silent voice. You give me the means to make myself heard, and for that I am humbly and most sincerely grateful.

Cow encounter is unexpected and unforgettable

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel November 15, 2009)

I'm always on the lookout for wildlife. I look for snakes and turtles, rabbits and armadillos, raccoons, foxes, bobcats, coyotes and birds of every shape and color. Whenever I walk into my kitchen, I find myself peering out a bay window that offers a long view of the yard, a path through the woods and the untamed acres beyond. I look because that vantage point has often rewarded me with wildlife sightings.

That's what I did the other day. Ralph was taking his midday siesta, which enabled me to anticipate some quiet "alone time" in the kitchen. My plan was to fix a nice lunch and eat at the kitchen table while sipping tea and reading Davita's Harp by Chaim Potok. It was a good plan, but it never happened. When I entered the kitchen, I did my usual glance out the window, and what I saw put everything else on hold.

Two cows were grazing about 25 feet away from the house. Although Ralph and I raise dozens of different bamboo, raising bovine is not part of the picture. We have no livestock, and ever since our dog and cat died a few years ago, we don't even have pets. Therefore, you can imagine my surprise when I saw not one but two large farm animals using our yard as if it were their private pasture.

I put my novel down, picked up the camera and entered "wildlife photographer" mode. The cattle — one a brown-and-white female and the other a jet-black male that appeared to be the female's calf — seemed indifferent to my presence. Their big, round eyes focused on the sudden surplus of succulent greenery as I surreptitiously followed. My digital camera clicked away as the cows munched their way up the hill and down the narrow path above the clay wall that borders our driveway.

The female was definitely in charge. Her youthful counterpart trailed with a timorous curiosity. At one point when I approached too close, the black calf became spooked. After fixing me with a gaze that seemed to say, "How dare you come so near!" he bounded off in a gangling trot. The calf caught up to his food-fixated parent who, by that time, had moved on to a greener patch of weedy grass.

Long ago, in our pre-children days, Ralph and I raised a few chickens and a small herd of goats, but neither of us have had experience with larger livestock. I didn't grow up riding horses, and, before this encounter, the closest I'd ever been to cattle was when I interviewed Bay Lake resident Stephanie Copper for a 2004 Orlando Sentinel article. Copper, who is something of a cow whisperer, regularly sings and talks to her small herd of Barzona beef cattle. During the interview, I watched in amazement as the blond cowgirl communed with her tail-swishing charges. She even introduced me to an imposing bull that responded to her caresses with an indulgent patience that bordered on love.

I can't say I love cattle, but I did love chancing upon a bovine moment in my own backyard. The cows, who must have escaped from a neighbor's herd, seemed equally delighted with their own discovery. The adage, "The grass is greener on the other side of the fence," kept coming to mind as I watched the grazing duo meander from one patch of tall grass to another.

I tagged along for about 15 minutes before returning home to my own midday meal. I was still in the kitchen a short time later when a loud crunching sound caught my attention. The cattle were striding across the lawn right next to the house, their hoofed feet crushing the fallen sycamore leaves.

Although I'm used to seeing wildlife through the kitchen window, the sight of two cows right next to the house threw me for a loop. Just when I thought my days couldn't get any crazier, stray cattle appeared from out of nowhere to graze on my front lawn. The whole episode reinforced my belief in expecting the unexpected. It also made me rethink the phrase "wildlife encounter." Perhaps wildlife "en-cow-nter" would be a more appropriate spelling. However it's spelled, my midday interaction was a moo-ving experience that was udderly (sorry about that) unforgettable.

Fight litter with fines

(First appeared in Orlando Sentienl November 8, 2009)

The road to my house is trashed. Plastic bags, fast-food containers and a random assortment of tossed-away items line the county-maintained, two-lane road that takes me home.

I recently returned from a weekend trip to southeastern Pennsylvania, where roadsides were surprisingly free of litter. With my host in the driver's seat, I was able to enjoy the view instead of concentrating on street signs and directions. What I saw as we traveled through one small town after another were pretty houses, harvested fields and neat yards. What I didn't see were plastic bags drifting across those fields, snagged on fences or fluttering from tree limbs. I didn't see piles of used tires stacked along streets, nor did I see the remains of yesterday's pick-up-and-go lunch.

In Florida, a more appropriate label for such fast-food fare would be a pick-up-and-throw meal, because so many residents of the Sunshine State treat the landscape like their personal landfill. When a beer can is empty, a cheeseburger consumed or a soda slurped, car windows get rolled down and those empty bottles, bags, cans, cups, straws, papers, plastics and cigarette butts get thrown away to join all the other litter lining our state's large and small roads. That seems to be the misguided mind-set of many Florida residents.

The curbed roadsides in small Pennsylvania towns such as Newtown, Yardley, New Hope and Wycombe didn't act as open-air receptacles for broken beer bottles or smashed soda cans. Even in Allentown, a small city (population 107,200) that's five times bigger than Leesburg, litter was a non-issue.

I wish it were a non-issue in Florida.

Crews from Lake County's public-works department spent much of October mowing the tall grasses that border the county-maintained roads. I watched as mowers hacked back months of overgrown weeds and untamed grasses. Unfortunately, while neatening the roadside, the machines chopped up and spewed massive amounts of trash. Hidden beneath the tall growth was a season's worth of garbage, and since mower blades can't differentiate between Bahia grass and broken glass, they scattered both.

I suppose that the remains of yesterday's fast-food lunch will decompose faster if shredded, but that doesn't make it any less of an eyesore. A drive down our county's roads is a portrait in ugliness, thanks to the inconsiderate actions of our fellow citizens.

Lake County has so much beauty. Our waterways, hills and small towns have a distinctive look unmatched by any other Florida county, yet we allow that beauty to be marred by litter.

Is it possible to change the way people act? How can we make litterbugs aware that what they do is wrong? Perhaps we can start by enforcing the existing Florida Litter Law, which carries community-service hours plus fines of $50 to $1,000, depending on the amount of trash dumped illegally.

Anyone who has received a ticket for going 55 in a 40 mph zone knows how effective speed traps can be. Driving habits change quickly when speeders face payment of hefty fines. Why not apply that same logic to litter? If police departments were to actively engage in an anti-littering campaign, not only would towns have a sudden source of new income but litterers also would quickly learn to stop breaking laws. If everyone who was used to flicking spent cigarettes out of car windows or throwing beer cans on the ground knew they stood a good chance of being fined, I bet we'd see a significant reduction in the amount of litter.

Or, we can continue to do nothing.

We can continue to tolerate the bad habits of others. We can let ugliness and inconsiderateness rule. When it comes right down to it, it's up to us — people who care enough to say, "This must stop." After all, litter is not going to go away by itself. Adopt-a-Road programs help, but they don't do enough. The only way to rein in the downpour of debris flooding our roads is to attack litterers where they are most vulnerable — in their wallets.

Fining litterbugs would be fine by me.

An overdue bloom

SIMPLY LIVING

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel November 2, 2009)

My Mexican sunflowers are finally blooming. It sure took them long enough. Tithonia diversifolia must be one of the pokiest plants around. Although the buds started swelling a few weeks ago, the large, daisy-like blossoms only began appearing at the end of October. Drive through any neighborhood and you’re bound to notice a few of the tall, bushy plants peeking over fences and along property lines. The flowers, when they finally open, look like giant golden daisies. The bushes often tops out around 15-feet, tall enough to tower over hibiscus, oleanders and other ornamental shrubs.

I like Mexican sunflowers because the flowers are so cheery and because they attract a number of butterflies and bees. What I don’t like about them is how difficult they are to properly place in the landscape. I’d probably feel differently if tithonia bloomed for a longer time or looked more attractive when it wasn’t flowering. It would also help if the cold didn’t kill it back every year reducing the bush to an unruly skeleton of gawky stalks. Until the buds turn into flowers, tithonia is an ugly plant. It’s tall and leggy with rough, hairy stems and broad, unattractive leaves. In its pre-bloom state – which is most of the year - it looks more like a huge weed than an ornamental perennial. In some ways, that’s exactly what it is.

I planted my first Mexican sunflower near the house but Ralph was never happy with that location.

“Can’t you move it somewhere else?” he repeatedly asked. “How about someplace where it can sprawl without being in the way of the mower?”

My practical husband had a point. The tall stalks have a tendency to lean over, touch the ground and re-root. That’s a fine attribute for small plants but not such a positive trait when you’re talking about a 12- to 15-foot tall shrub that grows equally as broad.

Our son, Timmy, took Ralph’s suggestion to heart and relocated several tithonias to a spot alongside his vegetable garden. Unfortunately, Timmy then moved away, leaving the plants (and his abandoned vegetable garden) for us to tend.

“They’re still in the way,” Ralph remarked one day when the mower was attempting to whack that area back into a semblance of order.

I’d like to relocate the existing plants to a place on the property where they can sprawl as much as they want. In my ideal world, that spot would be within sight of my front porch so I can look out the windows and enjoy the massive clusters of golden blooms but it wouldn’t be in the forefront. I don’t want to look out and see the plant most of the year when it is not flowering and I especially don’t want it to be front and center after the first frost when whatever blooms remain have withered up and fallen off.

“How about planting it across the lake,” I suggested the other day. “That way, I could look out the windows and still see it but it won’t be in the way of the mower.”

Ralph agreed that the other side of the lake might be a good spot. All we have to do is cut back the existing clumps, dig them up and replant them on the other side of the lake in enriched soil. It’s a good idea but not something we’re going to do right now when the tithonias are finally covered in blooms.

I hope we get to it this winter. After years of growing Mexican sunflowers in the wrong place, it would be nice to finally get it right.

A sweet journey back in time

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel October 26, 2009)

I just finished eating a candy apple. October is my birthday month, and indulging in treats that I usually don't eat is one of my birthday traditions. This year, not only did I enjoy eating a bright red candy apple, I traveled to Pennsylvania to get it. Another birthday gift to myself was a return to my hometown, coinciding with my 40-year high school reunion. For my 58th birthday, I traveled back in time to my youth, revisiting old friends, driving down winding country roads and stopping by some of the businesses I frequented in my childhood.

My friend Megan picked me up at the airport, and we used the 45-minute drive from Philadelphia to Yardley to fill in the gaps since we last saw each other 23 years ago. After driving past both of our childhood homes, we stopped at Cramer Bakery, where I was hoping to find the pecan crescent cookies I was so fond of as a child. Unfortunately, the bakery — which looked amazingly the same as it did in 1969 — had sold out of those particular cookies. That's probably just as well. One lesson I learned from my birthday trip is that edible remembrances of times gone by are often sweeter than the treats themselves.

Megan drove me to the home of Mary Ann, another classmate I had known since kindergarten. Because Megan had opted out of attending the reunion, my plans were to stay at Mary Ann's house for the weekend and go with her to the reunion activities. Mary Ann and her husband, Harry, live in the small town of Wycombe in a historic home that they have lovingly restored. Even though we hadn't seen each other for four decades, meeting Mary Ann had none of the awkwardness one would expect after so much time. Despite the years, our interests and lifestyle choices were remarkably similar. We caught up with each other quickly and felt immediately at ease.

Mary Ann and I attended several pre-reunion gatherings with former classmates. A few of us met one morning at Styer Orchard, where I bought the candy apple. Like Cramer's, Styer's was around when I was a child, and memories of going there in autumn for pumpkin pies and candy apples flavored my youth. Another old familiar haunt was Goodnoe Farm Dairy Bar, an ice cream parlor where I worked as a teen. Although I rarely eat ice cream anymore, for old time's sake I ordered a sugar cone topped with a generous scoop of cherry vanilla ice cream.

All of our outings weren't about food. About a dozen classmates gathered at Bowman's Tower, a 125-foot-tall stone tower near Washington's Crossing that we used to frequent. Although we obeyed the rules and rode the elevator to the top (an elevator that wasn't there during our high school years), some of us opted to take the stairs back down even though a sign told us the stairway was off limits. We were, after all, the class of '69 — once a rebel, always a rebel. Another outing was to the artistic community of New Hope along the Delaware River, where we listened to the Sonic Falcons, a band made up of former classmates. Even though people there were friendly and the music was fun, I felt out of the loop at that gathering. The venue was loud and smoky, two qualities for which my 58-year-old body has minimal tolerance.

The reunion dinner itself was anti-climactic, in part because the chief organizer of the weekend events, a classmate named Sharon, fell ill at the last minute and couldn't attend.

My birthday trip to Lower Bucks County provided no shortage of treats. I saw about a dozen deer and hundreds of geese. The leaves on the trees were in full autumnal splendor, something I haven't seen in such richness and intensity for many years. As we drove along picturesque roads, we passed beautiful stone farmhouses surrounded by harvested cornfields. Yes, I ate a candy apple, but far sweeter and longer-lasting than any of my edible treats were the friendships I rekindled. Getting to reconnect with Megan, Mary Ann, Sharon, Tom, Ron, Suzanne, Coreen, Bev, Betsy and so many others was far more special than any taste of artificial sweetness.

They say you can't go back in time, but this year, for my birthday, that's exactly what I did.

Aptly named beautyberry thrives

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel October 19, 2009)

Beautyberry earns its name in autumn. As a small deciduous shrub, Callicarpa americana is a blaze of brightness in an October woods. The fruit is the plant's most striking feature. Clusters of tiny berries the color of passion — a pulsating pinkish-purple — cling to leaf axils like beads on a necklace. In verdant woods, where greens predominate, catching sight of a beautyberry bush is like chancing upon an unexpected gemstone — its color dazzles.

Eighteen years ago, the property we live on had none of the attributes beautyberry requires. As an understory plant, Callicarpa americana likes a semi-shaded location where accumulated plant litter has turned the natural sandy or clay soil into a lightly enriched loam. When we first moved here, there were only a handful of trees and the soil was a rough and barren patchwork of clay, sand and peat. It took years of aggressively planting but eventually a forest developed and with that forest came an assortment of shade-loving plants, not the least of which is the lovely beautyberry. I can't remember when I discovered the first plant but I remember how excited I was to chance upon the berry's unusually colored fruit.

A few days ago when I was walking through the woods, I realized that our forest was no longer home to a solitary specimen of Callicarpa americana. Thanks to the efforts of birds and small animals, dozens of beautyberries have taken root in the forest's fertile soil. Unlike the thousands of slash pines, bamboos and assorted ornamentals that Ralph and I laboriously planted, we didn't play any part in the propagation of beautyberry bushes. Animals did the hard work for us. Armadillos, fox, wood rats and raccoons nibbled on the berries along with bobwhites, thrashers, cardinals, mockingbirds, robins, towhees and woodpeckers. The bush's abundant and long-lasting fruit is a dependable food source while some other animals, like white-tailed deer, prefer nibbling on the plant's tender leaves.

Because so many animals eat the berries and, in the process, help spread the seeds, some people think beautyberry is a nuisance weed. I'm not among them. I'm fond of volunteer plants — especially pretty ones with interesting features. I like the way they surprise me with their presence.

Although I have never done more than look at and appreciate the berries, Callicarpa americana does have medicinal and edible qualities. A tea made out of the plant's roots is purported to relieve colic, dysentery and stomachaches while old time Floridians made jelly from the extremely astringent fruit. Native Americans added fresh beautyberry leaves to sweat baths as a remedy for rheumatism and fever and some people use the bark from stems and roots to relieve itchiness.

I'm too lazy to attempt jelly making and more likely to munch on a piece of candied ginger if my stomach feels unsettled than I am to dig up a beautyberry root to make tea, but I like learning about a plant's history and the different ways it is used by people around the world. I also like watching my woods fill up with uniquely colored botanicals. The fruit of Callicarpa americana is different than any other color I have found in nature. It is not quite purple or pink but some entirely different shade. I call it passion pink, the color of excitement.

Beautyberries in autumn are an exciting addition to the changing landscape. These compact, symmetrically formed, drought-tolerant bushes are one of Florida's best excuses to take a walk in a late October woods. Callicarpa americana berries last until midwinter, when they eventually shrivel up and dry on the stems, but don't wait that long. Beautyberry fruit are at their peak right now. Visit a park or wilderness area. Go for a walk in the woods. Discover the passion this Florida wildflower inspires.

Autumn comes home to roost

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel October 12, 2009)

Seasonal indicators abound. Over the past few weeks, the goldenrain tree has burst into bloom, showering the sky with color. The deciduous tree's gold-to-coral display is one of my favorite signs that a seasonal shift is under way. Summer is on the wane. Autumn has arrived.

On the ground, stiff brown sycamore leaves have begun to gather beneath increasingly bare branches while a noticeably cooler breeze blows across the feathery faces of goldenrod plumes. Whatever bright-orange persimmons the raccoons missed now dangle from leafless branches. On loquat trees, fragrant white blossoms have emerged, promising a hefty harvest in February. And the other day, for the first time in several months, I actually had difficulty submerging myself in the lake.

"Gosh, the water has gotten cooler," I said to Ralph as we headed into the lake after being outside for a while. "I haven't had this much trouble getting in since last April."

All summer long, dipping into the silky smooth water has been as easy to do as snuggling under the covers. The lake has been a delightful escape from the intense summer heat, but now that the air temperature has dropped, the lake has cooled correspondingly. I did manage to ease my way in yesterday, but I did so with more reluctance than I'd felt in months.

I'm not complaining. The loss of one pleasure is just an opportunity for another to take its place, and my most recent delight has come from observing an osprey that I hadn't seen all summer.

I first noticed the large fish hawk on our lake last November. Throughout the fall and winter and into the spring, the white-bellied raptor perched on a bamboo pole sticking out of a submerged peat island in the middle of our lake. Every morning when I woke up, I saw the bird sitting there and, although it left during the day, it returned at dusk to spend the night on its precarious perch. The osprey became such a fixture that after a while I stopped paying attention to it. I suppose I took its presence for granted. Maybe that's why we were well into summer when I realized it was no longer there.

The summer of 2009 was so full of weddings, new babies and writing projects that I didn't have time for prolonged pondering about the osprey's whereabouts. Occasionally I wondered why it had gone away, where it went and when it would come back. I missed watching the broad-winged bird circle the lake, dive to catch fish, then devour its catch while balancing on the bamboo perch. I even missed hearing its piercing cry — the osprey's warning when I approached too close.

The day I realized it had come back was the first cool day in October. Before then, it had not occurred to me that seasonal changes had anything to do with the osprey's whereabouts. Because I was used to seeing ospreys year-round, it didn't dawn on me that some fish hawks are migratory, traveling thousands of miles annually to return to good fishing grounds.

I have no doubt that the bird that recently returned to our lake is the same osprey that was here last November. Ospreys are creatures of habit, and once a bird has claimed a suitable habitat as its own, it comes back every year.

I don't know where the osprey in my lake spent its summer, but I do know that its return is yet another indication that the seasons have changed. Autumn in Florida is a wonderful time of year, and having a resident osprey to observe only makes it better.

Work-of-art web vs. Web? Easy choice

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel October 5, 2009)

Ralph had just completed the first loop in his daily walk around the lake when he opened the door, stuck his head inside the house and called out.

"Come see this spider that has built a web in the pine woods. And bring your camera."

Not one to dally when a wildlife encounter is imminent, I pushed away from the computer, slipped into a pair of Crocs and grabbed the camera.

As we headed toward the woods, I asked, "What kind of spider is it?"

He responded with a single word: "Huge!"

Although many people are terrified by spiders, I'm not among them. Quite the contrary, I find the eight-legged creatures fascinating. I like the way spiders look, how they act, the type of structures they build and the way these patient predators capture and eventually consume their prey. On many occasions, I've asked Ralph to join me in observing a particularly beautiful specimen as it went about its bug-catching business. There are more than 700 kinds of spiders in Florida, and I have yet to see one that hasn't been interesting to watch. Knowing my enthusiasm, Ralph was eager to show me his find.

As we walked through the bamboo nursery to get to the piney woods, I paid attention to all the spiders we were passing. Arachnids seemed to be everywhere. Interwoven among plant leaves and branches were spiny orb weavers with their tiny, colorful, crablike carapaces. I saw black and yellow argiope spiders, easily identifiable by the bright white zigzag stitches in the center of their webs, long-jawed orb weavers and one green lynx spider that blended in so convincingly with the leaf it was sitting on that I almost didn't notice it.

When we approached the woods, Ralph put out an arm to stop me from walking farther.

"Look ahead," he commanded, pointing toward the shady path.

There, sitting in the middle of a magnificent web, was one of the largest spiders I had ever seen. It was a female golden silk spider, Nephila clavipes, with a body at least 3 inches long. Even more impressive than its massive size was the architectural wonder this consumer of dragonflies, moths and lizards had constructed.

Using secretions released from spinnerets attached to its abdomen, the spider had woven a silky tapestry that spanned a 12-foot-wide path. Anchored in several places to two slash pines, one on each side of the path, the intricately woven web billowed in the breeze like a gold-threaded sail. Toward the center were two spiders — the extremely large female with her bright yellow body and her much smaller, dull-colored, opposite-sex counterpart.

"Are you sure that's the male?" Ralph asked as he stepped closer to the web.

I knew it was, but my husband's doubt was justified. At first glance, the smaller spider looked more like a trapped bug than another Nephila clavipes. However, upon closer inspection, Ralph could see the resemblance. The nondescript, diminutive male hovering at the periphery of the web's hub was really a miniature version of the female. As with most invertebrates, female spiders are generally larger and more colorful than males.

We stood in the woods observing the spiders for quite a while. Although my interest was still piqued, I knew that Ralph was getting antsy and was eager to continue his walk.

"Go ahead on," I told him as I clicked off yet another picture. "I just want to take a few more shots."

Ralph isn't as patient as I am when it comes to observing nature, but neither of us has the patience of spiders. It must have taken hours for that golden silk spider to construct her amazing web. Once it was built, she had to have spent more time waiting for her golden snare to ensnarl a meal. If Ralph hadn't been so observant during the first loop of his walk around the lake, he would have walked into the web and destroyed the spider's work. Instead, his sharp eyes enabled him to avoid a sticky situation and provided me with another opportunity to observe one of nature's beauties.

If I had to choose between a spider web and the World Wide Web, it wouldn't be much of a contest. I'd push away from the computer every time to watch one of nature's most fascinating creatures spin a little magic. I just wish more people would

Ubiquitous weed is a devil to get rid of

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel September 28, 2009)

Bidens pilosa is an easy plant to dislike. I haven't liked it for close to 20 years.

Also known as Spanish needle, burr marigold, cobbler's peg and (my favorite) demon spike grass, Bidens pilosa has mastered the art of botanic adaptability. It grows along parched strips of roadsides and disturbed earth just as easily as it does in the rich, well-irrigated soil of flower beds or lawns. Native to South America, it has spread to every continent except Antarctica. It's easy to understand why the Chinese call it xian feng cao, or "abundant weed."

In Central Florida, Bidens pilosa is most obvious in early autumn. By the end of September, small plants that would have been easy to dislodge earlier in the season are deeply rooted, full-size specimens, often topping out more than 3 feet tall and equally as broad.

The flower heads — small white petals surrounding orange centers — are a "nothing special" bloom, too small and irregular to be pretty and lacking a pleasant fragrance. The hairy stems have a tendency to bend over and reroot.

After years of pulling out the offensive plants only to find myself with an itchy rash on my arm, I learned that contact with the hairy parts causes a bothersome irritation in people who have sensitive skin. That's odd, because one of the many herbal uses of Bidens pilosa is to crush the flower heads and rub them on insect bites to relieve irritation and swelling. Go figure.

Although I'm not wild about this plant's flowers, leaves or growth habit, what I particularly loathe are its seeds. Demon spike grass has "hitchhiker" seeds that attach themselves with unyielding tenacity to anything that brushes by. That means if you go for a walk in the woods or alongside a road where Bidens pilosa is growing, you will return home with dozens of these miniature barbed bayonets clinging to your shoes, shoelaces, socks, pants or skirt.

Removal is not easy. The slightly curved, rigid black spikes grab at fabric as fiercely as ticks attach themselves to skin. A comparison to ticks is not farfetched. Another common name for Bidens pilosa is beggar's tick, a reference to the seed-covered clothing of hobos walking along railroad tracks.

All too often, Ralph has come in from working outside with his white crew socks skewered by the black seeds. Picking off the seeds is a tedious, profanity-inducing process, but it shows why this plant is so widely distributed. Wild animals, birds, domesticated pets and livestock have inadvertently transported demon spike grass around the planet.

With so much going against it, I was surprised to learn that instead of despising this invasive weed, people in some cultures actually appreciate it. Sub-Saharan Africans eat the fresh, tender young leaves as a vegetable, while Ugandans prefer their leaves boiled in sour milk. In Mexico, the seeds find new life as a stimulating substitute for tea, while Filipinos make wine out of the flowers.

All parts of the plant — roots, leaves and seeds — have herbal properties. Bidens pilosa purportedly has antibacterial, antidysenteric, anti-inflammatory, antimicrobial, antimalarial properties. It is even under study for anticancer characteristics. Although few Floridians know it as anything but a noxious weed, many of us have noticed its popularity among butterflies. It is the preferred food source of the Gulf fritillary, orange long wing and zebra long wing.

After learning about its many uses, I figured I should re-evaluate my feelings for Bidens pilosa. I thought about its use as a medicinal herb, a food source, a butterfly attraction and livestock fodder. I considered its potential in the fight against cancer.

I tried to like it. I really did.

In the end, the best I can do is to admire its tenacity and accept its presence. Despite the plant's attributes, I still see demon spike grass for what it mainly is: a seedy hitchhiker on the horticultural highway of life. Ah, well, no one says you have to like everything.

Life lessons not taught at college

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel September 21, 2009)

My 17-year-old son recently moved into his first apartment, a two-bedroom, two-bathroom condo close to the University of Central Florida. He's sharing the unit with a 20-year-old roommate who is living away from her family for the first time, too.

My precocious, chess-playing, math-loving youngest child couldn't wait to be off on his own. His eagerness to live independent of his increasingly annoying parents had become more and more difficult for him to suppress during the months preceding the move. His patience with King Rhetorical and Queen Hysteria (as he so lovingly labeled us) had decidedly waned. Like a puppy straining at the leash, he was ready for the tether to be unclipped. If truth be told, his father and I were ready, too. After 29 years of sharing our household with children, we were anticipating our own form of freedom. What we didn't anticipate was how entertaining it would be to watch our final child feel his way down the dimly lighted hallway of adulthood.

The entertainment began when I woke one morning shortly after Toby moved into his apartment and checked my Facebook page. On it was an entry posted by my son: "[I] learned today that trying to cook a grilled cheese sandwich on an electric stove on the highest heat isn't a good idea," his understated announcement read.

Let me step back a bit here to explain that Toby makes an excellent omelet. Like his three older siblings, my youngest offspring is comfortable in a kitchen. However, despite a familiarity with meal preparations, and even though omelets are his specialty, he had never (until he moved into his own home) cooked on anything except a gas burner.

"Yeah, grilled cheese and high heat are so not meant for each other," one of his Facebook friends responded.

I couldn't stop laughing. Levity continued a few days later when he called with a question.

"What does it mean when a banana starts to leak some sort of liquid?" he asked.

Struggling to quell a roaring tide of laughter, I answered as matter-of-factly as possible: "It means the banana has started to rot. You're going to find that some foods, like bananas, tomatoes and other soft-fleshed fruit, spoil quickly, especially in the summer, so don't buy more than you can eat in a couple of days."

Shortly after the banana incident, I stopped by his apartment to drop off his cell phone. Our son, who often chides us for forgetting things, had left his phone at home when he visited the previous weekend. I should mention that the reason he came home that weekend was to retrieve his phone's charger, an item he had forgotten to pack when he moved out.

While I was there, Toby asked if we could go together to get a shower curtain. He said he had taken a shower that morning even though the bathroom did not yet have a shower curtain.

"The floor got really wet," he explained.

What a surprise!

The shower experience led to a laundry dilemma that we heard about after I had returned home that evening.

"Hi, Mama," my beloved progeny began. "I'm trying to do laundry, and I think the washing machine might be broken."

"Just a second, let me get your father," I said as I handed the telephone to the fixer in our household of all things mechanical.

"What's the problem?" Ralph asked.

Our son explained that he had put in the dirty laundry and detergent, turned the dial to the appropriate setting and pulled it to start but nothing happened.

"No water comes out," he reported. His father and I shared a knowing look.

"Look on the wall right behind the washer," Ralph patiently explained. "Do you see a couple of valves? Turn the one on the right — that's the cold-water valve — all the way to the left and then try it. Is it working now?"

How about that! It worked.

Ralph and I may be old and forgetful. Our hearing might not be as sharp as it used to be, and we do have a tendency to go on and on when all that's needed is a simple explanation. However, somewhere along the line we managed to accumulate knowledge — a fair amount of good, old-fashioned practical knowledge. That gives us the power (every now and then) to amaze one of humankind's most difficult-to-impress creatures — a 17-year-old man-child.

"Thanks, Mama. Thanks, Papa," Toby said, as he concluded the phone call. "I love you."

The feeling is mutual.

Snake's alive — somewhere in the office

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel September 14, 2009)

Many people don't like snakes, but I'm not one of them. I think snakes are beautiful, interesting and beneficial animals with skin that's surprisingly smooth and cool to the touch. But just because I like snakes doesn't mean I don't get startled if I come upon one unexpectedly — for instance, curled up on the hallway rug.

"Quick!" shouted my husband, "there's a snake in the house! It just went behind the bookshelf."

Sure enough, some sort of slithering being was indeed inside our house. I saw it with my own eyes even though I was, at the time, not wearing my glasses or, for that matter, much of anything else. In response to the seriousness of my husband's tone, I ran out of my office fast enough to see the snake retreat into an extremely narrow space behind a tall oak bookshelf.

"Open the door," Ralph commanded. "Let's try to scoot him outside."

This might be a good time to note that snakes that happen to wander into human habitats are not usually cooperative when said humans are trying to corral and catch them. The snake in our hallway reacted the way any self-protecting reptile might respond in a similar situation: It disappeared.

It's amazing how fast these creatures without feet can move. One minute it was calmly resting on the rug. The next minute it had wedged itself into a finger-wide slit between the wall and the bookshelf. Not that either of us was about to stick a finger into that slit. We were too smart for that; we used a stick instead. Unfortunately, the first stick we could put our hands on was too thick to fit far enough into the space to prod the snake out of hiding. All the stick probably did was frighten the poor thing more than two screaming humans already had done.

"Get a flashlight," Ralph directed, in the hope that illuminating the area would shed some light on what we should try next.

I ran into the kitchen and pulled open drawers. We had to have at least one working flashlight. By the time I returned to the hallway with a dimly lighted bulb, the snake had already removed itself from its hiding place and was heading toward the bedroom.

"Shut the door!" I heard myself scream. A snake in the hallway was one thing, but one in the bedroom was quite another. Ralph slammed the door in time to prevent the snake from entering our sleeping quarters, but in that particular part of the hallway there are two other doors, and both were still open. I closed the door to the bathroom but wasn't fast enough to shut the one to Ralph's office.

Some people have offices with smooth, uncluttered surfaces. My husband's office is not like that. His 9-by-12-foot nook looks more like a depository of recycled boxes and assorted electronic equipment than the efficient workroom it actually is. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the walls with piles of paper on every surface. Add to that a labyrinth of cords and wires weaving their way over, under and around and you have what may appear — at least in the eyes of a pursued snake — to be a hiding-place bonanza.

Our hope of capturing the serpent vanished as we watched it slip effortlessly behind a stack of cardboard boxes. It might have been possible to empty out Ralph's office — dismantle the shelves, untwist the wires, move out the desks — but the thought of doing so was too overwhelming to consider.

Our decision was clear: We'd live with the snake.

It has been more than a week since the snake incident, and we have seen neither hide nor hair — I mean, skin or scale — of it. I assume it slithered out of the house the same way it slithered in — undetected. Snakes can fit through incredibly small spaces.

It's a good thing that Ralph and I like snakes. If we didn't, this whole snake-in-the-house incident could have resulted in a prolonged hotel stay, an expensive extermination fee or a series of costly visits to a therapist. Instead, it gave us yet another story of a close encounter with the animal world. As long as it doesn't decide to slither its way into the bedroom, I'm feeling good.

Have fun learning, and feed millions

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel September 7, 2009)

Great ideas can come at the most unexpected times. John Breen, founder of FreeRice.com, was in the kitchen with his two teenage sons when inspiration hit. The Indiana-based computer programmer was trying to help his older child prepare for the SAT.

"The younger one made a mockery of the situation," Breen explained in a December 2007 interview with National Public Radio. "He kept saying, 'He doesn't know this word, he doesn't know that word.' So I decided to do something on the computer to help my son learn vocabulary words."

The computer program he developed was a multiple-choice vocabulary game. It wasn't long before Breen realized that his online learning tool had broader applications. Breen, who had previously created the Web site Poverty.com to help educate people about world hunger, launched FreeRice.com on Oct. 7, 2007. In the game he designed, players earn grains of rice, instead of points, for choosing the correct answer. Sponsors, whose banner ads run at the bottom of the page, transform the virtual grains players win into actual food. The United Nations World Food Programme then distributes the grain to needy people around the world. By the end of last month, more than 67 billion grains of rice had been donated through Breen's Web site. That was enough rice to provide a day's worth of food for 3.5 million people.

Although FreeRice.com has been around for about two years, it was a discovery for me. My friend Sharon touted its merits in a Facebook discussion, and her comment generated more than enough positive feedback to pique my curiosity. I went to FreeRice.com and after surveying it briefly, began playing the vocabulary game.

Although English Vocabulary was the only game originally offered, the site now challenges players in 12 other subjects, including Famous Paintings, World Capitals, Chemical Symbols, Basic Math, Spanish and three other foreign languages. In English Vocabulary, I had to pick the correct synonym out of four choices to match the given word.

Each time I answered correctly, I earned 10 grains of rice. Instead of being penalized when I answered incorrectly, I was given the correct definition to study and review. The program tracked my mistakes and repeated words I didn't know until I learned them. A "warning" on the site's home page said it all: "This game may make you smarter. It may improve your speaking, writing, thinking, grades, job performance ..."

After playing about a half-hour and racking up enough rice to provide a day's worth of food for one person, I felt pretty darn good. I was having fun, helping others and learning words at the same time. I wanted to share my discovery with my husband.

"Ralph," I called into the kitchen where he was reading the paper. "Come here a sec. I want to show you something."

Ralph walked into my office hesitantly. He probably thought I needed his help with some sort of problem. He was surprised to see me playing a game.

"I want to show you this cool site I discovered," I said. "You play a game and win rice to feed hungry people."

"What's the catch?" he asked as he sat down in front of the keyboard.

"There is no catch," I replied. "One hundred percent of all money raised by the site goes to the World Food Programme. Come on. Give it a try."

He continued with the game I was playing and was captivated immediately, probably because he didn't get a single word wrong. Although the difficulty level kept increasing, he answered word after word correctly. Instead of accumulating 500 grains of rice in the virtual bowl, my sweet and mentally sharp husband increased our combined tally to more than 1,000.

At my urging (I was growing weary of seeing him get every answer right), he moved on to another subject, French. It has been more than 40 years since Ralph sat in a French class, but once again, he aced the quiz.

We were well above 2,000 points when we decided to call it a night. In less than an hour, our mutual effort had yielded enough rice to feed four people for a day. In the grand scheme it's not much, but to those four people it means one less day feeling hunger pangs.

I was amazed by the FreeRice site. In a society that attaches a price tag to almost every commodity, we don't expect compassion to reign supreme. But compassion is Breen's stock and trade. His eureka moment resulted in a new way to do business — play a game, increase your knowledge and help others at the same time. Breen has proved that even small steps — a few grains of rice at a time — can make a big difference. The world is a little better because of one man's efforts.

Turtles have good reason to be nervous

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 31, 2009)

I scare turtles. I don't mean to. I certainly don't want to. But all I have to do is walk outside and turtles tremble. SPLISH! SPLASH! Two more of the hard-shelled creatures dive for cover.

The screen door is the real culprit — that and my preoccupied mind. Opened screen doors have a tendency to close loudly, especially if the person opening them (me) forgets to prevent the door from slamming. BANG! The wooden door swings shut. Another reptile dives for cover.

I live next to a turtle-dense lake. I don't know how many of the carapace-covered critters reside in our 12-acre pond, but I routinely see them basking on logs, rising to the surface for air and, occasionally, walking over land to lay their eggs.

Turtles are ancient beings that traversed the water-covered Earth during the time of most dinosaurs. There are 50 turtle species in North America, with 26 types in the Sunshine State. Of those 26, 18 types of turtles live in Florida's freshwater lakes and rivers. Fossil researchers report that most turtles look much the same now as they did 150 million years ago. The adage "If it ain't broke, don't fix it" applies to these well-designed lung-breathers.

The turtles I routinely frighten are usually sitting on top of a partly submerged oak log that I asked Ralph to place not far from our beach. My thinking was: (a) if he placed the log there, turtles would sit there and sun themselves (they do); and (b) if they came and sunned themselves, I'd be able to watch them while I'm on the beach (unfortunately, I can't).

My reasoning didn't take into account the self-preserving tendencies of an animal with a history spanning millions of years. If a turtle senses danger, its first instinct is to disappear. It does so by either retreating into its shell or diving into the water. The turtles sunning themselves on the oak log near our beach opt for an aquatic retreat.

I suppose they haven't gotten used to me yet. Ralph placed the log on the spit of land near the beach just a few months ago, and although the turtles discovered it almost immediately, they haven't been using it long enough to realize that I mean them no harm. These toothless reptiles have good reason to fear humans. Pollutants often contaminate their watery habitat, and much of it is lost to development. Although many animals prey upon mature turtles and eat their eggs, humans are their greatest threat. People hunt turtles for food, kill them for sport, harvest babies for the pet industry and run over them with cars and trucks. So much destruction has taken place for these remarkable creatures that the International Union for Conservation of Nature lists more than two-thirds of the world population of turtles as threatened.

In Florida, a regulation passed in July attempts to help waning turtle populations. The rule passed by the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission prohibits the commercial harvesting of freshwater turtles in public and private waters. It is the nation's most restrictive turtle-harvesting rule. Scientists hope the new regulation will give declining turtle populations a chance to rebound.

I hope so too. Any animal that has survived for millions of years deserves a chance to continue living into the next millennium. I don't like scaring turtles every time I thoughtlessly slam the screen door, but if these gentle creatures need to react to potential danger by disappearing into the water for a while, I'll understand. The important thing is that they don't disappear forever.

Taking baby on walk down memory lane

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 24, 2009)

Thirty years ago, when I was a young mother living on Cape Cod, I used to slip my infant daughter into a blue corduroy Snugli and take her for long walks. Inevitably, Amber would fall asleep, I'd get some overdue exercise, and we'd both be outside feeling the breeze against our skin. Sometimes I walked along a nearby bike trail. Other times I'd head toward the beach or town, strolling alongside roads and stretches of woods until I arrived at my destination. Whichever route I took, I always returned home with two things — a sleeping child and a wildflower bouquet.

I was thinking about those pleasant hikes the other day when I took my grandson for a stroll through my daughter's neighborhood.

In preparation for our new role as grandparents, Ralph sorted through boxes in the attic looking for our old baby paraphernalia. One of his finds was our reliable Snugli. Even after supporting the rumps of four children and spending a good 16 years tucked away in an overheated attic, the Snugli remained in tiptop condition. After a fresh laundering, it was ready for a new generation of use.

Although Amber and Scott have a spiffy new stroller complete with several cup holders and storage bins, I brought the Snugli with me when I headed over to baby-sit. I'm glad I did because it came in handy. About an hour after Amber left, the baby began to fuss. When even a bottle of warmed milk didn't do the trick, I decided to try the Snugli. After tucking my grandson's 8 pound, 4 ounce body into the soft fabric enclosure, we headed outside for a stroll. Almost immediately, he calmed down.

My daughter and son-in-law live in a lovely subdivision in Winter Garden. It's an older neighborhood with well-maintained yards and wide sidewalks. As I went out the front door, I turned left and started walking in what I expected to be a quick loop around the block. It turns out that subdivisions — or at least that particular subdivision — are not designed for quick loops around the block. A left at the nearest cross street followed by another left at the next two intersections did not bring me back to Amber's house as expected. Instead, it took me in a circuitous route around the neighborhood until I finally — about an hour later — navigated my way back to Amber and Scott's address.

I'm not complaining. It was a good walk, a long walk and a soothing walk for baby Atom, who managed to pass most of the time in peaceful slumber. What it didn't do was yield a bouquet of wildflowers the way my walks on Cape Cod did.

As it turns out, subdivisions, even older ones in more well-established neighborhoods, do not lend themselves to wildflower foraging. In fact, foraging for any sort of plants would be unacceptable behavior in places where the only flowering plants visible are those planted by homeowners to accentuate their landscapes.

In the years when I lived on Cape Cod, subdivisions were a rarity. Most of the homes I passed on my outdoor forays were well over a hundred years old with landscapes that reflected decades of plantings. In the spring, blooms from ancient hedges of lilacs and forsythia overflowed onto roadways. Wild roses and beach plums flourished near the bay. Clusters of delicate violets and the edible red tops of clovers escaped domesticity and wandered out of yards and onto the wayside. Tall stalks of Queen Anne's lace, black-eyed Susan and fluffy milkweed flowers grew with abandon along stretches of woods. I'd walk along my chosen route picking a flower here and another there until, before I knew what was happening, I had gathered a beautiful bouquet.

I haven't been back to Cape Cod for years, but I imagine that most of the stretches of woods have given way to modern housing units where, as in Florida, homeowner-association rules restrict what can and cannot be planted. I understand the need for rules, and I'm glad my daughter and her family live in such a tidy neighborhood with individually designed yards, but I can't help missing the wildflowers. I miss knowing that no matter where I turn, I'll find flowers growing by the wayside waiting to be picked.

Now, where did I put my sunchokes?

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 17, 2009)

Gulf fritillary butterflies seem to share my affinity for Helianthus tuberosus, a member of the sunflower family more commonly known as Jerusalem artichoke or sunchoke. For the past few days I've been looking out my porch windows and watching the orange butterflies land on the bright yellow flowers. Although we're both attracted to the blooms, there's another part of the plant I'm also fond of — its edible tubers.

In April, I bought a couple of pounds of Jerusalem artichokes from my local grocer with the intention of eating a few and planting the rest to harvest in the fall. I've always liked the way sunchokes taste. They have a crisp texture and a slightly sweet, nutty flavor. Although the potassium-rich tubers can be boiled, baked, grated, diced and added to stir-fries, I've always preferred to eat them fresh, like an apple — scrubbed free of dirt before biting into their crunchy goodness. For me, the cheery, daisy-like flowers are a bonus — I'm after the underground rhizomes.

Sprouts began to appear shortly after Ralph and I buried about two dozen of the stubby tubers in a bed of enriched soil. A few weeks later, those sprouts developed rough leaves and tough, hairy stems that grew taller by the day.

"I can't remember how big they grow," I said to Ralph as I watched the garden bed fill with leafy, green clumps. "I hope I picked a good spot."

Plant placement is an art I have yet to master. Twice before, I grew sunchokes in what turned out to be inappropriate locations. I made my first mistake on Cape Cod, and about 10 years ago I miscalculated again in Florida. Both times the plants took over their allotted space, spreading into areas where I didn't want them to be. Jerusalem artichokes are notoriously invasive. If even a small piece of a tuber remains in the soil after harvesting, an entirely new batch of flowers will emerge the next year.

On both of those previous occasions, we managed to eliminate the sunchokes by rigorously harvesting each individual tuber. Now, over a decade later and with previous lessons in mind, I was ready to try again. I chose my location carefully, picking a garden bed completely contained by the house on one side and by a curved concrete walkway on the other. I felt confident the tubers could not escape.

What I didn't take into account was the plant's tendency to sprawl.

Helianthus tuberosus are tall plants — much taller than I remembered. After five months of growth, they stand about 8 feet high. If they stood up straight their height wouldn't be a problem, but they don't. Like many tall plants, sunchokes tend to lean over. To make matters worse, the plant's leaves and stems have a rough texture that's unpleasant to touch.

Unfortunately, the spot where I planted them is right next to our porch door and alongside a concrete path that we use daily. When the stalks lean over, they interfere with both the walkway and entry.

Darn! And I thought I was being so careful this time.

This morning Ralph tried to solve the problem by wrapping a rope around the stems and tying them upright. It was an effective, if not particularly attractive, method. After viewing my husband's handiwork, I suggested we think about relocating the entire patch after we harvest the tubers.

"Got anyplace in mind?" he asked.

I said I did.

"Maybe behind the compost pile?" I suggested. "They could do their spread-and-sprawl thing and not be in the way of any walkway or doors. And if we planted them there, I could see the flowers from my office."

"That might work," he replied.

It's difficult picking the right place for plants. You start with a packet of seeds —or, in the case of Jerusalem artichokes, with a basketful of rhizomes— and try to imagine how the mature plant will look. How much space will it take up? Will it interfere with other cultivars? Will it grow too tall, blend in with other plants or become practically impossible to eliminate if you want to remove it? Although I've made just about every mistake you can make with plant placement, I still find the process exciting.

The Helianthus tuberosus I planted in April are almost ready to harvest. Come September, I'll have quantities of homegrown tubers to eat and share with others. Most people have never tasted Jerusalem artichokes, and I'd like to change that. Despite their negative features — a tendency to sprawl, an invasive growing pattern and rough-textured foliage that irritates sensitive skin — sunchokes have much in their favor. These easy-to-grow perennials not only produce a versatile, flavorful and nutritionally rich vegetable, they have pretty flower heads that butterflies find irresistible.

When I weigh the plant's pros and cons, the pluses win out. Maybe next time I'll pick an appropriate location where the sunchokes can stay indefinitely. I know the Gulf fritillaries would like that and, after three wrong choices, I'd like it too.

There's a fungus among us — and we like it

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 10, 2009)

My husband is a fungi. I know - it’s a (s)poor joke, (there I go again…) but the truth is, my sweet partner of almost 40 years happens to be a big fan of edible mushrooms. That’s why he was so excited when a package arrived last week.

"What've you got there?" I asked after seeing the contents of a large box sprawled haphazardly across the kitchen counter.

"The dried mushrooms I ordered arrived!" he said with unrestrained enthusiasm.

"Oh, yeah," I responded with a tinge of skepticism. "How many mushrooms did you get?"

He handed me the invoice. On it were listed a dozen varieties of fungus with intriguing names such as matsutake, chanterelle and candy caps as well as a few suspicious culinary monikers, including one called "yellow foot."

"What kind of mushrooms are these?" I asked while examining one of the many 1-ounce packages of what looked like small pieces of brown cardboard.

"I don't know," he responded with a giddy smile. "I ordered an assortment so we could try lots of different types. Which ones do you want to taste first?"

"You pick," I said, aware that this particular pleasure was mainly his to enjoy.

We settled on a random assortment, but before any cooking could commence, the dried mushrooms had to regain their lost moisture. Ralph submerged the flat slivers in a small amount of water. Within minutes, the liquid was absorbed and cooking could begin.

He then coated a large cast-iron pan with a small amount of olive oil and added a spoonful of crushed garlic before placing the rehydrated mushrooms in the sizzling oil. A heavy, woodsy smell permeated the air. Using a spatula, he stirred the heady mixture until the mushrooms were soft and well-coated with garlic oil.

"What do you think?" Ralph asked as we began our taste test.

"Interesting," I remarked. "They're a little chewy and tough, but flavorful, too. Which ones are these again?"

We were sampling a mixture of maitake, black trumpet and lobster mushrooms.

Of the three, maitakes were the only ones we had previously tried. Ralph discovered maitakes — also known as "hen of the woods" — after reading an article about them by medical doctor and author Andrew Weil one of my husband's favorite sources of health information. His Web site, www.drweil.com, says that "maitake has anti-cancer, antiviral and immune-system-enhancing effects and may also help control both high blood pressure and blood sugar levels."

Weil's endorsement motivated Ralph to purchase a supply of dried maitakes to incorporate into our diet. Much to the chagrin of my 17-year-old son, small pieces of the meaty, nutty-tasting mushroom were soon appearing in omelets, stir-fries, soups and just about any other appropriate (or, from Toby's perspective, totally inappropriate) meal.

Ralph's fascination with mycology more than compensates for our son's lack of interest.

Back in the 1980s, while still living on Cape Cod, Ralph traveled to Washington state to attend a weekend mushroom cultivation seminar with Paul Stamets, founder of Fungi Perfecti. Stamets is a pioneer in edible and medicinal mushroom cultivation. After returning home, Ralph began growing his own crop. About six months ago, my husband repeated the process in Florida by inoculating shiitake spores into a stack of freshly cut oak logs. Thanks to the recent delivery from Oregon Mushroom, we have no shortage of other mushrooms to sample while waiting for the shiitake spores to produce edible fungi.

So far, in addition to maitake and shiitake mushrooms, Ralph and I agree that morels have the nicest texture and most pleasant taste. After working our way through each type, we'll probably reorder only our favorites.

"This was just a sampling," Ralph explained while he reorganized the remaining packages. "I just wanted to try a few different types to see how they taste."

I guess that makes him a sporadic spore-addict. Sorry, the temptation to poke fun(gi) was just too hard to resist.

Grandson's birth marvel to behold

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 3, 2009)

I just experienced the birth of my first grandchild. As I stood at the foot of my daughter's bed, I saw how slow, painful and messy birth is. It's also amazing. More than amazing, really — it's in the company of marvels.

It's not as if I haven't seen it before. Four times I've labored over my own children's births, but on each of those occasions I was on the grunt end of the job. It's completely different being in a position of receiving. Not that I actually caught my grandson or did anything more helpful than offer support, encouragement and an observer's perspective on the baby's progress, but it was a role I assumed with eagerness and appreciation. I was there to receive the result of love — my love for my daughter and her husband, their love for each other and the product of that union: my grandson, Atom.

Despite his name, Atom's birth was not explosive. After more than 41 weeks of pregnancy and a labor that lasted well beyond two days, my daughter's 7-pound, 4-ounce offspring finally decided to grace us with his presence. As I stood alongside the calm obstetrician, I watched my tiny grandson inch his way into the world.

"I see his head!" I announced as a sliver of crown began to appear. With each contraction, his rounded pate grew more and more noticeable before retreating. There was an ebb and flow to his movements, as if he were hesitant to make the final transition.

"Shall I give up this cozy abode for a world unknown?" he seemed to be pondering. "Shall I make my entry now or wait a little longer?"

Giving birth is a visceral experience. Even in the most secure location, the birthing table is anything but a bed of roses. I saw firsthand how new life emerges from a primordial slime. Babies may be born out of blood and agony, but amid the suffering and the mess is an overwhelming sense of happiness, expectation and joy. Do we experience such an emotional slurry at any other time in our lives? So many positive feelings combine with body-wrenching anguish and passion.

Throughout her long labor, I reminded my daughter that her pain would vanish with the birth of her son, and immediately after Atom finally decided to slide into the world, that's exactly what happened. Amber's face lit up with smiles while Scott's paled with the momentousness of the occasion. As the attending nurse laid my daughter's first child in her arms, I felt my heart swell with appreciation for everything that enabled this moment.

I now join the ranks of grandparents around the world doting love upon children of the children they gave birth to themselves. Life is nothing if not an amazing journey, and as I pass yet another bend on this byway, I delight in the marvel that is my grandson, Atom.

Discover if you have the grape de-seeding gene

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 27, 2009)


I got a call last week from friend and grape grower, Tommy Free.

"The grapes will be ready on August 1st," he said. "We got a lot of good rain this year and the vines seem to be producing even bigger grapes than usual."

Free has been producing purple muscadine and bronze-colored scuppernong grapes on the west side of Clermont's Lake Apshawa since his parents moved there from Ocoee in 1987. In the 18 years since our family has lived in south Lake County, I don't think we've missed a single August grape harvest. Picking grapes is one of my favorite late summer rituals.

After receiving Free's call, I e-mailed Jenny in Massachusetts and Timmy in Seattle.

"Tommy's grapes will be ripe when you visit," I wrote my two out-of-state children. "When you get home we can go over and pick them together."

Jenny has been hankering for Florida fruit. "Will there be ripe starfruit when we're there?" she asked a few weeks ago. I had to tell her no. Last winter's freeze severely damaged our carambola tree — commonly called starfruit because that's what the fruit looks like when sliced. Although new leaves have since formed, it is nowhere near harvest time. Ditto for the papayas, another of Jenny's favorite Florida treats.

"Figs and grapes," I told her, "that's what will be ripe when you arrive."

Timmy likes both but Jenny is not a big fan of the former. That's because, like her father, she has difficulty de-seeding certain types of fruit.

"How can you eat them that way?" Ralph always asks when I sit down to consume dozens of scuppernongs in rapid succession.

I have no idea. It's an unconscious act. That's not the case for Ralph or Jenny. I've always found it perplexing that both lack the oral dexterity needed to separate a seeded grape's individual parts. They have the same problem with pitted fruits like cherries and loquats. Are such abilities (or lack thereof) inheritable traits? Are some of us actually born with a fruit de-seeding gene?

If there is such a gene, three of our four children inherited it from me. Not only do I adore the sweet flavor of scuppernongs, I actually like the process of separating the tough skin and small seeds from the juicy flesh. Part of the fun in eating muscadine and scuppernong grapes is the process — pick them, pop them into your mouth, squeeze out the flesh, spit out the seeds and wait while an aromatic landmine of sweetness explodes in your mouth.

The best way to enjoy the amazing sweetness of a Florida grape is to pick them yourself. Fortunately, Free's vineyard is one of several local u-pick farms that have survived the economically unstable times. According to the Web site pickyourown.org, there are eight farms in Central Florida, including Free's Lake Apshawa Farm & Nursery, providing u-pick muscadine grapes to the public. Like all small farms, it's best to call ahead before visiting for availability, hours and price.

Grapes grow on vines trained to twine around horizontal wires. This makes them easy to pick without much bending or reaching. Look under leaves for the ripest clusters and be selective. The softer, darker skinned muscadines and the more bronzy-colored scuppernongs are the sweetest. In less time than it takes to stand in the checkout line at the grocery store, you can fill a bag with golden and purple fruit, pay for them and be on your way.

Florida is famous worldwide for its citrus fruit and coconut palms but even many longtime residents are unaware that the Sunshine State also produces a distinctively flavored table grape.

Grape season in Florida is short — lasting only until the end of August — but it is a decidedly sweet period of time. Take advantage of one of the state's best-kept secrets. In the process, you might discover the possession of yet another secret…the fruit de-seeding gene.

(for more information about Tommy Free's u-pick grapes, call 352-394-3313.)

Parallel-less lives...

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 20, 2009)

My son and I recently met with his soon-to-be college roommate to discuss the logistics of first-time house sharing. After deciding who would provide what piece of communal furnishings and which pieces of shared cookware, we headed back to our separate cars.

It was pouring.

"Where'd you park?" I asked Laura as we stood beneath the building's sheltered overhang watching the rain.

"Way over there," she said, pointing to the far end of a large parking area.

"You're going to get drenched," I said. "Too bad you didn't park closer."

Next to the building was a line of cars — our minivan among them — lined one behind the other alongside the curb.

"I wouldn't have parked there," explained the college junior. "I never learned how to parallel park, so I always look for parking spaces away from other cars."

I was incredulous.

"Didn't you have to parallel park in order to pass your driving test?" I asked.

"No," interjected my 17-year-old son. "It's not part of the test."

Turning to Toby, I asked, "You don't know how to parallel park either, do you?"

"No," he said. "You never taught me."

He's right. I didn't.

I taught my son many things during his months of student driving — how to drive defensively, obey speed limits and use turn signals. I emphasized the importance of checking mirrors before changing lanes, explained how to merge safely into traffic and cautioned him not to ride the brakes. We practiced driving in fog and rain, on congested highways and on unpaved, bumpy roads. We drove into parking lots and repeatedly pulled into and out of parking spaces, but we didn't practice parallel parking at all. It never occurred to me to teach Toby how to wedge a car between two curbside vehicles.

If we lived in a city, this never would have happened. By necessity, city dwellers learn the ins and outs of curbside parking. We live in an outlying area. I can't think of anywhere within a 20-mile radius of our home where one would absolutely have to parallel park. Nonetheless, not having a need to do something regularly doesn't preclude the need to do it at all.

"You're going to have to parallel park when you are living in Orlando," I warned, but their returning stares said, "You poor, clueless adult."

OK, so maybe they won't need to learn. Perhaps parallel parking will become just as irrelevant as hand signals, driving gloves (hint: that's what glove compartments originally were designed to hold), hand-crank windows and — thanks to the Internet and GPS units — paper maps. I still need a key to start my car, but some drivers don't. In the future, I suppose, push-button ignition systems will make car keys archaic.

I feel torn. Even if it's seldom practiced, shouldn't all drivers at least know how to parallel park? On the other hand, if there are enough alternatives — multilevel parking garages and lots filled with acres of macadam — why put the effort into perfecting an unnecessary skill?

As my youngest child ventures out on the highway of life, I trust that the lessons he has been taught will serve him well. His education may not have prepared him for every situation, but with a good grasp on the basics, I'm confident the rest will fall into place. Until then, for those long walks from the back of life's parking lot, it wouldn't hurt to keep an umbrella under the seat — just in case.

Our family's fascinating bears fruit

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 13, 2009)

It doesn't get much better than this," Ralph said as he approached the bedroom with a heaping bowl of fruit.

We were about to settle in to our evening routine of pre-sleep TV watching, a ritual that includes — on my husband's part — some sort of after-dinner snack. Tonight his concoction was a large dish containing bite-size pieces of his three favorite fruits: apricots, raspberries and figs.

The apricots and raspberries were store-bought, but the figs were homegrown. Our small, gnarly fig orchard has been extremely productive this year. For the past week, in the late afternoon, Ralph has walked outside with an empty one-gallon black bucket only to return a few minutes later cradling the heavy pail with both hands. Inside are dozens of plump LSU purple figs, a nematode-resistant strain that does well in our climate.

"Do you see what I picked?" he inevitably asks, even though I saw it yesterday, the day before and the day before that.

"That's great," I say again, understanding his need to restate the obvious.

After years of longing for quantities of homegrown goodies, Ralph finds it hard to believe the harvest he dreamed about is finally here. I find his enthusiasm endearing.

As I watched my partner of 38 years savor his post-dinner snack, I couldn't help thinking what a fruitful family we are. That is to say, our pantry is always full of the season's freshest fruit. While others may stock up on canned goods or meat, our quantity buys tend to involve some sort of perishable produce. Right now, in addition to plates full of figs sitting on the counter in various degrees of ripeness, shelf space has been allocated to peaches, bananas (some homegrown, some from the store), mangoes, apricots, cherries, cantaloupes, watermelons and a South American delicacy called mamey sapote. In our freezer are enough plastic zipper bags of hand-picked blueberries, blackberries and mulberries to make several dozen pies.

Outside, edibles dot our property. There are wild patches of blackberries, elderberries and passion fruit in addition to all the fruit trees we've planted — figs, bananas, mulberries, loquats, starfruit, Surinam cherries, papayas, persimmons and assorted citrus. Two years ago, our oldest son planted a small orchard of peach, nectarine, pomegranate, guava, plum and avocado trees, and we added two cold-hardy mangoes. Timmy's fruit trees have all prospered, but our mangoes got zapped during last winter's freeze.

Fruits have always been one of our main family themes. I can't count how many times we gathered up the kids when they were young en route to one you-pick farm or another. Family vacations centered on farm stops where we could get out of the camper and stretch our legs while filling up baskets (and mouths) with fresh-picked edibles. In season, we've garnered quantities of blueberries, blackcaps, raspberries, strawberries, grapes, apricots, lychees, wineberries, apples, pears, figs and various nuts. From the time our kids were big enough to walk on their own, we taught them how to pick only the ripest, juiciest, plumpest fruit.

Although our children are no longer little, fresh fruit still excites them.

"We have been enjoying all the great fruit that comes ripe this time of year," our daughter in Massachusetts, Jenny, wrote in our family's monthly newsletter. "Twice we've gone and picked strawberries to eat, eat more of, and freeze the rest. The blackcaps are ripe here, too, and we have some big bushes within a short walk, and even a few great ones right in our back yard!! It's fun to take a walk early in the morning and gather berries for breakfast (and just eat some, too)."

Passing on an appreciation for nature is a worthy legacy. As I sit in bed watching my husband savor his after-dinner treat, I see much more than a single serving of his three favorite fruits. I'm looking at a family history flavored by the sweet taste of fresh-picked food. For almost four decades we have planted, picked, sorted, frozen, baked with and shared our harvests with others. We've known both the satisfaction that comes from growing your own and the pleasure derived from discovering new sources of homegrown goodness.

Ralph's right. It doesn't get much better than this.

Breathe in...breathe out

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 6, 3009)

Breathe in ... breathe out.

We do it about 20,000 times each day. That's more than 7 million times a year for every year of our lives. From the moment of birth until the instant of death, people process the world through the act of respiration. Good air (oxygen) comes in. Bad air (carbon dioxide) goes out. Breathing is an action so automatic — so second-nature — that most of us are barely aware it's happening.

Not me. For as long as I can remember, I've been attuned to how well (or not well) my breath is flowing.

I was one of those kids with allergies — dark circles under my eyes, a constant stuffiness-runniness in my nose and a soggy, white tissue permanently affixed to my clenched right hand. I never went anywhere without a supply of Kleenex wadded up in pants pockets or tucked into the side pouch of a backpack or purse.

Things haven't changed much for me in adulthood. Although I've figured out which allergy medicine works best and have successfully managed to avoid dairy products (a major allergic trigger), I still find myself tethered to a clutch of tissues. And those dark circles beneath my eyes continue to elicit the occasional crass comment.

"Who gave you the two black eyes?" some witless twerp will inevitably ask. As a child, I found such thoughtless remarks devastating. Now I give them the attention they deserve, which is no attention at all. I find myself annoyed more by the offender's lack of sensitivity than by the words themselves.

Despite a lifetime of labored breathing, the situation during mid-June became particularly severe. Allergies, however, were not the culprit. An injured rib affected my breathing, making it extremely difficult to get a good breath.

"Just one breath — one long, deep breath. That's all I want," I murmured to myself. And when that breath finally came, I inhaled so gratefully. Fresh air — oxygen — was all I wanted. It was the only thing that mattered. Life was complete.

I promised myself that when I got better — when my bruised rib healed and I could once again breathe with relative ease — I would treasure each moment, each inhalation, each release. I'm at that point now. The hurt that caused my chest to feel like a compressed squeeze box has finally abated. I can catch a breath easily. I'm free of aches and pains. Even my allergies seem to have improved.

Sometimes it takes an injury, an accident or an illness to make us realize how much we stand to lose. Little things become significant when threatened or compromised. I'm not pleased to have allergies or a bruised right rib, but I'm glad for the insights those ailments provided.

Life is nothing if not full of surprises. None of us knows what tomorrow will bring — what problems, what joys, what pleasures, what woes. In light of such uncertainty, the only thing to do is to live each day fully and appreciate the little things that make life worthwhile. Simple things like breathing that we tend to take for granted.

Breathe in ... breathe out. It's what life's all about.

Rain, rain: Unnerving or mundane

The view from the porch on a rainy day.

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 29, 2009)

I've been enjoying the summer rains. The steady tattoo on the metal roof is a soothing sound on a hot afternoon.

I didn't always feel this way. When we lived on Cape Cod, rainy weather made me nervous. The house we lived in had two large skylights, and one of them leaked. I never knew when it would happen. Sometimes it would rain like crazy and we'd have no problem at all. Other times -- maybe when the rain came from a certain direction or with enough force -- water would work its way through the seams and seep into the house in a steady stream.

Although my clever, inventive husband can usually fix anything, the leaky skylight had him stumped. He repeatedly caulked, flashed and sealed the glass, but no matter what he tried, rain inevitably found its way around the repair. Many a rainy night I lay in bed tired but too tense to sleep. My ears were on alert, listening for the drip-drip-drip of rain falling on the yellow pine floors. I'm glad those days are over. As much as I enjoyed the expansive view those skylights provided, I don't miss the anxiety they caused.

In Florida, we live in a skylight-free home. When we built our house, I wanted to install some overhead glass, but Ralph was insistent. "Never again!" he declared. "No more skylights. No more leaks."

He was right about the leaks -- our Florida home doesn't have any. No matter how hard the rain falls or how long a downpour lasts, I don't worry about drips seeping through to ruin ceilings, stain floors or infiltrate siding. Now when it showers, I simply sit back and enjoy the show.

And what a show it has been! After months of drought, plants have responded with a flush of new growth. If one measure of happiness is the loudness of song, then birds and frogs must be a happy lot. Lakes respond, too. After so many wet kisses, water levels have begun to rise. It's a slow dance back to normality, but with the percussive beat of raindrops pouring down, a seasonal rhythm is once again in play.

I find myself gravitating to the porch on rainy afternoons. From beneath the shelter of a well-sealed roof, I can watch the liquid world in action.

Puddles form on the dirt driveway. Droplet-sized splashes dot the lake's surface while a cool breeze replaces the stifling heat. Often I see rainbows.

I've never prized precipitation more than I do now. We went without regular rainfalls for so long, I'd forgotten how uplifting a downpour can be. Rain can be revitalizing. It washes away dirt, dust and stickiness, replenishes the aquifer, increases lake levels and quenches the parched throats of both animal and plant life. It can also be fierce. As my leaky skylight taught me many years ago, even a light rainfall can cause heavy damage, given the right conditions.

As we work our way through the first month of hurricane season, I'm hoping that the conditions for destructive storms don't materialize. Let lakes fill with water. Let plants drink their fill. But let's hope that people enjoy inclement weather within safe, dry shelters.

Learn to keep life's dangers in perspective

Simply Living

(First Appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 22, 2009)

During a recent medical appointment, my daughter and I sat in the waiting room while a large-screen TV tuned to Central Florida News 13 blasted the midday news.

"With these hot temperatures," the reporter began, "health officials are warning residents to be aware of amoebas, an invisible but potentially deadly organism found in bodies of fresh water."

"Great," I thought. "As if the news wasn't scary enough with wars in Iran and Afghanistan, nuclear testing in North Korea and swine flu cases reaching pandemic proportions, Central Florida News 13 has kindly given us one more thing to worry about -- invisible amoebas lurking in overheated freshwater lakes and under-chlorinated swimming pools. That's just lovely."

The report went on to quote an Orange County Health Department official who urged swimmers to take precautions. A local lakeside resident emphasized the importance of becoming educated about water dangers while a would-be boater decided to forgo an afternoon of family  fun on the water after hearing (probably from the reporter) about the potential presence in the lake of "deadly amoebas."

Come on now. Do amoebas actually pose a threat serious enough to keep boaters and swimmers out of the water when the thermometer hits the 90s? Is a report like the one my daughter and I watched necessary in these already overly anxious, tremulous times? Or is it just another example of the media overemphasizing uncommon risks because they're rare and therefore seem more newsworthy?

As with most threats, it's important to separate fact from fear. According to an information sheet produced by the University of South Florida for the Lake County Water Authority, Naegleria fowleri live in fresh water worldwide. Although the single-cell protozoan is common, infection is rare. In order for it to enter human anatomy, water containing the amoeba must be forced up the nose or ears.

That might happen during falls in a high-impact sport such as water skiing or when jumping or diving into water. The infection is not transmittable from person to person and cannot enter the system by swallowing water. The amoeba does not live in salt water. Preventive measures include staying out of stagnant water or poorly maintained swimming pools, wearing nose plugs and earplugs when submerged and avoiding underwater swimming entirely.

The federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention illuminates further:

"Infections are very rare even though Naegleria is commonly found in freshwater. In the 10 years from 1998 to 2007, 33 infections were reported in the U.S. By comparison, during the ten years from 1996 to 2005, there were over 36,000 drowning deaths in the U.S."

Florida ranks third in unintentional drowning, according to the Florida Department of Health. Between 2001 and 2005, 2,327 people drowned in the Sunshine State, an average of 465 people a year.

Let's see if I have this straight: Over a 10-year period, an average of about 3 people per year nationwide were infected with a deadly amoeba while an average of 3,600 people per year (more than 1,000 times as many) drowned. If the media's objective is to inform the public, wouldn't it be more effective to increase water safety education instead of terrifying us with unlikely demons?

Life is dangerous business. In 2007, according to U.S. Coast Guard statistics, 75 Floridians died in boating accidents. The same year, automobile accidents claimed 3,221 lives, according to the state's Department of Highway Safety and Motor Vehicles. And the Florida Department of Health reported a whopping 41,956 deaths from heart disease.

Any life lost to disease or accident is a tragedy. We can take measures to minimize risks, but we can't avoid them all. To live a happy life, people must learn to analyze information, make educated decisions, apply precautions and, above all, keep things in perspective.

Unlike the boater interviewed by News 13, I intend to take full advantage of our lake during the hot summer months. Are there amoebas in my lake? Probably, but that doesn't mean they are out to get me. By taking safety measures -- keeping my head above water, avoiding high-impact water sports and wearing nose plugs when submerged -- the already slim risk of amoeba infection can be further decreased.

When the temperature goes up, I plan to cool down in the water. Anyone up for a swim?

Chess doesn't get the respect it deserves

SIMPLY LIVING

My 17-year-old son is away this weekend playing in a chess tournament. As a parent of a child who has been playing in chess tournaments since he was eight, I find myself wavering between feelings of amazement and disappointment. The kids I’ve met over the years at competitions are an amazing lot. They remain calm under pressure, endure long hours of intense concentration yet somehow manage to stay focused and analytical. While other sports depend at least in part on luck, winning chess players succeed by out-thinking and outmaneuvering their opponents. What I find disappointing is how little attention chess players receive for their achievements. Our basketball-football-soccer-golf-crazed society is rarely interested in the accomplishments of its mental athletes.

The last time a chess tournament made headline news was 1997 when IBM’s chess-playing computer, Deep Blue, defeated then-world champion Garry Kasparov. The only other recent event to catch the attention of the media was the death in Iceland on January 18, 2008 of 64-year-old expatriate and infamous chess maven, Bobby Fischer.

Last July, when Melbourne, Florida resident Makaio Krienke tied for first place in the Under 2000 division of The 35th Annual World Open in Philadelphia, the 17-year-old didn’t return home to a rush of reporters knocking at his door. He eased back into his everyday life without fuss or fanfare. Even 14-year-old Ray Robson of Largo, the youngest chess master in the state of Florida and the youngest International Master in the United States, is relatively unknown outside the chess community. Yet Robson has been astounding the chess world for years. Since he was nine, this holder of seven National Scholastic titles has represented the United States in international scholastic events.

Last week while clicking through TV channels, Toby and I chanced upon coverage of the Scripps 2009 National Spelling Bee. A day or so later we also watched the finals of the National Geographic Bee. Like thousands of other viewers, the mental acuity displayed by the young contestants bowled us over. I’m glad the media covered those events but I couldn’t help wondering why important chess events don’t receive similar coverage.

The chessboard is one of the few level playing fields in the world of competitive sports. Men, women, boys and girls – able-bodied and disabled - compete against each other in divisions determined not by age, gender or physical condition but by strength of mind, mental agility, and performance.

One would think a society that medicates more than 2.5 million of its children for attention deficit and hyper-activity related disorders would pay more attention to a game that teaches players to think slowly, clearly and logically.

Toby began playing chess when he was four. By the time he was six he was routinely defeating his father and older siblings. During summers, while his peers were off at soccer or basketball camp, he joined a band of loyal players at chess camp. Instead of shooting hoops or practicing blocking, the kids at chess camp worked on improving their endgames, developing tactics and honing techniques.

His hard work paid off. After years of competing in dozens of small and large tournaments, Toby is the third highest ranked under-18-year-old in Florida. I have no doubt he’ll achieve his present goal – to earn the title of “Master” before entering UCF this fall.

Benjamin Franklin once said, “The game of chess is not merely an idle amusement; several very valuable qualities of the mind are to be acquired and strengthened by it, so as to become habits ready on all occasions; for life is a kind of chess.”

Franklin was right. Chess is much more than an idle amusement. It’s a sport. It’s a discipline. It’s preparation for life. Isn’t it about time society took notice and gave it the attention it deserves?

Idle hours sooth mind

Simply Living

I did something the other day I don’t usually do – I was idle. I sat by the lake, looked out over the water and enjoyed the view. I wasn’t reading a book or talking on the phone while I sat there. My laptop wasn’t next to me and the television wasn’t on. I wasn’t even listening to the radio or MP3 player. I was sitting - simply sitting – in a beautiful place, being at ease.

Being idle used to be easy. When I was a kid, I’d spend hours lying on the lawn, watching clouds change shapes as they rolled by. I’d go out in my rowboat and drift along, the breeze pushing me from one end of the lake to the other. I’d climb up a crabapple tree and let my mind wander. I had no special agenda and suffered no guilt. Being idle was part of being a kid. It felt right.

That’s not how it feels now.

Adults are supposed to be busy. We have Responsibilities and Important Work. Page 135 of the Grownup’s Handbook specifically states, “Spending time sitting around staring at still water is wasteful and self-indulgent.”

Perhaps it’s a misprint.

It is important to take breaks from the everyday world in which the simultaneous performance of multiple tasks has become the norm. It may even be essential. Just like a computer that needs periodic rebooting, people need to refresh our idea of what normal really is. Normal is being outside and feeling the breeze. Normal is watching the sunrise or the stars fill up the sky at night. Normal is being a part of the natural world instead of existing for days on end within the confines of our technologically connected, air-conditioned abodes.

Despite such feelings, I still find it difficult to be temporarily unproductive. The other day, while I sat staring at the lake’s calm surface, my thoughts kept jumping from one unfinished project to another. In the house, there were dirty clothes to wash, floors to vacuum and bathrooms to clean. In my office, emails filled my inbox, there were articles to write and topics to research. In the garden weeds had grown so tall my back ached just thinking about pulling them out. Yet my resolve remained solid. I knew I needed some time to do absolutely nothing. I was due for a break.

Some months are more hectic than others and that’s how May had been. Although several good things happened in that month, including one child’s wedding and another’s graduation from community college, I still felt overwhelmed and weary. Even celebrations can be stressful. Sitting by the water was my way of being refreshed. Watching the day ease into night, listening to the chorus of chirps, splashes and leaves rustling in the breeze was a kind of elixir, a temperament tonic.

We all have our ways of dealing with stress. Sometimes doing nothing can be the best move of all. It is not my intention to make idleness a full time occupation but I want to feel free to relax as needed without a shadow of guilt or regret. Smart adults learn to turn off the constant stream of mental chatter and tune into the everyday wonders of natural living. In my copy of the Grownup’s Handbook, that lesson is underlined in red.

Otters adorable? Just ask a turtle

Sitting on a slightly submerged island of peat in the rain, an otter makes quick work of a large soft-shell turtle.

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 1, 2009)

If you had asked me in 2001 to describe an otter with one word, I'd have chosen "playful." Not anymore. Thoughtful observation over seven years has modified my view of these semi-aquatic mammals with a penchant for sliding down slippery slopes and frolicking in the water. I now think "brutal" would be a more appropriate description.

I began observing otters in 2002, the last time Central Florida suffered from a prolonged drought. Our lake — created before we bought our property as a byproduct of a peat-mining operation — was down that year to the lowest level we had ever seen. Water was so low that a small island of peat appeared in the middle of the lake, about 200 feet in front of our house. We saw our first otter on that island, and it was to the very same spot — re-exposed because of the recent drought — that an otter returned.

The North American river otter is a member of the same family that includes weasels, minks, badgers and wolverines. Stretching about 40 inches long and weighing around 20 pounds, otters have sleek, black bodies, strong, short legs, webbed feet with five sharp claws and long, muscular tails. At first glance, a freshwater otter looks like a cross between a drenched chocolate lab and a fur-covered dolphin. At second glance, it looks like the well-conditioned predator it is.

There's no denying an otter's attractiveness. With round eyes, whiskered faces, small ears and diamond-shaped noses, these protected mammals are the epitome of adorableness. Try telling that to the animals on which these voracious carnivores dine. Crayfish, mollusks, frogs and fish might be the mainstay of an otter's diet, but that's not all they eat.

Recently I watched as a solitary otter perched on the slightly submerged peat island and slowly devoured a huge, soft-shelled turtle. Although rain fell incessantly, the otter's dining habits were not the least bit dampened. Raindrops rolled off his oil-rich pelt while he munched upon his meaty meal.

Watching the otter eat the turtle was an eerie flashback to 2002, when a pair of otters made fast work of the lake's hard- and soft-shelled turtle population. Over the course of three months, our shoreline became scattered with the hollow remains of many an otter meal. As otter sightings became more frequent, sightings of live turtles decreased.

Observing an otter chew its way through the flesh of a living turtle is nothing less than disturbing. In our Disney-ized view of the world, cute, cuddly animals aren't supposed to be vicious killers. They're especially not supposed to look like they're having so much fun while devouring their still-alive victims. That's exactly how these adorable critters look. Otters not only prey upon smaller animals, they seem to take pleasure in playing with their food.

As the otter in our lake consumed his oversized dinner, the rain-slicked mammal repeatedly changed position and refreshed himself with swims. He took breaks for grooming and breaks to rest, but he always returned to his partly eaten, still-moving entree as if he hadn't a care in the world. The otter had done what large predatory animals do — he had hunted for food and scored a meal. Success was in the proverbial saucepan, and if that saucepan happened to be my lake, well, such is life in the wild kingdom.

In order to survive, otters need to consume 15 percent of their bodyweight every day. They do that by hunting over a 50-mile territory. I'm happy that an otter has chosen our lake to supplement his diet with carapace-covered flesh, but I'm equally as unhappy to see so many turtles perish in the process.

The balance of nature is not always pretty. As the otter in our lake so ably demonstrates, sometimes the cutest animals can be the cruelest. Call them playful — otters are certainly that — but don't forget: The very same critter that looks adorable while sliding down a mud-slicked river bank isn't nearly as endearing when it tears into a turtle's flesh.

So much in life lies in perception, and first impressions don't always show the full picture.

Music can fill your soul, lead to soul mate

Jenny and Brett listen to Bill Staines perform their pre-wedding concert.

Simply Living

(first appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 25, 2009)

During the early 1980s, most children grew up on songs from Sesame Street and Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. That wasn't the case in our family. Our three oldest children — all born between 1979 and 1983 — were more likely to have memorized the words to "Abiyoyo" and "The Marvelous Toy" than "Won't You Be My Neighbor?"

Tofu, brown rice and freshly picked veggies may have nourished our children's bodies, but folk music fed their imaginations. We listened to the recordings of dozens of artists, but one musician stood out from the rest — Bill Staines. We discovered this New England singer-songwriter at a Boston coffeehouse shortly after his career took off in the '70s, and it was like chancing upon a kindred spirit. His sensitive lyrics, soothing melodies and gentle presence resonated with our homegrown, country lifestyle. By the time Ralph and I were ready to start a family, Staines had already produced several albums, all of which we owned and loved.

If you had visited our much-lived-in Cape Cod home during those early years of our marriage, one of Bill Staines' recordings would probably have been playing. His music was a trellis on which our daily routine was twined. Songs such as "Bridges," "Roseville Fair," "Annie Drew" and "So Sang the River" filled the air and wound their way through our subconscious. We sang along while fixing meals, folding diapers or weeding the garden. Ralph tape-recorded the songs each child favored and, at night, they fell asleep listening to a continuous loop of their favorite tunes.

Given such a background, I was not surprised when my second-oldest child called from her home in Northampton, Mass., about six months ago to make an announcement. Jenny and her fiancé had booked Bill Staines for a private concert the night before their wedding.

"He's available," she said excitedly. "We're thinking of having the concert in a little chapel across the street from Brett's parents' house."

Brett's family lives in the village of Leyden, Mass., just south of the Vermont border, a few hours away from Staines' hometown of Dover, N.H. It turns out that Jenny and her siblings weren't the only children weaned on a diet of folksy tunes. Brett and his brother were, too.

"One of my friends knows the words to all of Bill Staines' songs just like I do," Jenny mentioned a few years ago during a phone conversation. "He grew up listening to Bill's music just like we did. Bill's performing in town this weekend, so Brett and I are going to go together to see him."

That was one of the first times Jenny mentioned Brett, but it wasn't the last. After the concert, the two friends continued to spend time together. A few months later, they finally realized that folk music was just one of many common interests. Friendship grew into love, and a wedding date was set.

Now that two of our four children have entered married life, I often think about what makes a marriage work. Marrying your best friend certainly helps, as does being kind, respectful and patient with each other. It's important to laugh and play frequently and agree on values and priorities. And don't underplay the importance of music. Music is a combination of poetry, philosophy and adventure. Songs tell us stories that transport us to places and times we could never experience otherwise. You can disappear into music — lose yourself and return, gaining energy and insight in the process.

I'm delighted to know that my daughter found a life partner who grew up appreciating the same folk artists she did. Music provides such strength and support. The simple framework of a three-minute tune can steady values, encourage dreams, broaden views and stabilize character. Having Bill Staines perform at my daughter's pre-wedding concert was a gentle way to begin a marriage — with harmony, sweet rhythms, melodic interpretations and lyrical inspiration.

Songs for today that will last a lifetime — they're the beginning steps up a ladder of love.

Watermelons minus water equal tasty treat

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 18, 2009)

"I just ate the most delicious watermelon," my daughter told me last week. "I asked the guy at the produce stand to pick out a good one, and he really knew what he was doing."

Despite my best efforts, I never know what I'm doing when choosing watermelons. A ripe melon should sound hollow when tapped, but my aging ears must lack acuity. To me, one thumped melon sounds like another.

Another much-touted technique is to select a melon with a flat yellow patch on its underside. A yellow or cream-colored spot purportedly indicates ripeness, while a white patch means the melon is still green. My success rate with that method is about 50-50.

I've tried pressing my thumb into the indentation left by the stem. If the impression gives, the melon is supposedly ripe. Sometimes that works; sometimes it doesn't. My less-than-stellar record at judging ripeness has affected my desire to buy watermelon. Why waste money on an oversized edible that takes up valuable fridge space without yielding a reliably flavorful reward?

My attitude changed when I discovered drying.

Have you ever tasted dried watermelon? Unless you have a home dehydrator – an inexpensive kitchen gadget readily available in stores — the answer is probably no. You won't find dried watermelon lining the shelves of your local market alongside apricots, pineapples or any of the other more common dehydrated delicacies. That's unfortunate because dried watermelon is manna for the mouth! Evaporate the liquid — watermelons are 93 percent water — and what remains is the sweet flavor of summer fun.

My son Timmy was the first person in our family to try dehydrating slices of the pink flesh. Before Timmy's experiment, we used to juice unwanted melons, but juicing is a messy process. Although the liquefied drink is tasty and refreshing, the work involved is hardly worth the effort.

But dried melons, now that's a different story.

"Oh, my gosh!" I moaned after my first bite. "This is unbelievable!"

After three to six hours of drying, a chunk of watermelon about an inch thick and a few inches long turns into a flat red slab. Although seedless melons are obviously better suited to dehydration, fruits with seeds also can be used if the seeds are first removed. The dried product can be refrigerated or frozen for later use, but in our house, that rarely happens.

"It's so good, I can't stop eating it," I told my husband this morning after finishing off one full rack and beginning another.

I hadn't planned to dry that melon. We purchased it for a family outing, and although nine of us attended the picnic at Rainbow Springs in Dunnellon, most of the melon went untouched.

"Not a very good one, is it?" Ralph asked after slicing off a sliver and giving it a taste.

For the following three days, the bottom shelf in the fridge grew stickier as the volleyball-sized orb took up valuable space. My annoyance grew each time I opened the door.

"Why do I keep buying these things?" I muttered to myself. Then I remembered the dehydrator.

It took my husband about 15 minutes to cut the melon's flesh into bright-colored chunks and layer them on five of the dehydrator's plastic racks. He switched the power on and a stream of warm air immediately flowed through the cylindrical container. The dehydrator ran for about three hours before Ralph turned it off for the night. In the morning, he switched it back on.

I shuffled toward the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from my eyes, when my senses grew excited. My ears picked up the hum of the motor while I inhaled the aroma of summers past. I lifted the dehydrator lid to uncover a rack filled to perfection with nature's own candy.

I ate the dried equivalent of about half a watermelon that day. I'm a sucker for sweets, especially the make-them-yourself, all-natural variety.

Watermelon season is just beginning, and although we try to pick the ripest fruit, it's easy to misjudge. It's also easy to correct our mistakes. When concentrated, even the blandest melon is sugar-sweet. Seek the essence and discover excellence. Now's a great time to give drying a try.

Mother's Day for feathered friends, too

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 11, 2009)

This year, Mother's Day was for the birds — and I mean that in the nicest way.

The two sandhill cranes that live on our lake have finally become parents. Although it was their second attempt this spring to create a family, the days leading up to Mother's Day found the devoted couple attentively tending to their offspring.

In March, the same cranes laid eggs and took turns incubating them, but a predator managed to slip in and steal the clutch before the babies hatched. I thought that was the end of this year's parenting attempts. Fortunately, I was wrong. Three weeks after the first eggs disappeared, the birds resumed nesting — same nest, two new eggs, one more chance to make baby cranes.

By the beginning of May, just in time for Mother's Day, the cranes' desire for a family was realized. Mama Crane began strutting her stuff with two fluffy-feathered babies by her side. How exciting!

I've been watching the sandhill cranes for months. In February, I managed to capture on video their mating dance, the male bird's short but provocative demonstration of his strength and virility. In March, I followed their nest-building activities and listened to their bellowing cries as they made it clear to other sandhill cranes that our lake was their territory and theirs alone.

Strong instincts?
I waited hopefully as two large eggs sat in the birds' roughly constructed nest and sighed disappointedly when I looked through my binoculars one day and discovered that the eggs were missing. By the time April rolled around, I didn't know what to expect. Everything I had read suggested that cranes do not reproduce twice in one season. Apparently, the cranes must have missed that memo. Either that or their parental instincts were exceptionally strong.

Maybe I identify with the sandhill cranes more than most because my own childbearing experiences did not go as expected. My first attempt to create life also ended prematurely. Despite the sadness of our long-ago miscarriage, Ralph and I never abandoned our dream of a family. Within a year, I was pregnant again and gave birth to the first of our four children. Twenty-nine years later, my oldest child is married and about to become a mother herself.

Common thread
The circle of life is an awe-inspiring phenomenon. It doesn't matter if the subject of that cycle is people, plants, birds, mammals, insects or tiny one-celled creatures. Regardless of our differences, the desire to reproduce and nurture new life is one thing we all have in common.

As I watch the sandhill cranes go about their daily routine with their babies by their sides, I feel a special connection to not just the birds but to mothers everywhere. Despite our physical diversity and biological differences, mothers share a universal need to impart knowledge, overcome struggles and avoid danger. Bottom line: We want the best for our children.

Being a mom is no small task. It might just be the greatest work a female of any species will ever do. Sandhill cranes go about the business of parenting free from Hallmark reminders of a job well done. They do it because that's what nature intended. That's what nature demands. Their reward comes not from receiving gifts but from giving life. Isn't that what being a mom is all about?

Pulling weeds yields crunchy culinary gems

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 4, 2009)

I go a little crazy over freshly picked food.

Consider betony, Stachys floridana.

Betony is a low-growing, square-stemmed plant in the mint family. That's the same lineage, Lamiaceae, shared by basil, mint, rosemary, sage, savory, thyme, lavender and coleus. In our yard, betony grows with abandon around irrigation spigots and in the enriched soil surrounding our fig trees.

Above ground, this Florida native forms a verdant carpet topped with small, rather nondescript clusters of pink blooms. Below ground, masses of white tubers stretch in every direction. The bulbous, peanut-sized nuggets attach to greenery by a series of stringy roots. A tenacious plant, betony is not at all shy about invading garden spaces. Its aggressive growth pattern is reason enough to label it a weed.

But it's such a tasty weed.

Although all parts of this versatile herb are edible, I'm partial to the tubers. Mild-flavored and slightly sweet, with a water chestnut-like consistency, the bite-sized rhizomes produce a satisfying crunch when munched raw. Ralph recently weeded around the fig trees and returned with an overflowing bowl of betony.

"Yum!" I said in anticipation and turned on the tap to fill the sink. Because they grow underground, the tubers require a good pre-eating soak and scrub. It's a pleasant enough process, and I usually nibble my way through the task.

As anyone who gardens knows, there is nothing as flavorful as fresh-picked fruits or vegetables. Any food eaten minutes after being plucked, picked or — in the case of Stachys floridana — dug from the earth, is sweeter, crunchier, and more energy-rich than produce that had to endure transportation and storage. Betony is no exception.

That first batch disappeared quickly.

"Where's the betony?" my husband asked a few hours later as he stood before the open fridge.

"They're gone," I embarrassedly admitted.

"You ate them all? You didn't save any for me?" Fortunately, he sounded more astonished than annoyed.

"They were so good I couldn't help myself," I explained before realizing how little that justification helped my case.

A few days later, my husband brought in another batch. This time I dutifully set aside plenty for him to enjoy later. Rather than devour a whole bowlful in one sitting as an unnamed glutton might do, Ralph is a prudent eater. He nibbles on one or two tubers with a meal or as a snack.

However consumed, betony is a welcome addition to the pre-summer diet. The tubers are ready to eat in April and continue producing quantities of below-ground growth for months. That's part of the problem — it's so prolific. Although it's not listed as an invasive plant by the Florida Exotic Pest Plant Council, many people understandably label it noxious. I empathize. If I didn't enjoy eating the tubers so much, I'd consider it a pest plant too. Sometimes I do. When it appears in unwanted spots, we attack the bed with shovel and rake and hope for the best. Inevitably, we miss a few roots, and from them a new crop develops.

Betony exemplifies the confusion over good plant vs. bad plant. Do a plant's many assets outweigh its disadvantages? What makes a wildflower a weed?

On its plus side, betony's medicinal properties have a rich history. "This is a precious herb well worth keeping in your house," wrote Culpeper in the 17th century. In ancient Rome, the chief physician to Emperor Augustus wrote a treatise that proclaimed betony a cure for 47 diseases. Today, over-the-counter betony supplements are purported to strengthen the nervous and cardiovascular systems, relieve headaches and aid digestion.

On its negative side, betony is difficult to get rid of without resorting to potent herbicides.

I asked Linda Roberts, executive director of the Florida Wildflower Foundation, to weigh in on the wildflower-vs.-weed question.

"It's just a matter of knowledge, tolerance and taste," she responded. "People like me who enjoy natural beauty will see these as wildflowers. However, those going for the manicured-lawn look will see them as weeds. We have so many beautiful wildflowers in our midst. People need only to learn to appreciate them for what they are."

If you already have betony in your garden or lawn — and it's likely you do — rather than struggle to eradicate the pest with poisonous chemicals, consider readjusting your perception. Betony is undeniably a weed. But it's a weed that provides free food for the taking. Dig up some tubers and try them. You might find yourself going a little crazy over freshly picked food too.

Even adults should make a little time to play

Simply Living

Every day I play — sometimes for a little while, sometimes longer. I make a point to make time each day for a bit of lighthearted, joyful expression.

Children play constantly, as we assume they should. When my now-adult son was young, his daily shower was less about washing than it was about wishing. He'd stand under the steamy downpour with small plastic animals that magically transformed into talking adventurers involved in complicated quests. Ralph and I would listen from our nearby bedroom and smile wistfully, knowing how fleeting such moments can be. Soon our child would grow up, too big for fanciful dialogues with imaginary playmates, and playtime would be over.

For most of us, playtime ends when adulthood begins. Why should it? Being grown-up doesn't preclude the need for moments of fancy. It might mean that we need them more.

Stress-inducing situations constantly besiege the adult population. In the past week alone, my husband and I have grappled with the increasing rates of our family's health insurance, our pregnant daughter and son-in-law's struggle to secure a desired home from an online auction site before their baby is born, the breakdown of our refrigerator and numerous other less major, but still stress-provoking, problems. We've dealt with each of these issues in addition to our normal workload — just another typical week in the life of modern American adults.

Fortunately, amid all the mental clutter, we also took time to play. I doubt if I could handle the stresses of everyday life as successfully as I do without a daily break (or two or three) to reshuffle my mind set.

A 2003 study in the New England Journal of Medicine found that adults who regularly played cards or board games, did puzzles, read, wrote, danced or played musical instruments reduced their chances of developing dementia by up to 63 percent. What a simple way to maintain mental health! Although play is cheaper and safer than medicine, we routinely shrug it off as an insignificant, unnecessary indulgence.

Society tells us that play is for children, not for adults. I don't agree.

Reading is one of my favorite ways to unwind, but it's by no means my sole method of addressing stress. I play Scrabble and do Sudokus and crossword puzzles. I garden, watch the birds, jump on the trampoline, walk around the lake and go for quiet rows across still water. I also spend intimate time with my husband. It's a type of play often overlooked as a component of adult health. That's unfortunate because for adults, the physical element of a loving relationship provides such amazing benefits. It reduces stress, strengthens the immune system, improves cardiovascular health, reduces pain, acts as an effective sleep aid and increases self-esteem. It's also a great way to burn calories. But that hardly matters to a society that's too embarrassed to discuss the topic seriously.

I look back on my childhood and the young years of my own children with great fondness. Memories galore spring to mind of my own playtimes and, more recently, of the playful adventures of my now grown-up children. As I watch the people I love mature, I can only hope they manage to maintain many of the whimsical ways of their youth. It doesn’t matter if those ways manifest themselves on some athletic playing field, within the pages of a novel, through music, online activities, tactile explorations or through any of the many other avenues we grownups use to diffuse the everyday stresses of normal life.

The important thing is to make play a priority.

We are never too old, too sick or too weary to take a break from the serious work of being an adult. Play is too important to disregard, disdain or dismiss as ridiculous. Just the opposite — it might be the most serious and important form of self-help we can choose.

Lakeside living brings back childhood memories Living by water brings calm to adult routine

Reflections of the clouds and trees are among the many pleasures of lakeside life.

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 20, 2009)

For 34 of my 57 years, I've lived next to lakes. On countless mornings, I've watched a steamy mist rise over still water. In the evenings, I've enjoyed the play of color in a lake's glassy surface as the sun sinks toward the horizon. I've listened to the rhythm of raindrops intruding upon a lake's flat surface and admired the reflection of clouds on its ripples. I've seen ospreys soar overhead, ducks swim by and herons stalk fish along the shoreline. My sense of self is interwoven with the ways of water.

I grew up in Yardley, Pa., by Silver Lake, although "Brown Lake" would have been a more appropriate moniker. The 10-acre mud-bottom pond was about 25 feet in front of the house my parents bought when I was an infant. I have no idea why my parents chose that particular place to live. My father couldn't swim, and neither of them ever expressed an interest in water activities. I, however, was enthralled from the start by Silver Lake's many charms.

Every day for my first 17 years, I ate my morning meal in the kitchen next to picture windows overlooking the water. How my mind wandered as I crunched spoonfuls of raisin bran and avoided drinking my milk. I watched the wind blow across the lake's surface and imagined myself being swept away to other places, other times.

Silver Lake gave me freedom. In winter, I skated across its bumpy ice. In summer, I swam in its muddy waters. I waded in its shallows and waited patiently for sunfish to swim into my cupped hands. They always did, and after holding them close for the briefest of moments I always let them go. Their urge to live was too strong to ignore.

On my 13th birthday, my parents gave me a small aluminum rowboat, and after that I proceeded to spend as much time as possible in that boat on the lake. Most of the time I rowed, but sometimes I put the oars down and simply let the wind carry me along from one end of the lake to the other. I drifted along both mentally and physically. My perspective changed when I was on water. Instead of being a child inside my parents' house, I was an adventurer on a quest — far enough away to feel separate and whole, yet close enough still to go home for supper.

I moved away from Yardley when I went to college and, although my parents remained there for several more years, I met my husband while still an undergraduate, and we rarely returned. It wasn't until Ralph and I moved to our current property 17 years ago that I realized how much a part of me those memories of Silver Lake had become.

Our home now is also by a small lake, about the same size as the one in Yardley. Both homes are close to the water with ever-changing, expansive views. In Yardley, I watched Canada geese fly overhead. In Florida, I see sandhill cranes, ibises, wood storks and herons silhouetted against the sky. In my Lake County pond, sunfish don't dot the shallows, but plenty of bass do. I sit in the kitchen eating my own home-cooked meals — no longer accompanied by the dreaded glass of milk — watching with delight as birds fill their stomachs with tasty treats plucked from the water.

I'll never tire of living by water. No matter how many times I gaze over a lake's shimmering surface, there's always something different to see.

For my first 17 years, wave after wave of gentle persistence shaped me into the person I eventually became. It took a while, but for the past 17 years, I've returned to a place very similar to my childhood home. There's a symmetry in how things worked out. They say you can never return to your youth, but in a way, I have. Thanks to lakeside living, I've gone back in time. Water — that most basic of elements — is mine for the taking, and I take it in gratefully every chance I get.

Screech owls return to old nest in mailbox

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 13, 2009)

In bird hierarchy, screech owls trump wrens. At least that's my conclusion after watching the nest-building activities of both species.

It began with wrens.

A pair of Carolina wrens — cheery, chatty little biddies with an upbeat attitude and a do-what-it-takes work ethic — constructed a leafy home inside an old mailbox we mounted a few years back under the front porch eaves. Working industriously for an entire day, both male and female wren converted the metal letter receptacle into a soft-sided cavern of plant fibers, grass and leaf litter. Unfortunately, their ambitious efforts were in vain. Shortly after the nest was completed, an Eastern screech owl swooped in and commandeered the space, sweeping away most of the wrens' work in the process.

I had a feeling that would happen. Screech owls are repeat nesters. When a nesting site proves successful, the couple — screech owls tend toward monogamy — return to it annually.

For the past two years, a pair of these diminutive owls with tufted ears have claimed that mailbox for their own brood-raising activities. Although small for owls, screech owls are much larger than the tiny wrens. Displacing them probably wasn't an issue.

As disappointed as I was to see the wrens' work destroyed, I was pleased to have the owls back. Their presence has become a reliable indicator of spring's arrival. When the weather warms, I find myself listening in the evening for the owl's plaintive wail, a series of quavering whistles descending in pitch.

"WhheeeeEEeeeeeee ..." the screech owl sings to the darkening night. "WhheeeeEEeeeeeee ..."

Vocalization is the Eastern screech owl's calling card. If you are outside at dusk and hear what sounds like a small, weak pony whinnying mournfully, you're probably standing quite close to an adult screech owl.

Although the cry is a haunting sound that conjures images of creaky stairways and cobweb-cloaked halls, it is actually a means to mark territory or attract a mate. In the case of the birds living in our converted mailbox, the twilight whinnying probably tells others, "This area is taken. Stay away."

The wrens got the message and went off in search of a new nest site. What's odd is that the same thing happened a year ago. Last spring, Carolina wrens — also lifetime-maters that return annually to previous nesting sites — built an elaborate structure in the same mailbox as they did this year, only to have the entire nest — eggs and all — flushed out when the screech owls appeared.

How could birds smart enough to return to the same nesting spot annually neglect to remember that large predator birds had previously commandeered their space? Nature is full of mystery and contradiction. I suppose innate abilities go only so far.

Watching the nest-building developments of the two species has been interesting and thought-provoking. Despite their similarities — mating for life, returning to previous nesting sites, a fancy for old metal mailboxes — wrens and screech owls have decidedly different ideas of how a nest should look. The little songbirds like a tightly woven, tidy nest that will provide their offspring with a safe, soft and cozy spot to develop, while screech owls couldn't care less about such amenities.

Their idea of home is a hollow hole, period. End of discussion. After sweeping out most of the wrens' nest — the lazy birds didn't even bother to get rid of it all — the owls proceeded to lay eggs directly on the floor of the metal mailbox. Because they are hunters, maybe they don't feel a need to create a protective space. Perhaps they figure their talons, keen hearing and sharp eyes will provide the protection necessary to raise their young.

Whatever their reasoning, I'm looking forward to watching the development of a brood. It takes 28 days for screech owl eggs to hatch and another 32 days before the owlets fly off on their own. That means I have about two months ahead of exciting bird watching. Last year, I never managed to see the hatchlings. Maybe this year I will.

Broken stuff gets schooled in hard knocks

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 6, 2009)

The other day, our computer connection wasn't working, so I did what I usually do when something around the house breaks or is not functioning properly: I called my husband.

"Ralph," I yelled from my office to his. "The stupid computer is not letting me get online."

I have an admittedly fickle relationship with the computer. When it works, I love it. When it stops doing what it's supposed to do, my love turns sour. By the time I called down the hall for my husband's assistance, I had already entered loathing mode.

"I don't know what's wrong," I complained to my ever-patient and capable partner. "I tried rebooting, defragging and emptying the temp files. Still, I can't seem to get online. Do you think you can fix it?"

He said he would try.

I went about my work doing tasks that didn't require an Internet connection and eventually abandoned the computer completely to do errands in town. I was gone for three hours, and while I was away, my husband labored over the computer problem. Most of that time, he was on the phone seeking help from the phone company's technical-support crew.

A lower-level employee told him to type in a series of unintelligible letters and numbers in order to ascertain the speed at which the computer was communicating with the telephone company through the DSL line. About an hour after following various commands, none of which worked, she transferred my husband to a higher-level technician.

The new tech-support person suggested going to speedtest.net to determine the Internet connection. Of course, Ralph couldn't do that because the problem he was trying to resolve was our inability to get an Internet connection.

The technician then tried to determine how strong — or nonexistent — our connection was by putting Ralph through another series of exercises typing the word ping followed by various number and letter combinations. When he finished following these cryptic instructions, the technician concluded that from his end, our connection was fine.

"Unplug the router and plug the computer directly into the modem," the tech guy directed.

Bingo! It worked!

"There's your problem," the responder said. "Your router must be bad. Buy a new router."

I happened to be at Walmart when Ralph called to give me the news.

"Good, you're at Walmart," he said. "Go to the electronics section."

Following his directions, I found the correct router and put it in the shopping cart.

"It costs $49.95," I told him. "Should I get it?"

His response was, "Wait a minute."

In the background, I heard a muffled banging sound.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Just a little percussive maintenance," he replied.

"Ah," I mused, "percussive maintenance, my husband's response to most electronic problems."

About 30 seconds later, Ralph's voice filled the phone.

"The router's working," he said. "I shook it a bit and gave it a few taps, plugged it back in and we're good to go. You can put the router back on the shelf. We just saved 50 bucks."

"It's working?" I asked with surprise. "You fixed it with a few taps and a shake?"

I don't know why I was so astonished. My husband may be the gentlest man around, but he has no compunction about punching components if that's what it takes to make them function again. He has been applying what he calls "percussive maintenance" to stubborn electronic problems for years.

Radio not working? DVD on the fritz? Toaster stuck? Computer acting up? Ralph's answer to them all: A good whack will put them back on track.

I hate to admit it — it goes against my sense of propriety — but his method is effective more times than not.

"Maybe there's dust in there, and a light pounding moves it around," he explains. "Or it could be loose wires or a poor connection, and the shaking puts things back in place."

His explanations seem lacking, but I can't deny the effectiveness of his hard-handed approach.

There's a $50 bill in my wallet thanks to my husband's ability to think outside the box. On the subject of percussive maintenance, label me pro-pounding.

Time travel in the age of Facebook

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 30, 2009)

Thanks to the social-networking site Facebook, I've been traveling back in time to my teenage years.

This year marks the 40th anniversary of my high-school graduation, a fact undetected by my mental radar until a cadre of long-forgotten classmates "friended" me on Facebook. As I began receiving e-mail from people I hadn't heard from in decades, my mind drifted back to my Pennsylvanian roots.

High school was an emotional time. As with so many of my peers, my days were a swirl of feelings in constant collision with a maze of social, political and philosophical discoveries. Love, frustration, elation, disappointment — during my teenage years, I felt them all in varying shades and degrees of intensity.

I struggled with fitting in or — more accurately — with not fitting in with any of the many cliques that so acutely define the high-school experience. I wasn't a geek, a complete freak or a brain. Although I was on the field hockey team for a while, I was hardly a jock. Nor was I a member of the band, chorus or any other defining section of the high-school community. I was involved with plays — always behind the scenes and in minor parts — and contributed regularly to the literary magazine.

A thinker and dreamer, I found myself on the outskirts of several groups, never meshing for long with any one faction. Although I had spent my first 18 years in the same town, none of my personal connections managed to last for long once high school ended and I moved away.

Maybe that's why it feels strange to be suddenly awash in a sea of semi-familiar names and faces. As I struggle to remember the people now contacting me, I find my memory surprisingly foggy. Why is that? How can such incredibly important years be so difficult to recall?

For assistance, I've brushed the dust off my yearbook and scanned the pages in search of triggers. Unfortunately, that immortal tome of hormonal expression hasn't been much help. The 40-year-old images of girls with pageboy haircuts and boys with tucked in button-down shirts only remind me of how uninvolved I was with school activities.

There were about 1,000 graduates in my class. Like most of my classmates, I was aware of the ever-popular football players, cheerleading squad and student council, but my yearbook documents the existence of so much more. Apparently, my high school had a swim team and although I went there for four years, I can't recall ever seeing a pool. How is that possible? The depth of my obliviousness is astounding.

Thanks to Facebook I am reminded of how much I've forgotten. Far beyond names and faces, events that once seemed immensely important now barely elicit a memory blip. I guess time has a way of sorting through the mass of information that floods our minds and filing it all away in a manageable fashion. High school may have seemed all-encompassing at the time, but in reality it barely took up 4 percent of my 57 years. So much has happened since 12th grade ended and the rest of my life began.

Traveling back in time can be fun. It can be interesting learning about people in our past, especially when we chance upon that rare someone with whom a true connection can be made. But maybe the best part of this whole return-to-high-school-revisit-my-roots experience is how much it makes me appreciate the present.

There's no comparison between now and then. Now is so much better. I'm still a thinker, a dreamer and not a member of any special clique, but I'm very much a part of a family. That's something I wouldn't trade for all the high-school homecoming dances in the worl

Loss of cranes' eggs brings grief, awareness of life cycles

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 23, 2009)

The sandhill-crane eggs are gone. I don't know how it happened or exactly when, but the day after I watched the nesting pair scare away two other sandhill cranes, a misguided turtle and a murder of crows, I realized their eggs were missing.

What I actually noticed was an unattended nest. Until then, one or another of the cranes dutifully sat on the eggs day and night. Male and female cranes share incubation responsibilities, so I could never be sure which bird was keeping the two eggs warm. Except when they flew off in tandem to chase away other birds, one crane was always there.

The morning I realized the eggs were missing I also saw the season's first alligator glide through the shallow water. Our family regularly uses the lake for swimming. Monitoring the alligator population is an activity I take seriously.

Every year about this time, one or two of the toothy reptiles discovers our 12-acre watering hole. This year's visitor was relatively small — maybe 4 feet long — and too little to pose a serious human threat but large enough to devour sandhill-crane eggs.

Then again, the egg robber just as easily could have been a fox, raccoon, crow, owl, bobcat, coyote or even the osprey that regularly roosts on the lake-top platform my husband built. We have no shortage of predators willing to fight for a mouthful of crane eggs or hatchlings.

If that's what happened, it must have been quite a battle. When under attack, sandhill cranes command an arsenal of weapons. Their large stature and 6-foot-wide wingspan can be imposing. Add to that a pointed beak for poking, strong legs for kicking and a bellowing voice that doesn't let up, and you have the means to stop most enemies in their tracks. Unfortunately, even the best weapons don't always work.

A study of 1,096 sandhill-crane clutches at the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge in Oregon from 1966 to 1989 showed coyotes destroyed 20percent of the eggs, ravens killed 15percent and raccoons destroyed 9percent. I know all three predators frequent our property, but ravens or perhaps crows have been most visible. The Oregon study noted the obvious: Well-concealed nests resisted the most predation.

The cranes in my lake must not have read that report, because their nest was as exposed as could be. Stuck on the end of a barren sand spit in the shallow water a mere 20feet from shore, the roughly composed structure was visible to any potential egg-eaters and easily accessible.

I'm not surprised the two eggs vanished, but I am sad. Unlike birds that may lay multiple clutches yearly, sandhill cranes nest only once. When eggs disappear, chances of another clutch by the same birds in the same year are nil.

Meanwhile, the male and female cranes continue to roost on the same sandbar by their empty nest. During the days, they wander about together, foraging for food, preening their feathers and raising their voices to bellow to any other sandhills that chance to fly overhead.

Is their vocalization a warning to others to stay away, or a message of mourning to announce their loss?

It is anthropomorphic to attribute human feelings to animal behavior, but when something like this happens, it's hard to avoid such speculation. That's especially true with animals such as sandhill cranes that forge strong parent-child bonds. Although immature cranes can fly only 10weeks after hatching, they usually remain with the parents for a full year, staying together until the elders are ready to lay another clutch of eggs. Only then will the young colts — immature cranes — venture off on their own.

My nesting couple won't raise babies this year, but that doesn't mean their child-rearing days are over. Sandhill cranes can live in the wild for more than 20years. They tend to return to previous nesting sites year after year, so it's likely we'll have several more chances to observe the life cycle of these fascinating birds.

With so many future chances, it's quite likely their next egg-laying experience will be a success. I certainly hope so. A pair of Carolina wrens is building a nest under the eaves of our house. Watching them scurry back and forth with building materials has helped ease my feelings of loss.

It's hard to keep things in perspective when emotions get in the way. Losing the eggs is a disappointment, but it's not without an upside. Those eggs nourished some animal that also may be raising young. Life is full of ups and downs. One critter's loss is another animal's gain.

As for me, I'm in awe of the cycle. Life goes on no matter what, for birds as well as people.

Nesting cranes bluster, but no blood is shed

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 16, 2009)

The sandhill-crane saga continues.

One recent Saturday, I heard the sandhill cranes on our property making their warning calls, so I grabbed the binoculars and rushed outside to see what was going on.

On the long, narrow sand spit where the cranes nest, the female had stood up, leaving her two eggs exposed. About 20feet away, the male crane walked toward her with long-legged determination. Between them was a large turtle. The turtle, probably figuring the narrow sand spit was a good place to catch some rays, made an unfortunate pick. His sunning spot — about 7 feet from the nest — was too close for comfort.

The female crane raised her voice in protest, her warning cry joined by the male, who was rapidly approaching. The vocalizing continued until the female felt sure her partner was close enough to deal with the problem alone. Secure at last, she returned to her egg-warming responsibility. Meanwhile, the male used his pointy beak to approach the unwitting turtle and drive home the message that it was time to leave.

"Go!" Nudge, nudge. "Get away!" He poked. "Find somewhere else to sun, away from our eggs."

Turtles are reputed to be slow on land, but if my observations are any indication, they're fast on the uptake. The hard-shelled critter wasted no time retreating into the water and paddling off to friendlier shores. With the threat abated, calm returned. Mama crane continued nesting, papa crane resumed foraging for food and the unwelcome turtle disappeared underwater.

A few minutes passed. I returned to my desk, and the cranes resumed foraging for food and incubating eggs.

You would think one such adrenaline-pumping experience would be enough for the birds to deal with in a day. It wasn't. Less than 15 minutes later, I again heard sandhill-crane sounds of alarm. I ran outside again, binoculars in hand. This time a turtle didn't trigger their cries; another pair of sandhill cranes did.

This was the second time I've witnessed the territorial proclamations of sandhill cranes. A few days before, a pair of the long-legged birds had flown overhead before settling down on the shoreline at the opposite end of the lake from the nesting couple. In typical crane fashion, a great deal of vocalizing transpired in the air and on the ground.

"This is our lake," the nesting pair seemed to bellow from below.

"Don't get your feathers all ruffled," the newcomers seemed to reply. "We're not going to bother you. We're landing on the other end, far away from your island."

I suppose their exchange succeeded in placating the nesting pair because the new birds landed and did stay far away, at least initially. Several hours later, that wasn't the case. The nonresident birds slowly meandered their way around the shoreline until they were a mere 40feet or so away from the other cranes' nest. At that point, new bellowing began, accompanied by a sudden explosion of wings as both mama and papa crane took off and landed next to the newcomers. All at once, four sets of croaky voices filled the air.

"You said you were not going to bother us and now look where you are," the nesting couple seemed to scold.

"All right already, don't get so upset. We're out of here," the newcomers seemed to say.

Their wings spread and away they flew.

As soon as the intruders were in the air, the nesting couple returned to the sand spit and the two exposed eggs.

This time, I expected to see a similar confrontation. But that wasn't the case. Instead of the new birds coming close to the nest, the visitors were far away at the opposite shore. The nesting pair reacted immediately. They flew off together and landed right next to the newcomers.

"Leave!" They seemed to say. "Right now! Fly away!"

And they did. The visitors took off and our resident birds flew back to their island home. The female went back to the nest, but the male stopped by a nearby shoreline to chase away a murder of crows. After the crane-chasing incident, some adrenaline must still have been pumping through his system that he needed to release.

I suppose we all have territorial limits. When it happens to people, fights ensue. When it happens to countries, we have war. When it happens to sandhill cranes, there's a lot of bluster, feather ruffling and vocalizing, but, eventually, one bird or the other gets the message and flies away. End of story. No bloody encounters or bombing of homelands, just loud cries of complaint followed by acquiescence.

Too bad people can't act the same way

Nesting sandhill cranes ready to raise young

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 9, 2009)

I recently wrote about watching a male sandhill crane court a female with elaborate displays of wing flapping, feather fluffing, stomping on the ground and jumping up and down.

The lady to whom this dance was directed appeared to be completely uninterested in his performance.

While her partner pounced upon a gangly weed to demonstrate how forcefully he could destroy an enemy, the female sandhill crane walked away, pecked at seeds and generally ignored her suitor's dramatic show of virility.

Although she may have looked and acted indifferent, some of those masculine attempts to impress must have penetrated her feathery feminine psyche.

Today, a mere three weeks after the mating dance, the female sandhill crane is contentedly incubating a clutch of eggs on an exposed spit of sand at the north end of our lake.

I'm excited!

This will be the second time our family will have an up-close opportunity to follow the life cycle of sandhill cranes.

I'm not alone in enjoying such a spectacle. After my column appeared, many readers wrote to tell me how thrilled they also are to be following the development of sandhill crane families.

Leesburg resident Joe Schlegel's letter began, "Are you ready for some GOOD NEWS? I sure hope so, 'cause the sandhill cranes from last year are still here and nesting in the same place, and she laid TWO eggs this year, same as last year, but this year ONE hatched and we have the most BEAUTIFUL baby sandhill crane walking around with the proud parents.

"WOW!! What a sight!" he added. "The papa stands guard and the mama has been teaching the baby how to pick bugs out of the ground."

It is typical of sandhill cranes to return to a nest site for many years.

Although there is no way to know for sure, I suspect that the cranes now nesting near our lake are either the same cranes or the descendants of the cranes that nested here eight years ago. The water level now is similar to what it was then — very low — with many exposed sand or peat islands, ideal for nest sites.

Gertrude de Jong is another Leesburg resident fortunate enough to follow a crane family's antics.

"We live on a pond, too, in a retirement community in Leesburg and for the last month and a half we have been watching two of them prepare their nest to receive two big beautiful eggs," writes de Jong.

"We watched them protect them, hover over them, taking turns to keep them warm, and about 10 days ago a beautiful little chick came into being," de Jong continued. "Only one of the eggs hatched. Now each day we see them protect the little chick with their nearness and at the same time teaching it to feed. What a beautiful sight. At the first indication of a predator in the area, both birds make the most awful noise and scare the osprey away."

I have not yet discovered how many eggs our sandhill crane is sitting on, but the last time we watched a nesting pair raise young, two eggs hatched. Unfortunately, only one of those colts survived.

Baby sandhill cranes are called colts because of their long, strong, well-developed legs. A day after hatching, colts are already able to run after their parents.

Although two eggs are usually laid, more often than not only one bird survives. The eggs — about twice the size of the largest chicken eggs — incubate for approximately 30 days, and during that time both parents take turns sitting on the eggs.

The nest, which typically sits only inches above the water in marshy areas, is a casually built affair made from marshy vegetation.

From my vantage point on the shoreline about 40 feet away, I can't even see the cranes' nest. The mama crane's body — or is it the papa's? — completely covers whatever reeds, cattails or tall grasses the birds have haphazardly woven together into a shallow bowl.

What I do know is that ever since I first observed the birds nesting, one parent or another has stayed glued to the nest site, leaving the remaining partner alone to forage the shorelines and fields for food.

Assuming that the cranes can successfully fend off predators — as the male so ably demonstrated in his mating dance — we soon should be observing the young colts' arrival.

It only takes 10 weeks after the baby birds are born before they are able to fly, so much should happen in a relatively short time.

I'll be sure to share with you as many stages of the happy events that I can record.

Lowly sorrel a surprising, edible treat

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 1, 2009)

Remember fields? They are those expansive stretches of landscape uninterrupted by trees, shopping centers, tract homes, condos or parking lots.

If you've passed by one lately, that is, if you are fortunate enough to live in an area where acres of open space still exist — you might have noticed a reddish tint to the grasses waving in the breeze. The cause of this botanical blush is the seed stalks of the Rumex acetosella plant, better known as sheep sorrel, sour sorrel, common sorrel or the visually descriptive moniker, red sorrel.

As its blush suggests, Rumex acetosella is a modest plant, unassuming but pervasive. A perennial herb with edible stem and leaves, sorrel's lowly stature and ubiquitous nature cause many to consider it a weed. It pops up in gardens and lawns alike, in open fields and meadows, in sandy or gravelly soil. Wherever there are sunny expanses — even in disturbed, nutritionally poor soil — sorrel plants are apt to take root.

When we first moved to our south Lake County homestead 17years ago, sorrel-covered meadows were so widespread, we named one of our roads after the omnipresent herb. We'd munch on the lemony leaves when taking walks, and at dinnertime we would send the kids out to collect a handful of the plant's arrow-shaped leaves to mix with lettuce for a tasty salad. Sorrel leaves are slightly juicy and mildly astringent. They add a satisfying crunch to tossed salads and a pleasing tang to sandwiches and stir-fries.

So many sorrel plants grew in our "lawn" that the kids didn't have far to go to gather what was needed.

Our three oldest children have long since grown up and moved away, but their fondness for sorrel has remained intact. Unfortunately, fields of the red-stalked plants diminished as we added more trees and bamboo to the landscape. Sorrel still exists but instead of covering acres, it forms a patchwork of individual plants.

This past week, our older children rediscovered some of those patches during a trip home to celebrate our youngest son's birthday. In addition to time spent talking and making meals, we juggled clubs in the backyard, played board games and took walks around the lake. It was on one of those walks that Timmy, our oldest son, noticed the sorrel. He plucked a few leaves off a plant and nibbled them as he walked.

Seeing Timmy munch on the tangy greens reminded me of the special connection people can have with specific plants. As a child in Pennsylvania, I used to pick wild blackberries when I walked along the old railroad track. Now, 50-some years later, every time I pick a blackberry, I flash back on my youthful home.

During the years Ralph and I lived on Cape Cod, wintergreen berries were among my favorite wild edibles. Whenever I strolled through the woods during autumn, my eyes would seek out the small red berries hidden beneath the low growing ground cover. I miss the minty taste of those berries — they don't grow in Florida — but I still remember how much I enjoyed them and how exciting it was to fill up my pockets with enough of the tiny round fruits to last for the entire walk.

It doesn't take much to trigger a memory. Songs do it. Smells do it. Plants do it too. Fields of sorrel may no longer be a large part of our Florida landscape, but the memories they trigger are not about to disappear. Rumex acetosella is undeniably a common, lowly plant that some people consider a weed, but to our family it's special: It's the flavor of home, of family and time spent together.

He puffs and stomps, she ignores it - sound familiar?

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel February 23, 2009)

'You've got to see this," Ralph said as he rushed back to the house from the nursery. "The sandhill cranes are out here and one of them is bobbing up and down."

"Ooh!" I exclaimed. "I bet it's doing a mating dance. I'll grab my camera and be right there."

Two minutes later, I'm outside. My bare feet carefully avoid red-ant hills as I squat down in a grassy spot about 50 feet from the birds. The cranes -- perhaps the same pair that roosts nightly on a small exposed sandbar in the lake -- are along the water's edge slowly trolling the shallows for food. Every few minutes one or another stops feeding to survey its surroundings.

Squatting is uncomfortable so I eventually settle into a sitting position and play with the zoom until I have the birds tightly framed in the viewfinder. Within minutes, I'm enjoying a front-row seat at a show of avian amour.

The male bird, slightly larger than his female counterpart, leaves the shoreline to walk toward a mounded earthen berm. With his mate following, the large birds hop up the hillock and settle onto the flat weedy surface.

After a quick peek over his shoulder at his partner, the male fluffs out his tail feathers and extends his impressively broad wings. Turning so his rear end faces his mate, the crane proceeds to jump up and down, flapping his wings in the process.

After four leaps, he switches tactics.

A slender blade of grass is now the subject of his attention. As if the blade were a snake intent on devouring eggs instead of a slim weed bending in the breeze, the male proceeds to peck at it repeatedly. For good measure, he also pounces upon it twice as if telling a potential predator, "You're not going to bother my family!"

In all of 19 seconds, the show is over. The male bird immediately reverts to normal behavior, meandering along the ground in search of food. But what a 19 seconds it was!

In that short time Mr. Sandhill Crane showed his missus how big and strong he is and how protective he can be of his family. Was his partner impressed? I don't think so. Throughout this dazzling display of male virility and protective prowess, the female crane paid little to no attention. Basically, she ignored him.

When it comes to demonstrations of showoff-y masculinity, humans and birds have much in common. The males of both species occasionally act like fools.

I made a video of the sandhill crane mating dance and posted it on Facebook. My friend, Stephen Scarlato in New Haven, Conn., watched it and left the following post: "I showed Bridget (my girlfriend) this video. Her reaction: 'That's totally us, as birds.' That is, one dancing around extravagantly, one totally ignoring . . . :)"

How often have women watched men try their hardest to impress them with boisterous behavior, self-proclaiming boasts and blatant brags?

Puffing out their feathers and stomping up and down might turn a few heads, but women often respond to such displays by rolling their eyes, shaking their head and hoping with all their might that their hormonally charged partners won't do something stupid such as get in a fight.

Sure, we want a life mate who will protect and defend us, but virility has its limits. Strength is important but so are tenderness, sensitivity and compassion.

Maybe birds have it easier than humans. With needs so basic -- food, water and a safe nesting place -- they can afford to act extravagantly -- even foolishly -- at times, stomping on blades of grass and leaping into the air with wings spread wide. If their mate ignores them, well, there's always next time.

They have the luxury of spending all day, every day with the object of their attention. Sandhill cranes are monogamous and mate for life.

I felt privileged for the chance to peek into the world of these fascinating birds and ponder the wonders of another way of life.

People are certainly not sandhill cranes, but we're not as far removed from our avian counterparts as some might like to think. We can learn much by watching wildlife -- not only about the animals we observe but also about ourselves.

A few right words can show the love

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel February 16, 2009)

A few days ago, I was talking to one of our customers while her husband helped my husband load bamboo plants onto the back of their trailer. While the men busied themselves with tractors, tarps and tie-downs, we women made small talk about our children, homes and garden projects.

After telling me about a waterfall her husband had built in their backyard, she made a comment that surprised me.

"I have the best husband," she said. "He can do anything, fix anything and build anything."

"I'm afraid I have to correct you on that," I replied. "My husband is the best husband there is."

We sat there laughing, two strangers of a similar age who have both been happily married for many years.

My customer's words surprised me because they are so rare. Casual comments about our partners are far more likely to include complaints and criticisms than compliments and praise. We don't think twice about telling complete strangers our mate's bad habits, unpleasant mannerisms or unacceptable behaviors but we seldom share tales of their kind actions, loving gestures or admirable qualities.

Why is that? Why is it easier to disparage the people who are dearest to us rather than laden them with praise?

Valentine's Day was this past weekend, and people across the country took advantage of the holiday to proclaim their love with cards and gifts. But do we really need a designated day to announce our affection? Shouldn't our entire lives reflect the affection we feel for our partners?

I've been married to my husband for 38 years and I never tire of singing his virtues. Ralph isn't perfect but he comes mighty close. He's smart and handsome, strong and gentle, hardworking and playful. His easygoing, patient nature is the perfect counterbalance to my often emotional, erratic self.

We work well together, agree on important issues and share the same priorities. Our marriage is full of soothing patterns and exciting surprises. The gratitude I feel for our shared life only increases each day.

I expect most people in relationships feel similar affection for their partners. Characteristics and qualities may differ, but beneath all the layers of everyday life is the undercurrent of love upon which unions are built.

I wonder how different the world would be if more people -- like my customer the other day -- expressed appreciation for their partners instead of reverting to the far more common words of mockery and ridicule.

Media rules the world. We are constantly told how to look, act and think. On Feb. 14, the powers that be tell us now is the time to express our love. Buy a present for your sweetheart -- the more expensive the gift, the deeper your love.

I'm sorry, but I just don't buy it.

Love isn't measured by dollars and cents. It's not something that can be purchased over the counter or ordered from a catalog. Real affection -- true caring and devotion -- is expressed every day by kindnesses large and small, by actions, reactions, by hugs, kisses and -- most importantly -- by words.

Saying "I have the best husband" is one person's way of acknowledging the passion that can remain in a marriage even after 40 years have come and gone. My customer might not have realized it at the time, but she gave her husband an early Valentine's Day gift when she visited our nursery last week.

I'm not referring to the purchase of bamboo plants to add to their landscape. The present she offered was far less obvious. Her five little words stated in a matter-of-fact tone was a gift so grand, it deserves to be passed on.

Give someone you love a hug. Tell them you care. Valentine's Day may be over, but the future is just beginning. Fill your tomorrows with declarations of love. When all is said and done, it's the only gift that counts.

Few days of chill a small price to pay for this sun-kissed paradise

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel February 9, 2009)

If my favorite color were tan, I would be ecstatic when I look out my window. The recent cold snap has leached most of the green out of the garden, leaving behind an ecru landscape. Hibiscus, pentas, gingers and impatiens withered up when the temperature dropped. The plump leaves of ground covers such as wedelia, wandering Jew and spider plant turned to mush, their bright colors faded to dull blackish-browns. I expected the bananas to succumb to the cold - most winters they do - but during this freeze, unexpected trees were also affected.

Tropical fruiters such as the carambola tree, papaya, mango and pineapple were badly hit, but so were normally hardy plants such as Surinam cherries and mulberry trees. Even emerging fruit on our loquats and our neighbor's grapefruits were damaged when the thermometer dipped to the mid- to low 20s.

It really got cold.

In past years, such an extensive kill-back would have brought me to my knees. I would have bemoaned our fate.

"What are we going to do?" I would have wondered. "Everything looks terrible!"
I don't do that anymore.

Despite the recent cold snap, I am taking it in stride. I've lived in Florida long enough to know how quickly the weather will warm up, how soon new leaves will appear and how pretty the landscape will look again. The beauty of it all is that none of these changes will take long to happen.

Florida is a state of immediate gratification. Instead of lasting for months, winter lasts for days - sometimes only for hours.

Plants that look dead often spring back to life once the sun has been shining on them for a couple of weeks.

When I moved here 21 years ago from gray Cape Cod, I was awe-struck by all the sunshiny days. I hadn't realized it until I moved away, but Cape Cod was a rather dreary place to be. Winters were long, chilly and raw. Springtime was exciting but it was also muddy. Even during summer, when the weather finally warmed to the 70s and 80s, we rarely experienced more than two days in a row without overcast skies.
By contrast, the sun hardly ever disappears from Floridian skies. Even now as I look out upon the cold-decimated landscape, I can imagine how vibrant everything will look a couple months from now.

The suddenly tan landscape acts as a reminder of things I like best about Florida - the quick turnaround of seasons, the rapid resurgence of all things botanical, the inevitable warmth that's never far off.

For the moment, the only thing I'm doing about the cold damage is waiting it out. There will be time enough in March to trim back dead branches and rake up fallen leaves. Right now is the time to appreciate how good we have it.

Unlike family and friends in other parts of the country, we're not blanketed by snowdrifts, driving over ice-slicked roads or withering under a shroud of gray skies and nose-numbing winds.

We're merely experiencing a sliver of the shivers most Americans deal with daily. A few days of chill and the loss of some greenery is a small price to pay for the nearly semitropical climate Central Floridians enjoy most of the year.

That is not to say we should resist complaining when the thermometer dips. Bemoaning the weather - whether it is too cold or too hot - is human nature. The important thing is to keep it in perspective.

Even in the midst of one of the coldest snaps on record, Florida weather is a wondrous thing. Accept the present, anticipate the future and appreciate how lucky we are. Warm days are ahead. That's a given.

A sweet addiction

SIMPLY LIVING

My son says I’m addicted and maybe he’s right.

If the definition of an addict is someone dependent on a substance, then label me hooked. My drug of choice, however, is not a drug at all. It’s a zero-calorie, zero-carbohydrate, plant-based sweetener that – unlike sugar - doesn’t induce a dangerous spike in blood sugar. The product is stevia and the way I see it, my dependency upon it is a positive addiction.

Stevia is a member of the Compositae family of herbs – the same family as asters, sunflowers and daisies. The indigenous people in Paraguay and Brazil have used the leaves of this small shrub for hundreds of years to sweeten beverages and medicines but it wasn’t until the 1970’s that other countries began to incorporate the naturally sweet leaves into food products.

The Japanese were the first to jump on the stevia bandwagon. About 30 years ago Japan approved the use of stevia to enhance and sweeten foods and its use quickly became widespread. Today it represents 40 percent of that country’s sweetener market. Although China, India, Israel, Australia, New Zealand and Canada have recognized stevia’s taste-enhancing benefits, it wasn’t introduced to the American consumer until 1996. I discovered stevia a few years later and have been adding it to my daily cups of tea ever since.

Unlike Splenda, Sweet N Low or Equal, stevia is not an artificially derived chemical product and unlike sugar, it neither raises blood sugar levels nor adds calories. Fresh picked stevia leaves are 30 times sweeter than table sugar while a purified extract made out of the leaves can be up to 400 times sweeter. Stevia comes in both a powder and liquid form and even though both types share space in my pantry, my latest favorite is the liquid form.

“Why bother pouring it into your tea?” my son asked the other morning while watching me prepare my morning brew. “Why not just inject it directly into your veins?”

I may be addicted but I’m not that far gone.

Mainlining stevia is out of the question but that doesn’t mean the herb’s medicinal qualities are without merit. In Paraguay and Brazil, members of the Guarani tribes have historically used stevia as a remedy for heartburn. Recent research suggests it may also be beneficial to treat hypertension, osteoporosis, high blood pressure, diabetes and obesity. Such claims are impressive but that’s not why I use stevia. I like it because it is sweetens my tea without adding calories or potentially dangerous chemical additives.

Apparently, several major beverage companies like those features too. In an attempt to cater to the demands of health and diet conscious consumers, both Coca Cola and Pepsi are in the process of developing stevia-sweetened drinks. Coca Cola will market a version of Sprite during 2009 as well as two flavors of Odwalla juice while Pepsi’s stevia enhanced offerings will include Sobe Lifewater and a Tropicana Orange drink this year.

The only drawback that I can find to stevia is its high price tag. A four-ounce bottle of Stevia Clear Liquid manufactured by Wisdom Natural Brand under the name of SweetLeaf Sweetener costs $14.95. It took me just over two months and about a hundred cups of tea and homemade stevia-laced lemon and limeade to use up the liquid in that bottle. At that rate, a year’s supply of the naturally sweet liquid would cost about $90. That’s a fair amount of money but I don’t mind spending it because it enables me to enjoy my favorite beverages without worry about added calories or health concerns.

Prior to the 20th century, a typical American consumed only 5 pounds of sugar a year. Today we ingest 135 pounds of the refined white powder annually. Not surprisingly, health problems have increased too. Sugar has been linked to a number of health concerns including cardiovascular disease, cancer, hypertension, diabetes, obesity, periodontal disease, depression and allergies.

America’s obsession with sugar makes my addiction to stevia seem minor by comparison. If more people got hooked on positive food choices – whether it is switching from white flour to whole grains, cutting back on processed foods, eliminating hydrogenated oils or reducing their sugar intake - we’d be a far healthier nation.

Being addicted isn’t always bad. The problem isn’t the addiction itself – it’s what you choose to be addicted to.

Talking trash

SIMPLY LIVING

I just came in from picking up cigarette butts. Forty-nine cigarette butts, to be exact. A tenant in one of our rental houses moved out and although no smoking was permitted inside the unit, that didn’t stop my tenant’s boyfriend from dropping his smoked down cancer sticks all over the ground around the house.

How stupid can people be? Apparently, pretty darn stupid.

These days, with the correlation between cigarette smoking and lung cancer so well documented, one has to be either foolish enough to think he’ll be immune to the hazards of continually inhaling carcinogenic smoke into his system or too dumb to care.

And that doesn’t even begin to take into consideration what smokers are doing to the environment. Every year an estimated 4.5 trillion cigarette butts find their way onto our streets, parks, sidewalks and waterways. Have you ever been at a beautiful beach or a lovely overlook along a highway only to glance down upon a mound of litter predominated by cigarette butts? Sadly, it’s an all too common sight.

Why are those cigarette butts still there? Don’t they break down and deteriorate like paper or cotton? In a word, no.

Cigarettes are not biodegradable. Ninety-eight percent of a filter’s composition is cellulose acetate, a type of plastic that does not readily decompose. What it does do is sit there on the ground until rains either sweep it into a sewer or wash it into a waterway. But that’s only the beginning of the bad news. One hour after a spent cigarette becomes wet, harmful chemicals like cadmium, lead and arsenic begin to leach out of the butt and into the environment. Fish and other marine animals ingest those chemicals. Birds eat them. So do wildlife and even humans. If you’ve ever been at a beach, you’ve inevitably seen a baby pick a cigarette butt out of the sand and stick it in its mouth.

Potent stuff, cigarettes. They poison the water. They poison animals. They poison people.

In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m frustrated – not just by cigarette butts but by litter in general. Trash lines our county’s streets. Beautiful lakes and waterways are depositories for tossed beer cans, old tires and the remains of fast food containers. A couple weeks ago I drove out my dirt driveway onto the paved county-maintained road only to discover several dozen tires dumped along the roadside.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t an isolated incidence.

What are we doing to our beautiful countryside? Are the majority of Lake County residents completely uncaring? Is the precarious state of our fragile environment so unimportant to most people that they’d rather pollute the land than put the tiniest bit of effort into keeping it clean? How difficult is it to throw a cigarette butt into a trashcan instead of dropping it on the ground?

Although generally an optimist, I’ve become pessimistic about the problem of litter. I used to think if one person did their part, others would follow.
Dutifully I filled garbage bags with the trash that landed along the roads leading to our driveway. I explained to the little girl down the street who repeatedly dropped bubblegum wrappers on the road when she walked to the bus stop and explained to her why littering was bad for the environment. I added a clause to every lease emphasizing my zero tolerance of all litter, especially that of cigarette butts. I chastised tenants who didn’t listen and, like the tenant who just moved out, picked up after them myself.

Still, litter continued.

It doesn’t have to be this way. Places do exist where litter is not an issue. When I lived on Cape Cod, garbage did not line the roadsides or fill the waterways. People cared enough to pick up after themselves. Even here in Central Florida, you’d be hard-pressed to find cigarette butts on the ground or fast food containers littering the roadsides of any on Disney-owned property. Why not? Because the people in charge at Disney takes litter control seriously.

There’s no reason Lake County can’t be a paragon of environmental consciousness. If enough residents let our county leaders know we want them to prioritize cleaning up the countryside, the amount of litter could drastically decrease. If enough parents insisted that our school leaders ramp up the anti-littering curriculum, more children could grow up to be informed, responsible adults.

If we don’t voice our concerns or make our desire for change known, well, I guess we deserve what we get – filthy roadsides, polluted water, cigarette-covered ground and a beautiful countryside marred by the ugly aftermath of county filled with uninvolved, poorly educated, uncaring people.

What better time than now, as we embark on Obama’s “Change We Need” presidency, to contact our school leaders and county commissioners. Insist upon the enforcement of existing littering laws. Demand that citizens – young and old - be educated on the importance of a clean environment. If more of us follow Obama’s lead and work for important changes in our own backyard, even difficult problems like littering can be overcome.

Winter or spring? Ask me in an hour

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel January 19, 2009)

If I didn't know better, I'd think it was spring.

Young mulberry leaves are starting to unfurl and the tips of the maple tree are swelling with promise.

A Carolina wren keeps sneaking into our garage in search of potential nesting sites, while a hormonally charged cardinal pecks repeatedly at the kitchen window.

Even the emerging weeds are reacting to the weather as if it were March instead of the end of January. Wild geranium, Spanish needle, and sow thistle are among the more identifiable weeds growing with abandon wherever an irrigation spigot has dampened the ground.

Even two of the more robust varieties of clumping bamboo, which normally wait until all chances of frost are past to demonstrate above-ground growth, are tentatively sending out tender new shoots.

Is it winter or spring? The calendar says one thing, but nature says another.

One of the marvels of life in the Sunshine State is the swift succession of changing seasons. You can wake up in the morning reluctant to abandon your cozy bed because the temperature outside is in the 40s and the house is chilly. A few hours later, you're unbuttoning sweaters, rolling up sleeves or discarding outerwear entirely because the air has gotten so warm.

Blink and it's winter. Blink again and it's spring.

Lately, as I watch the plants respond to January temperatures in the mid- to high-70s, I feel awed by nature's adaptability.

What happens when the inevitable cold snap -- (it will be unseasonably chilly this week, for example) -- nips at the tips of those unfurling mulberry leaves? Will they wilt and fall off or maintain their momentum, hang on and endure?

During my early years as a Florida resident, I would get upset when chilly weather killed back the tropical plants in my yard. My mood would take a dive when green leaves turned black, flowers shriveled up and ripening fruit either fell off or withered on the stem. I'd feel and look as glum as the landscape.

Not anymore.

While I still prefer warm weather to cold and would rather we didn't have to endure the ugly aftermath of a freeze, I now realize that a bit of chill is not worth getting worked up over.

Plants rebound with remarkable efficiency, often responding to temperature dips with unexpected vigor. The few plants that don't make it probably deserved more care than I could provide and didn't belong in my yard in the first place.

I'm learning to appreciate whatever nature dishes out. If it's an early crop of mulberries because the weather has been so warm -- wonderful! If there's no crop at all because a freeze zaps the young fruit, well, we'll make do without.

Even the blackened leaves of cold-sensitive plants aren't so awful if viewed with perspective. Dead leaves fall off and, when left on the ground, decompose into soil adding important nutrients to be absorbed back into the plant. The end result: Larger, healthier plants as the seasons progress.

Although the calendar hanging on my office wall still says January, it looks and feels more like March. With the exception of the window-pecking cardinal who has confused the unseasonable warmth for territorial protection time, I'm enjoying these premature peeks into the real spring ahead.

Warm days, emerging fruit, new shoots, green leaves and a crazy red bird repeatedly attacking the window . . . if that's not enough to put a bit of spring in my step, I wonder what will?

Lesson of the timid diving bird: It's OK to make it on your own

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel January 12, 2009)

I'm curious about a bird.

This winter, a pied-billed grebe has returned to our lake as it has done for several winters in a row. The bird -- an unobtrusive creature that doesn't make much noise or have fancy displays of feathers -- is shy and skittish. It's also alone.

Every day it swims around the lake, intermittently taking long, underwater dives. Although finding food is the obvious objective of these frequent aquatic forays, they suit another purpose as well. The bird submerges itself to escape potential enemies.

I guess I'm the bad guy in this scenario, at least from the grebe's perspective, because as soon as this pigeon-sized creature perceives the slightest sign of my approach, it disappears underwater.

Grebes must have incredibly sensitive hearing. If the bird is swimming along the shoreline closest to our house, all I have to do to trigger its flee mechanism is open the porch door. With barely a splash, the brown-feathered bird retreats to the aquatic environment in which it seems so at home.

Grebes are built to dive. They have thick, waterproof plumage and legs set far back on their bodies, making it difficult for them to walk on land but easy to dive underwater. Their feet are not webbed, but flaps of skin on the sides of their toes enable grebes to glide effortlessly through the water. Their well-designed anatomy allows them to catch fish easily.

Sunfish, perch and small catfish, aquatic insects, crayfish and invertebrates make up their diet. And, apparently, our lake provides enough of these tasty tidbits to support at least the one grebe that returns annually.

But why only one?

As I observe this interesting little bird from the comfort of my kitchen, I can't help but wonder why a lone grebe has decided to make our lake its winter home. Is the bird a scout seeking out potential feeding or nesting grounds for a flock of other grebes? Or is it a loner without need of like-minded company?

From what I've been able to glean online and from library books, grebes are for the most part solitary birds. Their nesting season is in the spring and, following an elaborate mating dance, which I have yet to observe, they settle down into monogamous pairs.

They raise their young on floating nests that take the couple up to 10 days to build. Like their human counterparts, some pied-billed grebes live year-round in Florida, while others are migratory, flying south to enjoy the warmer weather when ice and snow threaten northern climes.

I'm not sure what intrigues me most about this small, unassuming bird, but I find the fact that it seems so content to travel alone fascinating.

The grebe is not the only bird to frequent our lake without like-species companions. A single great blue heron, a tri-colored heron and a lesser blue heron all visit the lake regularly.

But these birds tend to interact with each other despite being different species. I'll often look out and watch the three types of herons follow each other from one feeding spot to another. Although they too lack same-species companions, they exhibit what appears to be a need to interact to some extent with other wading birds.

That's not true of the grebe. He or she -- I can't get close enough to determine for sure -- contentedly navigates the lake without a discernible longing to interact with other birds. A flock of wood ducks also visits the lake in the winter, but neither the grebe nor the ducks demonstrate any desire to interact with each other.

Some might look at the little grebe circumnavigating our lake and feel sorry for him because he's alone. Not me. I've never been one to associate being alone with loneliness. The way I see it, the pied-billed grebe exemplifies independence, survivor skills and contentedness.

How different the world would be if people were as content with themselves as the pied-billed grebe appears to be. We wouldn't always be sticking our noses in other folk's business or be continually struggling to secure a spot in one group or another in order to feel fulfilled and accepted.

We could each go our individual way, separate but content, finding food, thinking for ourselves and evading potential threats rather than provoking conflicts.

Sometimes the best examples of how we should live life come from the most unexpected sources. A modest little bird that is too skittish to let me come close may be an unlikely but compelling source of elucidation.

Our job, as fellow inhabitants of this awesome shared planet, is to observe other species and apply what we learn from them to our own humble lives. Listen, look and learn -- that's the objective. With a little grebe as the teacher, consider class in session.

A year of promise hangs from a thumbtack

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel January 5, 2009)

The first week in January is such a hopeful time. With the tossing aside of last year’s calendar we throw away unfulfilled dreams, broken promises and unmet goals. A new calendar is tacked to the wall and with it comes a year of blank pages. An empty grid of potential, promise and possibilities is ready to be either crossed off with X’s or filled in with memories.

As an unabashed optimist, I could never mark a calendar with giant black X’s. I’d feel as if I was wishing away time. That’s far too negative an approach for my positive mindset.

Just as unlikely would be to leave the pages blank, reflecting no record at all of the passing days. To me, that would seem too passive, as if I didn’t care what happened. On my calendars, the rectangular boxes become repositories of pertinent notes. They track appointments, record accomplishments, mark celebrations and memorialize moments I hope never to forget.

With the previous year’s calendar spread on the table before me, I can be a time traveler, reveling in the past, reflecting on what was. Memories return with the flipping of a page. Last January was filled with notations about exercise — how many miles I walked, which days I rowed, how frequently (or not) I bounced on the trampoline.

Like most people, I entered 2008 filled with resolve to get back in shape and quickly found that recording my accomplishments motivated me to continue. Had I not kept a daily record within sight of anyone who chose to look, my determination to exercise might have diminished. Instead, it grew with each passing month as I competed with myself to tally on the calendar more and more accomplishments, more and more miles.

Although exercise routines are consistently noted, athletic activities are not all I listed. In February, I marked down when we picked loquats and wrote in March when mulberries began to ripen. My first plunge into the lake’s cool water was on March 15 and just seeing that day on the calendar brings back the shivers. In April, we installed a solar hot water heater and then proceeded to fret as clouds blocked the sun for most of the month. Fortunately, by May, the sun had reappeared and we could finally enjoy steaming hot showers without relying on fossil fuels. May also was blueberry-picking month and the time when I played in my first Scrabble tournament.

In summer, I must have been too busy with work to do much notating and by the time autumn arrived, my diligent recording had begun to dwindle. A few exceptions included the day my oldest daughter announced she was pregnant with our first grandchild and the day our second daughter called from Massachusetts to announce her engagement. I also made note of when we saw certain wildlife on the property — the day a bobcat appeared, when a coyote wandered by, the first time an osprey claimed a bamboo pole in the lake as its roost.

I recently tacked a 2009 calendar up on the wall. The lines of my green felt-tipped pen have not yet touched its pristine pages. As I stand in the kitchen quietly flipping through the months, I can’t help but wonder what the New Year will bring. What markings will eventually fill in each square? Which events will I deem worthy of reporting or feel eager to record?

On my kitchen wall, a year of potential is dangling precariously from a thumbtack. You might also have a new calendar hanging on your wall. If you do, I hope it’s soon filled as I intend mine to be, with memories and treasures no matter how small and with the simple pleasures of everyday life.

Simply Living: Turtle encounter raises questions

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel December 29, 2008)

We saw her at the same time. My son Toby was downstairs, looking out. I was upstairs, looking down. A turtle was laying eggs about 20 feet away from the house. We rushed outside together into the waning daylight.

"That's amazing," I said, inching closer to snap a picture. "I don't think I've ever seen a turtle laying eggs before."

Before we arrived on the scene, the hard-shelled reptile had crawled out of the lake and made her way up the rough ground toward a grove of bamboo. Before she got to the thicket of tall canes, she must have found a piece of ground she liked and began the process of reproduction. By the time Toby and I arrived, 14 eggs about the size and shape of slightly elongated pingpong balls lay on the ground around the turtle.

I wondered aloud, "I thought turtles lay their eggs in holes. Why isn't she digging a hole?"

The turtle, oblivious to the presence of two curious observers, had made a meager attempt at nest building. A small patch of grass was scratched away to reveal bare soil, but the scratch marks were just that: claw marks in the dirt. The indentation was hardly what one would consider a hole of egg-holding proportions. The turtle, apparently unperturbed by this obvious glitch in the evolutionary process, had proceeded to lay her eggs.

"Do you think we should do anything?" I asked Toby. "Maybe we should at least cover the eggs with dirt when she's done."

My 16-year-old son was adamant that we remain observers.

"We should let nature take its course," he insisted.

And so we did. After watching the turtle for a few more minutes and snapping about a dozen shots on my digital camera, it was getting dark. We left the turtle alone with her clutch of exposed eggs and returned to the house.

First thing next morning, I went back out.

As I expected, the eggs were all gone. Although a few remnants of shattered shells were scattered on the ground, one or more animals had obviously treated themselves to an easy meal.

"I should have at least covered them with a box," I lamented over breakfast.

My son again responded with analytic neutrality.

"No, you shouldn't have. The turtle laid her eggs and other animals ate them. That's what happens. It's the cycle of life."

Quite the mature statement from my almost-adult child.

Although I accepted Toby's pronouncement and went about my day, something about the turtle episode continued to nag at me. Why didn't the turtle make a better attempt to cover up the eggs she laid, and more importantly, why did she choose this time of year to lay eggs in the first place? The end of December seems like an inauspicious time of year to produce offspring. To find answers, I pulled some reference books from my library and went online. The books and online information helped me identify the turtle as a Florida red-belly, Pseudemys nelson, but they left my other questions unresolved. Still eager for answers, I called Peter Pritchard, preeminent turtle researcher and former Time magazine "Hero of the Planet."

After describing the reptile Toby and I observed, I asked the Oviedo resident and founder of the private Chelonian Research Institute if it was normal for a red-belly to lay eggs in the winter.

"I'm not sure why it was trying to nest now," the zoologist said. "The Peninsula cooter and the chicken turtle are only two winter nesters. Red-bellies usually lay their eggs in the warm months."

"What about the eggs?" I asked. "Is it normal for a turtle to leave eggs on the ground instead of digging a hole and burying them?"

Again, he answered no.

"Something must have messed up," he said.

Florida red-bellies normally lay their eggs in a hole about 6 inches deep. Sometimes they use old alligator nests or decaying vegetation. What they don't normally do is leave their eggs unprotected on open ground.

I then asked Pritchard the question that had been bothering me most.

"Do you think I should have tried to bury the eggs instead of just letting nature take its course?"

His reply took me by surprise.

"If it were an intact world, we could let nature take its course, but there are so many interruptions to offset the balance. If you had dug a hole and buried the eggs, they would most likely have hatched."

I felt terrible. A bit of effort on my part might have saved the lives of 14 turtles. It also may have prevented predators from discovering the eggs.

"If you had picked up the eggs to put them in the hole, your human scent would have replaced the turtle scent and deterred raccoons and other predators," the scientist explained.

So much for the notion of letting nature take its course.

If I ever come across another turtle laying eggs without first digging a hole, I'll take Pritchard's advice and lend a hand. But, as Toby reminds me, by doing that, I'll prevent another animal from having a meal.

Finding our place in nature is no easy task. Sometimes you just have to follow your heart.

Transitions and Trees

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel December 22, 2008)

If you had told me in 1992 that one day I would be aggressively selecting trees on our property to prune or cut down, I'd have thought you were crazy.

When we moved here nearly 17 years ago, trees were a rare and precious commodity. On the entire 50 acres, we had only a small thicket of scraggly willows, a handful of mature pines, two large oaks and a scattered assortment of oak seedlings.

We weren't accustomed to a treeless landscape. Before living in Florida, our home was on 5 wooded acres in Cape Cod, Mass. Before we could build a house on that property, we had to carve a homestead out of a dense forest of locust and oak trees covered by a snarly web of bull briar, poison ivy and wild grape vines.

Hand by vine-scratched hand, we cleared a home site. Living in the woods made us feel sheltered and secure. Our new property in Florida, although filled with promise and raw beauty, left us feeling vulnerable and oddly exposed.

To remedy the situation, one of our first priorities was to do massive plantings. Looking back on our efforts, I find it amazing how much work we did. All I can say is that we were young, a bit foolish and full of gusto.

We began by mounding earth around the property perimeter to create an immediate buffer zone. On top of those berms, we installed dozens of transplanted hedge bamboo divisions.

Unfortunately -- here's where the young and a bit foolish part comes in -- we neglected to irrigate the transplants or enrich the soil. One by one, we watched the divisions succumb to the heat and poor soil.

As we quickly learned, even hardy plants such as bamboo need at least a little TLC to survive. Only a couple dozen of the original plants made it through that rough beginning.

Our next major undertaking was the planting of pines -- we hand-planted 4,000 seedlings. Although slash and sand pines can tolerate unirrigated, poor soil, they can't overcome improper planting techniques. Unfortunately, that's what Ralph and I provided. I don't know how many of those tiny trees survived, but it wasn't many.

Once we realized all our hard work had resulted in yet another failure, we hired a professional to come in with the proper equipment to do a follow-up planting. At last, a wise decision. Almost all of the 11,000 trees in the second planting survived. Today they blanket the ground with a dense carpet of pine needles.

Through the years, we never stopped planting. I can't begin to tally the number of bamboos we added to the landscape -- they have to be in the thousands. Open groves of running bamboos and thick clusters of clumping varieties have provided us with privacy and beauty.

The pine trees we planted have sown generations of babies, while the once waist-high oaks grew into towering monsters. If I hadn't seen it happen, I would never believe the thick-trunked trees that cover the property are less than 20 years old. They look like 100-year-old behemoths.

Those oaks have been the main target of our recent culling activity. Branches were infringing on the driveway, getting too close to the house and shading out other plants that we wanted to grow. The most sensible solution was a chain saw. Let the games begin.

On the first day of cutting, my husband asked, "Which trees should we trim?"

With the merits of pre-emptive culling in mind, my reply was decisive, "Take that one out entirely and trim the side limbs on this other oak before they grow any bigger."

He looked at me with surprise, wondering what had become of his tree-coddling wife.

I'm not a ruthless person, but I've come to appreciate the virtues of careful pruning and selective culling. It's amazing how much a physical landscape can change in a relatively short time. Mental landscapes too.

Although I still value their assets, I no longer see trees as permanent fixtures. I try to view them instead as renewable resources. For certain plants to grow, others must go. It is immensely reassuring to know nothing goes to waste. Culled trees become brush piles that shelter small animals, eventually decomposing into rich dirt that supports new growth.

I never thought I would see the day when we'd be thinning out a forest. It took us 17 years to make it full circle, but eventually that is what happened. From Cape Cod woods to Florida fields, barren sand turned into a leafy landscape in the blink of an eye. With the exception of children, there are few things better than trees to measure the passage of time.

Good old spider plants -- they just can't help but thrive

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel December 15, 2008)

If you're an indoor gardener you probably have a spider plant, and if you have one spider plant, you probably have others - many others.

Not only is Chlorophytum comosum one of the easiest houseplants to grow, this South African native also is a prolific producer. As the potted plant matures and root space decreases, spider plants compensate by producing babies.

The offspring - known as plantlets - develop at the end of slender long stalks. All it takes is a pair of scissors and flowerpots filled with potting soil to create an explosion of young, verdant plants to give away to friends or disperse around your house.

But why restrict this grass-like perennial to ceramic containers and hanging baskets? Spider plants adapt to exterior landscapes with effortless ease. Shady spot, sunny spot, dry soil or damp - Chlorophytum comosum can handle them all.

An amazing ground cover - it even flowers. At the end of the long arching stems, small white blooms present a pleasant contrast with the green or variegated white/ green foliage.

If you're looking for an "ignoreme- and-I'll-still-thrive" plant to surround a tree or fill a flower bed, spider plants are one way to go.

I saw my first outdoor display of this common houseplant 22 years ago when I lived in Kissimmee. One day while biking by a neighbor's house I realized the plants forming a tidy mass alongside the house's main entry were the same type of greenery that once graced my college dorm room.

"Are those spider plants?" I asked incredulously. Her affirmative reply got me thinking. A couple decades later, I find my own home edged by the same plants I once admired.

Of the 200-some species in the genus Chlorophytum, only a few are commonly cultivated by home gardeners. In my yard, a wild variety with solid green leaves competes for space with the more familiar green and white spider known as "variegatum."

In the landscape, spider plants require even less attention than their houseplant counterparts. I believe all plants deserve the best start possible, so mine began their outdoor life in soil enriched by compost and peat applications. Although an irrigation system is in place, not all the spider plants are covered by the sprinklers. But lack of water is not enough to deter the life force in these hardy evergreens. Those not getting regular soakings still reproduce, sending multiple plantlets out into the world to set down their own roots and continue the cycle. The most frequent maintenance my outside spider plants require is a periodic pruning with a sharp pair of snippers.

That used to be a task I didn't enjoy. Not because it was difficult, but because it made me feel bad. Each time I pruned, dozens of young plants were whacked to pieces. I felt like a killer with a carbon steel blade. I wanted to save them all; to root up the plantlets and find each a new home. But how many spider plants can one use? Inside or outside, eventually you reach a point where enough is enough.

I reached that point a few months back. Despite being severed from their botanical umbilical cords, the plants, I realized, still fulfilled a useful purpose. They wouldn't grow up to become more ground covers, but they would decompose in the compost pile and turn into rich soil. Last week it was time once again to take out the hedge clippers. My walkway had all but disappeared beneath a web of spidery plants. With aggressive strokes, I hacked back the prolific growth infringing on the pathways. I'm pleased to report that the end result was surprisingly satisfying.

If you're looking for a low-work houseplant that doubles as a ground cover, Chlorophytum comosum is the way to go. In a world already crowded with people and buildings, adding a bit more greenery to house or yard - even greenery that has to be hacked back occasionally - is a worthwhile thing to do.

Some treats take drudgery out of endless errands

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel December 8, 2008)

I'm not a big fan of shopping, but that doesn't mean I don't shop.

Several times a week, I drive into town to do errands. Sometimes, it's as if I'm constantly running in and out of stores, buying this, returning that and, in the process, checking items off a seemingly endless to-do list.

Chores aren't fun, but someone has to do them.

All partnerships have their divisions of labor. In our marriage, my husband handles the finances and is the official "fixer." No matter what breaks -- and, as any homeowner knows, there is always something needing repair -- he can make it better. He's a regular MacGyver that way.

My part of the deal is to be in charge of most household chores, do the shopping and prepare the majority of meals. I'm also the delegated "go-fer." Ralph has about as much desire to leave home as a turtle has to abandon its shell, but that doesn't prevent him from needing things in town. Often, he requires hardware for one of the many construction projects that are a constant in our marriage.

"Would you pick up a couple 1-inch slip-by-slip CPVC couplings when you're in town?" he might ask. Or he may say, "Get me a box of 3/4-inch galvanized screws and, while you're there, pick up another pressure switch in case the pump goes out again."

My competence in construction hasn't improved much in three-plus decades, but those errands to Home Depot, Lowe's and Ace Hardware have vastly improved my knowledge of the plumbing, electrical and carpentry lexicon.

Other stops usually include the bank, a postal store, the grocery and produce market, a gas station, library, thrift shops and a run into one or another of the big-box stores for assorted sundries. I leave home with a checklist and, determined to make the best use of my limited time, dutifully map out the most efficient route.

While most errands fill needs, two of my regular stops are purely for pleasure. Going to the library and popping into one of several thrift shops are rewards I give myself for performing the more perfunctory tasks. I believe jobs well done should warrant compensation -- but not necessarily the monetary kind.

I'm not one to want new shoes, expensive jewelry or fancy gadgets. The mere suggestion of going to a mall is enough to make me want to crawl away and hide. I find fun browsing the library stacks for this week's perfect read or trolling through the musty aisles at secondhand stores for that special bargain. Thrift shops stock an eclectic mix offering endless possibilities.

Part of the fun comes from not knowing what treasure may be sitting on a shelf when you happen to drop by. Yesterday I found a stained-glass light fixture for only $5. Of course, installing it will generate another project that will undoubtedly require another trip to the hardware store. The circle continues, but I can't complain.

I have one other way of rewarding myself for completing the chore of running errands. I take the slow road back home. It takes a few minutes longer but the scenic route allows me to relax and reflect -- something that's harder to do when driving on multilane highways.

Recently, I discovered a new incentive to make my "go-fer" outings even more enjoyable. While driving I listen to audio recordings of my favorite books. At 13 CDs per novel, it can take weeks to complete an unabridged book, but the anticipation only adds to the allure.

Life is full of pleasant and unpleasant duties. The trick is to find ways to make the best of those undesirable tasks. Thrift shops, libraries and slow rides home while listening to stories have helped turn my less-than-fun chores upside down. Who knew going to town with a long list of errands could actually be fun?

Mexican sunflowers prove beauty can emerge from blah origins

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel December 1, 2008)

The area above my kitchen sink smells wonderful. It's not from a new air freshener or dish soap. The delicious fragrance is due entirely to a large bouquet of Mexican sunflowers that my daughter, Amber, picked the other day.

What a cheery gift that was. The gold-hued daisylike flowers give off a sweet aroma that smells mildly of honey. It's an outdoorsy odor evoking images of garden benches, long walks in the woods and strolls along country roads.

I took from Amber her handful of happiness and placed it in a large green vase on the counter where, whenever I clean up the kitchen and wash dishes, I can inhale a bit of nature. Sweet smells to ease the drudgery of housework.

Mexican sunflower, also known as Tithonia diversifolia, is a gangly plant that grows as broad as it grows tall. The three near my son's garden are approximately 10 feet tall and equally as wide with dozens of yellow blooms in various stages of maturity.

It's an undeniable space hog. Native to Mexico and Central America, this perennial bloomer looks and grows like a giant weed. To some people -- my husband included -- that's all it is.

"Do you really want to keep that plant?" he asked a few months ago when we were redesigning the area where Tithonia was growing. "What do you like about it?"

What's not to like? It's a "neglect-me-and-I'll-still-thrive" plant that blooms profusely. The flowers, which appear anytime from late summer through early December, are huge, measuring up to 5 inches across. Although it seems to take forever for the first buds to open, once they do the plant produces a steady display of eye-catching blooms that flower continually for at least a month.

Although they are supposedly bothered by snails and slugs, I've found these drought-tolerant plants to be undaunted by insect pests. With their giant blooms and pollen-filled stamens, Tithonia attracts far more beneficial bugs than pest problems. Bees and butterflies are constantly flitting from one bloom to another. The only care we give it is an annual addition of rich soil and heavy mulch.

"But it's ugly," my husband insists. "It's scrawny and sprawls all over the place."

He's not completely wrong. A non-blooming Tithonia won't win any beauty contests. But take the same plant in season -- when its marble-size buds are beginning to burst open -- and my, what a showstopper!

A Mexican sunflower in full bloom will knock you off your feet. Ralph's right that it takes up space, and the branches on this multistemmed perennial do have a propensity to bend down, take root and expand the plant's already broad profile. But that's a good thing, isn't it? Ease of propagation is an acknowledged horticultural asset.

I took advantage of that asset a few months ago when we were about to dig up the large Tithonia growing near our bananas. I had given in to my husband's request to replace the flowering bush with Angel Mist, one of our favorite clumping bamboos, but before we moved the sunflower, I decided to hedge my bets.

I clipped off about a dozen stems and stuck them in pots in case the transplanted Tithonia didn't make it. Wouldn't you know, the transplant took and the starts all survived.

Now, in addition to the relocated Tithonia -- which was literally dumped into a ditch and still managed to produce blooms -- our collection includes three large specimens my son planted last year and the 12 cuttings growing (overflowing) in the nursery.

The other day, Ralph pointed to the cuttings and asked, "Where do you want to plant them?"

"Well," I said as I pondered his question, "I want them to be someplace where I'll see them when they're blooming. Somewhere big enough to let them sprawl and far enough away that I won't mind how they look when they're not in bloom. Across the lake. That would be good."

And that's where they're going. Next week, the plan is to dig up a big area across from our house, fill the hole with organic matter and plant all 12 plants in one spot.

If successful, not only will I be able to enjoy the delightful sight and smell of a Mexican sunflower bouquet on the kitchen counter, I'll soon be soaking in the spectacle of hundreds of golden blooms reflected in the calm water of the lake.

Beauty is not an all-or-nothing deal. Sometimes, the prettiest flowers appear on the most gangly, rough-textured, common-looking stalks. The contrast between what you see and what you get is what makes the result so exciting -- a burst of beauty out of something so blah presents a plethora of breathtaking possibilities.

If Tithonia isn't a plant worth saving, I don't know what is.

Simply living: The ebb and flow of life on lake over the years

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel November 24, 2008)

Every night like clockwork, an osprey roosts on our lake. When I say "on" our lake, I mean that almost literally.

To explain, I have to go back seven years.

In 2001, Central Florida experienced the final year of what turned out to be a three-year drought. Water levels everywhere had dropped dramatically. Throughout the region, shorelines receded and sections of formerly submerged lake bottom were suddenly exposed.

The water shortage was particularly noticeable on our small lake, which was created when peat was mined from boggy areas years before we bought the property. Even in times of abundant rainfall, some areas of the lake are surprisingly shallow, while others are extremely deep.

During the 2001 drought, our family watched as an island of peat began to appear directly in front of our house about 100 feet off the shoreline. By that time water levels had dropped by about eight feet.

We knew the peat island existed because we had discovered it while swimming and boating. However, prior to 2001, the landmass was entirely submerged. During times of normal rainfall, my husband could swim out to the island, hold his breath, go underwater and stand on the peat. When he did, those of us watching would only see his fingertips stretched up above his head.

All that changed with the drought. Suddenly, large portions of the peat island were exposed. We weren't the only ones to notice the change. Otters, turtles and alligators discovered the island and a pair of sandhill cranes ultimately claimed it as their own. The cranes built a nest and proceeded to raise a family on the soggy strip of heavy, black earth.

Shortly after the crane baby grew up, rain began to fall. Water levels started to rise. The turtles and alligators found other places to bask in the sun, and the otters disappeared completely. Dry times were over. However, before everything reverted to how it once was, our oldest son pounded a tall bamboo pole into the peat island.

Seven years later, the bamboo pole remains. It marked the spot during high winds and hurricanes, through other droughts and times of abundant rainfall. These days, about a 5-foot length of the inch-diameter pole rises from the waterline. The cane must have caught the eye of a passing osprey because one day while I was cleaning up after dinner, I noticed the bird sitting upon it.

"There's an osprey on the bamboo pole in the middle of the lake," I yelled to my husband, Ralph, as I ran to get the binoculars.

Apparently, ospreys don't elicit the same degree of passion in all people. My husband reacted to my burst of wildlife-directed enthusiasm with a monosyllabic grunt.

"That's nice, dear," he seemed to say.

Fortunately, I had enough enthusiasm for us both. An osprey had chosen our lake to spend the night! How cool was that?

"Maybe he'll return," I reasoned. "And, if he likes it, maybe he'll stay and build a nest."

I've always hoped someday an osprey would discover our lake and build a nest here. Suddenly it seemed possible --even likely -- that would happen.

It did happen, sort of. Every day since, the osprey arrives at dusk to perch on the tip of the bamboo pole. Each morning at dawn, he flies off to places unknown. I love that an osprey has finally discovered our lake but wonder why he doesn't stay.

"I bet he would build a nest and stay if he had a platform," I mentioned to Ralph one day. "Could you build him a platform?"

Ralph could and he did. A few days later, I rowed my agreeable and capable husband out to the middle of the lake so he could pound a new pole into the peat island. This pole -- the same height and a few feet away from the other -- has a 9-square-foot wooden board mounted on its top. I could hardly wait to see what would happen next.

What happened was nothing. The osprey kept coming back but he has not, as far as I know, shown any interest whatsoever in Ralph's clever construction.

Was the experiment a failure? No. The osprey has yet to discover the platform's merits but another bird has. Each morning, shortly after the osprey leaves, a lesser blue heron flies in and lands on the plywood. Throughout the day, the heron stands there doing whatever lesser blue herons do when they're not out hunting for food.

I wish I could report that the osprey has built a nest and is raising a family in the middle of our lake, but that is not how it turned out -- at least not yet. I'm still hopeful that one day some bird will decide a platform rising five feet above the water is an ideal nesting spot. Until that happens, I'm sharing a lake I love with two large water birds who seem to love it too. That alone is reason to smile.

The beauty of a compost pile is that anything can happen

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel November 17, 2008)

About four months ago, my husband, Ralph, and I built a new compost pile. The cinder-block depository for our family's table scraps and yard waste is set into a hillside and, because I can see it from my office window, I didn't want the structure to be ugly.

After digging out a 16-square-foot section and stacking the blocks in a squared-off "U," I surrounded the gray edifice with colorful flowers. I planted a coral-colored hibiscus and tri-colored impatiens in the ground while pots of ivy, pink chrysanthemums and a jade plant were set strategically around the sides.

Thanks to the flowers, a few small statues and some solar lights, an area that could have been an eyesore became an attractive focal point instead. It's soothing to sit in my office and gaze up the hill at the cheerful blooms and garden art.

A few weeks ago when I went out to dump the day's kitchen waste, I noticed some young sprouts popping up amid the scattering of eggshells, apple cores and leafy remains of prior meals.

At first, I wasn't sure what kind of plants they were, but, a few days later, when the first pairs of leaves appeared, it was obvious that the pile was supporting a healthy crop of young papaya, impatiens and tomato plants.

I love volunteer plants. We humans think we're so essential, but plants that pop up unexpectedly put us in our place.

"We don't need your help," they seem to say. "We're doing just fine on our own."

Whether blown by the wind, carried on animal fur or sprouted out of food deposited in a compost pile, volunteer plants are the epitome of independence. Often more robust than their store-bought counterparts, these self-sown wonders of the plant kingdom stretch toward the sun with unbridled determination to live and thrive.

With so many seeds sprouting in my compost pile, I had some decisions to make. Should I leave them alone, move them to a real garden, bury them under a stinky slosh or pull the sprouts out?

I couldn't make up my mind, so for several days I did nothing at all. Well, not exactly nothing. When I took out the compost, I carefully avoided dumping the waste on the sprouts.

However, as more days passed and the young plants grew larger, less space was left to dump the compost. Then I realized one tomato plant had grown considerably larger than the rest.

"Ah-ha!" I thought. "Survival of the fittest." My decision was made.

Leaving the tall plant alone, I pulled out the small tomato sprouts and packed a heavy mulch of grass clippings around the big guy.

I pulled out the sprouting papayas but kept the impatiens. I can never have enough flowers but my need for more papaya trees is limited.

Another week has passed and my volunteer tomato looks better than ever. To support its leggy limbs, I've encircled the plant with four slender bamboo poles and supplemented the soil with a thicker layer of mulch. Someday soon I should be able to dump household scraps in the compost pile and walk back home with fresh-picked tomatoes.

Beauty and utility, practicality and whimsy -- who can say which belongs where? There's no rule book for creating a home landscape. It's up to each of us to decide how we want our yards to look.

After years with a purely functional compost pile, I'm delighted to finally have one that is pretty as well as practical.

Compost pile or garden? It's hard to tell the difference and sometimes, that makes all the difference in the world.

Those crazy red birds - they've turned windows into battle zones

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel November 10, 2008)

I'm surrounded by crazy red birds.

There's one by the kitchen bay window and another pecking on the narrow glass in the hall. A third guards the double-hung above the laundry sink while a fourth has claimed the picture window in my old office.

TAP. TAP. TAP. Fly away.

Return a few minutes later.

TAP. TAP. TAP. Fly away again.

The house windows have become battle zones. Their reflective surfaces are ground zero -- sites for constant attacks. Welcome to what I call TDS, Territorial Domination Season, the time of year when male birds demonstrate supremacy by smacking their heads against glass panes to scare away their reflections.

These fierce fighters of feathery fortitude have no idea they're engaged in unnecessary battles. The bright-colored, brash, ostentatious birds don't realize the perceived intruders are themselves.

"Silly bird," I tell a cardinal whose face is pressed against the kitchen window. "Your battle is futile. Save your energy for other struggles, real struggles yet to come."

He doesn't listen. Even if he could, my words wouldn't resonate. Birds are driven by instincts so strong they defy logic and empirical evidence. So what if -- after being repeatedly pecked -- the enemy returns whenever the cardinal looks at the window. To the cardinal there's a foe. That's all that matters.

It's hard to ignore a bird when it intentionally flies into your window. This year cardinals are the culprits, but a few years back our house was surrounded by male towhees equally determined to defend their territory.

I learned during the towhee period that if a male bird is set on bashing his head against a window there's little a person can do to thwart those efforts. Curtains and window shades are useless. Taping pieces of newspaper to the interior glass doesn't work either. For a while, I thought keeping the window open might help, but ultimately it didn't. The birds merely moved to stationary parts of the windowpane while bugs took advantage of the openings.

In the past 16 years, I've become rather possessive of wildlife in my area. When birds repeatedly smack their tiny heads against the windowpanes, I wonder about their health. Do their crazy actions result in headaches? How about concussions? Do birds get stunned?

In North America, more than 100 million birds die from head strikes each year, according to the Bird Conservation Network and other wildlife authorities. Many others suffer head traumas, fractures and internal bleeding. Most of those deaths come when birds mistakenly fly into windows but some, like the cardinals in my yard, meet their demise while defending territory from their own reflections.

Why do birds persist in such painful, pointless and possibly fatal behavior? The answer in one word is: testosterone.

During spring and autumn, certain male birds experience what scientists call gonadal recrudescence. Surging male hormones send a message to the bird's brain. "Fight!" it shouts. "Defend your turf! Strut your stuff! Stop intruders!"

It's a good thing people aren't like that. Wait a minute . . . maybe we are.

We may not peck repeatedly at our reflections in glass, but at times we fly off the handle, act irrationally and engage in combat against perceived enemies. We humans like to think we're above such basic instincts, but in reality we're as affected by hormonal surges as our feathery friends.

You don't have to look further than a sporting field, gaming board or video console to find testosterone-filled warriors defending turf they've designated as their own or engaged in combat against supposed enemies. Sports and video games may be harmless ways of venting aggression, but what about more serious outlets for surging hormones?

Consider domestic violence, road rage or, dare I say, war?

Every season has its pluses and minuses, and I suppose one minus of Territorial Domination Season is the unnecessary war that male birds wage against themselves.

Short of covering the outside of my windowpanes, my only choice is to accept the unacceptable.

I can do that with birds, but how about with people?

TAP. TAP. TAP. I don't think so.

TAP. TAP. TAP. Fly away.

Your one vote counts in this election: I learned the hard way

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel November 3, 2008)

Tomorrow is Election Day, and I hope you're planning to vote. This year's presidential race looks like it is going to be close. Your one vote may really help to get the candidate of your choice elected.

What? You doubt whether your one vote makes that much difference?

Think again. Speaking from personal experience, I know just how important one vote can be.

The year was 1968. I was a junior at Pennsbury High School in Fairless Hills, Pa. It was election time for the student council and I -- a wispy young thing with strong principles and plenty of optimism -- was running for vice president.

My opponent was Jeffrey Lipps and neither of us was a part of the "in crowd." We were both good but not great students and, although we shared a moderate amount of involvement in school clubs, neither of us was particularly athletic or super-popular. I cannot remember why I decided to run for office, but I imagine it was because of a perceived injustice. I was the kind of kid who found it practically impossible to sit idly by when I thought something was not fair.

My campaign included handmade signs, posters hung in the hall and a speech before the student body -- a little more than 1,000 kids -- that caused my stomach to do flip-flops and my mouth to go dry.

After what seemed like an endless campaign, Election Day finally arrived. It was time to cast our votes for the students who would become the next school leaders. I don't recall where we voted -- in homeroom at our desks or in voting booths in the auditorium. What I do remember -- and this is one of those vivid memories etched onto my mental hard drive -- was the strong feeling I had immediately prior to casting my vote.

"Voting for myself would demonstrate pomposity," my still-maturing 16-year-old mind reasoned.

The fair and equitable thing to do would be to vote for my opponent. It would demonstrate strength of character, moral impartiality and plain, old-fashioned good neighborliness. It was the high moral ground that led to success.

Wrong. It led straight to defeat.

I lost the election. Jeffrey Lipps won. And it wasn't as though he won by a landslide. If he had, the entire episode might have been easier to accept. No, when the votes were tallied, my honorable opponent won by a single vote. My vote. My freely given, selfless (translation: STUPID) show of camaraderie was the deciding factor that enabled my opponent to win the election.

We learn many things in high school that stay with us forever. The lessons I learned during my junior year running for office remain with me today. Every time I enter a voting booth to cast my ballot for a public official, a little voice inside my head whispers, "Remember high school: Every vote matters."

While I hope my candidate wins the 2008 presidential election, I have no idea who will be victorious. One thing I'm pretty sure of though: when John McCain and Barack Obama step into their respective voting booths to cast their ballots, neither one will do what I did so many years ago and vote for his opponent.

It may have been shortsighted or unwise for a 16-year-old to vote for her opponent in 1968, but in 2008 an equally foolish move would be to stay home and not vote at all. Get out there tomorrow and exercise your constitutional right. Cast a vote. No one should be indifferent when one vote -- one single vote -- can make all the difference in the world.

Bountiful Fig Crop is Welcome Event

SIMPLY LIVING
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel October 27, 2008)

For the first time ever, our fig trees have produced more fruit than my husband can eat.

Along with red raspberries, blackcaps, blackcaps and ripe apricots, fresh picked figs top the list of Ralph’s favorite fruits. For breakfast, he likes to cut them up into little pieces to add to oatmeal. For a mid-day snack he makes a sort of open-face sandwich out of a piece of whole wheat bread topped with almond butter, bee pollen, cider jelly and fig slices. And throughout the day, he munches on fruit plucked fresh from the tree.

Most people are not as well acquainted with the delicate flavor of this most ancient of fruits as my fruit-loving, health-conscious husband. The only time they may have tasted a fig was when it was either processed into a snack like Fig Newtons or offered up in its dried state during holidays. That’s unfortunate because fresh figs are marvelous. Unlike their tough and chewy dried counterpart, the fresh fruit is mild flavored, soft and sweet.

Yet, despite these attributes, figs are not a staple of the produce aisle. Perhaps that’s because its soft skin damages easily or maybe it may be due to its inability to ripen off the tree. Unlike apples and bananas, which can be picked before they reach maturity and ripened over time, figs must stay attached until they are ready to be eaten. That presents problems for grocers who want produce to withstand extended transportation, storage and shelf time. None-the-less, every year from late summer through December, a small number of figs make their way onto supermarket shelves.

In past years, our family eagerly anticipated fig season so we could supplement our meager supply of homegrown fruit with store bought delicacies. I’d bite the bullet and spend $6 a pound for a small container of Brown Turkey, Mission, Calimyrna or Kadota figs (CQ all names). I had my rationales down pat:

· Even at $6, a pound of figs costs less than a bottle of wine, fresh fish or a better cut of meat.

· As a splurge, figs are far cheaper than dinner out, a movie or even a box of popcorn at the movies.

· Figs are just as sweet but less expensive and better for you than a fancy dessert or a box of chocolates.

The cashier would take my money and I’d deliver the goods to my waiting family. Ralph would immediately sort the fruit into piles of most and least ripe. The ripest fruit were eaten right away with the remainder stored in the refrigerator in the hope that they’d last for at least a few more days.

The supermarket run was fun but growing your own is way better.

Ralph planted his first fig trees just over 30 years ago on Cape Cod. Because these deciduous members of the mulberry family are sensitive to cold, each winter Ralph would partially dig up the short, stocky trees, tip them over and cover the top with a heavy layer of mulch. This work-intensive technique enabled the trees to survive harsh freezes, but didn’t result in fruitful harvests. What it did do was prolong our anticipation of a seasonal crop.

“Maybe this will be the year (pick any summer from 1976 to1987),” we’d optimistically muse, “when the trees will be mature enough to finally produce a crop.”

Apparently, they never reached that precipice of fruit-worthy development because in all our years of Cape Cod living, I can’t remember eating a single homegrown fig. What can I say? We were young. We were eager. We were stupid.

Our move to Florida in1987 presented new opportunities for fruitful explorations. No longer challenged by snowy weather, we had expectations of bountiful harvests. Unfortunately, we failed to realize that Florida’s mild climate presented problems we had not anticipated – namely, soil-inhabiting, multi-celled creatures called nematodes.

Nematodes, more commonly known as round worms, are members of the 20,000-strong phylum Nemata. While some types of nematodes act as beneficial controls for annoying pests like Japanese beetles, fleas and plant-eating grubs, others are a fruit-grower’s nemesis. When nematodes attack fig trees, immature figs drop off before they have a chance to ripen. That means even before other threats to a fig’s viability – threats like birds, squirrels, snails and slugs - have a chance to ruin any ripening fruit, tiny soil born organisms will destroy them.

After years of trying one type of fig tree after another, Ralph finally latched onto a nematode-resistant variety developed at Louisiana State University in 1991 called LSU Purple. It’s been figs from those trees that, this year, produced more fruit than we can eat.

Having too many figs is not a problem to someone like my husband. In addition to the various ways he enjoys eating them fresh, Ralph has been experimenting with different ways to preserve his plentiful crop. Usually, he freezes them but one day I came into the kitchen to find a batch of figs on the stovetop being boiled up into a kind of bare minimum jam. I had my doubts how his no-sugar, no-pectin concoction would taste but it only took one lick of the spoon to turn me into a believer.

I may politely say “No thank you” whenever Ralph offers to make me one of his patented fig-laced, bee pollen, almond butter and cider jelly sandwiches but when it comes to offers of fig jam on toast or fresh figs off the tree, I’ll answer “Yes!” every time.

Whatever your age, revel in the present moment

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel October 20, 2008)

From my father's perspective, at age 96, I'm just a kid. It doesn't matter that my head hosts more than a few gray hairs or that my eyes are surrounded by bags on the bottom, folds on the top and a whole nest of crow's feet on both sides. Looking at me from his stage of life, I'm still wet behind the ears. A kid and a young one at that.

That's not how my son perceives it. From the sage perspective of one who has seen 16 summers come and go, I'm old, ancient, practically prehistoric. I was, after all, raised in a time when -- GASP! -- iPods did not exist, information was found in books instead of online and you had to actually get up off the couch and walk to the TV if you wanted to change channels.

The world in which I grew up is almost as difficult for my youngest son to comprehend as it was for me, when I was his age, to imagine the unhomogenized, gas-lit world of my father's era.

When my father was growing up in Brooklyn, N.Y., a man wouldn't think of leaving the house without a hat. Milk with the cream on top was delivered to your door in glass bottles and if you wanted to tell someone something, you wrote them a letter and mailed it with a stamp that cost 2 cents.

Times have certainly changed. Stamps now cost 42 cents and, for all practical purposes, e-mail has replaced handwritten letters. Milk made from soybeans is nearly as commonplace as milk from a cow. And the idea of dressing up before leaving the house is as outdated as 78-rpm phonograph records. ("What are they?" my son might ask.)

I've pondered these generational "gasps" as I await the approach of my 57th birthday. As it turns out, I'm smack-dab-in-the-middle of my youngest child's age and that of my father. One is 40 years my elder, the other 40 years younger. The middle ground I sow produces its own crop of distinctive perceptions.

For starters, I don't feel old. Then again, I'm no spring chicken. My body is saggier, draggier and baggier than it was in my 20s, 30s or even my 40s. My once limber legs now orchestrate a cacophony of clicks, creaks and cracks whenever I squat down and attempt to stand back up. In order to see anything clearly, I'm obliged to wear bifocal lenses, and my deteriorating bones prevent me from daring to do certain activities I would have jumped at in my youth.

But it's not all bad news. Ever since my memory began waning, it's become easier to pick out books to read and movies to watch. Even if I've seen them before, I can enjoy them again because, for the most part, I can hardly remember anything that happened. And as for romance, well, let's just say the old adage "practice makes perfect" is absolutely true. When I think about all the things that could go wrong in life, I'm amazed how many of us live as long as we do. As I navigate through the early years of my second half-century, the accumulating miles do not upset me. Instead, I'm thrilled to still be rambling along the well-trod road. The way I see it, life is as full of pleasure and potential as we want to make it. The trick is to seek out those treasures as we make the journey -- to focus on the scenery instead of the potholes -- to have fun along the way and enjoy the ride.

Sweet Sixteen days may be a thing of the past, but the precipice upon which my 96-year-old father stands is still distant. Who knows what the future will bring? The only thing certain is that the present is here. And, since my birthday is also almost here, I'm ready to do some serious unwrapping. Give me the present and I'll open it with care. No matter how old or young we might be, today, this one moment in time -- the present -- is one gift everyone shares.

It's subtle, but Florida offers fall sensations -- no need to wander

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel October 13, 2008)

My daughter Jenny, who lives in western Massachusetts, says New England's autumn foliage is about to peak. Scarlet-colored leaves cover the limbs of trees lining the street in the quaint town in which she lives.

She has been riding her bike a lot, which is a perfect way to appreciate the crisp air and bright autumn colors. I've been tempted to visit -- to book a flight and spend a weekend surrounded by pumpkins, apple cider and a palette of leafy color. But I know I won't do it.

As much as I'd like to see my daughter and spend a few days re-experiencing a Northern autumn, I'm as anchored to home as the bamboo in our nursery is rooted to the ground.

I've become stodgy in recent years. Home draws me in and holds me secure. The surprising thing is, I'm totally content with that. I have my patterns, my routines and everything in its place the way I like it to be. It's a comfort zone so familiar and cozy that few places can tempt me to leave it behind.

Books have been written about all the places you should see and things you should do before you die. Those aren't books I'm drawn to read.

Sure, travel has its benefits, and there are, without doubt, some amazing places in the world that would be fascinating to visit. I've seen a few -- not many, but a few -- and enjoyed those trips immensely.

But I'm at a point in my life where most of the things I want are right here where I am. The way I see it, counting the sources of your contentment is at least as important as compiling a collection of must-dos.

Autumn in Florida may not be the same as it is in New England, but a seasonal transition still can be experienced. Daytime temperatures have taken a dive, and accordingly, diving into the lake takes more courage.

When I go for my daily swim, I no longer walk fluidly into the water. By the time October's cooler weather has arrived, I have to either be very hot from a hard workout or brace myself to get wet above the waist.

Lakes are not alone in reflecting lower temperatures. The plant world projects a vivid response. Although more subtle than the blatant hues of a Massachusetts October, the foliage around our property also changes color.

In recent days, I've noticed yellow plumes of goldenrod swaying in the breeze alongside the purple flowers of Southern fleabane and white blooms of climbing hempweed (Mikania cordifolia).

Beautyberry bushes are suddenly loaded with clusters of dark-violet fruit, and a two-toned cloak of coral and yellow tops golden rain trees. Not to be outdone, the once-green leaves of woodbine, better known as Virginia creeper, now appear on the trunks of whatever trees they are climbing like angry red fingers clutching tightly.

While Jenny is enjoying bike rides around town, I'm going for rows, picking bouquets of cosmos and firespike, taking walks around the lake or sitting on the porch admiring the view. No matter where you live, October weather commands appreciation.

This is the time of year to take a lawn chair outside and park yourself in it. Look up at the clouds. Follow the butterflies. Enjoy the antics of squirrels gathering acorns, the cooing of doves. Watch brown and green anoles climb onto plant leaves while a breeze tickles your face.

Bold colors make it obvious that autumn has arrived, but there are seasonal stories to be found in more subtle signs as well. You don't have to live in Northern climes to enjoy autumn. You don't have to travel to live a full life.

If I were writing a book of things to do before I die, I'd focus on seeing -- really seeing and appreciating -- all the wonders and beauty that surround us each day. That alone would be momentous. That alone says it all.

The sweet, sweet papaya - a fruit, a salad, a renewal

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel October 6, 2008)

Until I moved to Florida in 1987, I had never tasted a papaya. Back then, if you had handed me a large, oblong, green-skinned fruit with an orange tint and asked me what it was, I might have guessed, "Some kind of melon?"

In a way, I would have been right. Although not actually a melon, papayas share many characteristics with cantaloupe, Crenshaw, Persian and casaba melons. All have soft flesh, seedy centers and a fairly thin, inedible outer skin.

The edible inside portions range from pale yellow to an orange-red and have a smooth texture, mild flavor and natural sweetness. One difference: Melons grow on vines, while papayas grow on trees.

We've grown papayas for about 20 years and now have 26 trees planted around our property. All but four -- those my husband bought from a south Florida nursery -- started as seeds scooped out of other papayas. We cultivate them not only because our family likes the fruit's delicate flavor, but also because papayas are so easy to grow.

You don't need a green thumb or much space to raise these fast-growing, prolific fruiters. Papayas are upright plants that rarely top 20 feet. They also come in dwarf varieties, like the four Ralph recently purchased. These bear fruit on a plant less than 6 feet tall. The dwarf varieties' short sizes make them much easier to harvest.

Most papaya trees have a single trunk shaded by an umbrella-like, leafy canopy. Sometimes, however, multistemmed plants develop. The fruit grows in clusters near the top of the trunk. If left alone, papayas will ripen on the tree, but they also can be picked partially ripe and brought inside to complete the process. On our taller trees, we must climb a ladder to reach the fruit.

I used to plant papayas near the house, but I don't anymore. Its large leaves grow at the end of long stems, and as the plant matures, the lowest leaves and their attached stems yellow and fall off. So a leafy mess is always littering the ground underneath the tree. More mess is left by overlooked papayas that ripen on the tree and drop off.

Fallen fruit attracts squirrels and other rodent family members. They like to nibble through the soft skin to get at the inner flesh. I like papayas but not rats, so my compromise is to plant fruit trees a good distance from the house.

To start a papaya tree, begin with a ripe fruit purchased at the store. You can tell a papaya is ripe if the outer skin has turned from green to a yellow-orange. Cut it in half and scoop out the peppercorn-sized, gray-black seeds. The plant's seeds and even its leaves are edible, but the soft flesh is the main attraction. If you want to grow papayas, eat the fruit and save the seeds for planting.

Before planting, some people say you should first rinse and dry the seeds, but I don't do that. I simply take handfuls of fresh seeds and toss a few into each spot where I want my papaya trees to grow. Choose an irrigated spot that gets plenty of sun and has soil enriched with compost, cow manure or potting soil, and you increase germination chances.

With the seeds dispersed, sprinkle more soil on top and tamp the area down. In about two weeks, young plants will emerge. That's a good time to either thin the sprouts out to one plant every 10 feet or transplant the seedlings to different areas.

It takes less than a year for young sprouts to develop into fruiting trees. The tree not only looks exotic, but yields a versatile, highly nutritious, mild-flavored fruit. Unripe papayas can be cooked like a vegetable. The ripe fruit can be juiced or eaten like a melon. Seeds can be ground up like pepper and used as a spice or made into a salad dressing. Even the leaves can be steamed like spinach.

Papayas are rich in the enzyme papain, which aids in digestion. They are very low in saturated fat, cholesterol, sodium and calories but high in vitamin A, vitamin C and potassium.

For centuries, indigenous people around the world have used all parts of the plant for medicinal purposes. The roots have analgesic properties. The seeds are anti-inflammatory and used to soothe stomachaches and treat fungal infections. The unripe fruit has been used to treat high blood pressure, and ripe papayas applied directly to skin sores are said to provide immediate relief.

I haven't tried any of these folk remedies myself, but I appreciate any plant with so much potential. Cantaloupes may be more familiar to Americans than papayas, but around the world, papayas reign supreme. The next time you're at the grocery, look for these oblong-shaped, orange-tinted fruits and give one a try. If you like the taste, don't toss the seeds -- plant them instead.

Along came two spiders - and not the itsy-bitsy variety

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel September 29, 2008)

The eight-legged crowd apparently considers the area directly outside my office window to be prime real estate.

During the past two weeks, two spiders -- a black-and-yellow argiope and a golden silk spider -- have staked their claim on this shaded bit of airspace. Both constructed intricate webs that link the underside of the soffit to the picture window, as well as to various garden plants. A cherry tomato's spindly vine acts as an important anchor for each web.

I'm accustomed to looking out of my office window and seeing butterflies, birds and bees. I'm used to following the antics of gray squirrels and catching the occasional glimpse of brown and green anoles as they leap from leaf to leaf.

Every now and then, I watch rabbits nibble succulent blades and field mice bravely dart across a stretch of mulched ground. But in all the time I've lived here, I've never had the opportunity to observe outdoor spiders in their natural habitat on a day-by-day basis.

That is, until now.

The first observation I've made since the spiders set up house is that both are huge. There's nothing itsy-bitsy about them. Imagine a toddler's hand with splayed fingers. That's about the size of the golden silk spider, also known as a banana spider or golden orb weaver.

Actually, two golden silk spiders have taken up residence outside my window -- the gigantic female and her diminutive opposite-sex counterpart. The female spider is six times larger than the puny male. He's so small and nondistinct that I didn't realize he was living in one remote section of the female's web until several days had gone by.

The web, woven by the female, is an asymmetrical orb that spans a 6-foot wide stretch. When struck by the sun, it shimmers with a rich yellow sheen like spun gold. It is from the web's glittery appearance that Nephila clavipes gets its common name, golden silk spider.

I've watched as strong winds have whipped through the golden silk spider's web and as the irrigation sprinkler has sprayed across it, but neither damaged the web. That's probably because the silk produced by these giant spiders is stronger than Kevlar, the fiber used in bulletproof vests.

While the golden silk spider and its web are certainly marvelous in a look-but-don't-touch sort of way, the black-and-yellow argiope and its web are similarly stunning. There's a tiny male argiope living on the outskirts of the female's circular web. Like the golden silk male, he's also a scrawny critter.

The black-and-yellow argiope, Argiope aurantia, is also known as a "writing" spider because it weaves a bold series of connecting white "Xs," called a stabilamenta, in the middle of its web. The female arachnid places herself near the top of the stabilamenta, where she patiently waits for prey to fly into the sticky substance.

While the noticeable crisscrossing pattern acts as a warning to birds that might destroy the web by flying into it, the pattern doesn't seem to prevent mosquitoes, beetles, moths, grasshoppers, flies or bees from becoming ensnared. Recently, I watched as the spider caught, wrapped and consumed a black beetle and medium-size fly. The entire catch-and-devour process was completed in minutes.

Watching these two amazing critters from the comfort of my indoor viewing station has been entertaining and edifying. Some people like to go to movies, sporting events, shows or parties for enjoyment; I sit back in my swivel chair and watch spiders and other wild critters go about their daily lives.

I don't know why these two huge but harmless spiders chose the 8-foot span in front of my office window to set up house, but I'm glad they did. Our country might be in the midst of a major housing downturn, but in my neck of the woods we're caught in a web of explosive growth. The residents may have eight legs, but they keep the mosquito population at bay. That's a sticky situation I wouldn't want to do without.

Appreciating family and recalling tree-climbing days - all because of avocados

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel September 22, 2008)

If Timmy were here, he would have shimmied up the avocado tree in Paul and Jean Hays' backyard like a monkey.

My limber son has no compunctions about scaling tall trees without lower limbs. He would have climbed up into the high branches where clusters of the green-skinned fruit hung, plucked those dangling delicacies and plunked them to the ground. That's what he did last year, and Paul and Jean were appreciative.

"He reached all the avocados we couldn't reach," said Paul, a retired Quaker Oats employee who moved to Royal Highlands with Jean 11 years ago. "He must have helped us collect hundreds of avocados."

But my 26-year-old son isn't here this year. About six months ago, he moved to Seattle to help his 91-year-old grandmother with her own set of gardening, household and yard chores. His departure left behind a cadre of friends like the Hayses, people who had come to appreciate and depend upon Timmy's generous, gentle and quirky nature.

In lieu of my son's assistance, Paul e-mailed me last week, hoping that my husband might share Timmy's tree-climbing ability.

"I will be calling you regarding the avocados soon, if Ralph is still willing to get the big ones from the top," he wrote.

Recently, I stopped by their south Leesburg home to scope out the situation.

"Goodness," I told Jean and Paul, as I looked at the tall avocado tree in their well-manicured backyard. "Timmy climbed that without a ladder?"

Paul assured me he did, and knowing my son, I can picture it. Think Tarzan -- a young man wrapping his legs around the trunk as he maneuvered upward. Timmy's that kind of guy. Just after turning 18, he spent four months hiking the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine. Given the choice of tree limb or lawn chair to sit upon, Timmy would choose the tree every time.

"I'll have to come back," I explained to the Hayses after picking a couple dozen avocados that could be reached from a 6-foot ladder. "I'll bring Ralph or my daughter with me next time. Either of them could climb up and get the ones on top, but I'm afraid I can't do it."

My visit to the Hayses' house made me realize that my tree-climbing days are a thing of the past. I used to be like Timmy. There was a time -- granted, it was a LONG time ago -- when I, too, shimmied up bark-covered tree trunks to perch upon branches hidden by leaves. There were no avocado trees in Pennsylvania, but we had plenty of oaks, sycamores, willows and crab-apple trees. I remember perching in the crab-apple tree in our backyard to gather pocketfuls of the small, tart fruit.

Crab-apple trees are prolific bearers, and so are avocados. One mature avocado tree will provide a family with all the fruit they can eat, plus plenty to give away. The avocado Timmy's friends have is a Hass avocado, a type predominantly grown in California. The Hass fruit is much smaller than Florida varieties, and it has a thick, bumpy skin that's dark green.

Florida varieties have a thinner skin that is smooth and a much brighter, lighter green. But no matter which kind is grown, avocados seldom ripen on the tree. They need to be handpicked after reaching an appropriate size and then ripened inside on a windowsill or pantry shelf.

Jean and Paul received their tree as a gift shortly after they moved to Royal Highlands. It was only a few feet tall when their friend gave it to them, but now it's about 20 feet tall and quite broad.

"It took a couple years before we got any fruit at all," recalled Jean. "But now, it yields more fruit than we could possibly use."

If Timmy were here, he'd not only help Jean and Paul by reaching into the uppermost branches of their tree, collecting the fruit and distributing it to friends. He'd whip up a large batch of guacamole to share with everyone, too. My tree-shimmying days may be a thing of the past, but I can still cook. As soon as my daughter or husband takes over Timmy's job and picks the rest of the Hayses' fruit, I'll get busy in the kitchen. One large bowl of guacamole coming up.

Web is handy when all you can get live is pity-Scrabble

Simply Living



(First appeared on September 15, 2008 in Orlando Sentinel)

I've been playing a lot of online Scrabble lately. Instead of moving wooden tiles by hand, I've been sitting in front of a computer screen typing word plays on a keyboard. I had no idea online Scrabble could be such fun.

Thanks to the broad reach of the World Wide Web, any time of the day or night, someone somewhere shares my enthusiasm for creating bingos -- that's Scrabble terminology for high-scoring seven letter words. About a month ago, I joined ISC -- International Scrabble Club -- and now have at my fingertips an endless supply of word-loving compadres.

Since I began playing, I've competed against people from throughout the United States and Canada. My most distant opponent lives in Kuwait. I lost that game.

Knowing how much I love Scrabble, my daughter's boyfriend, Brett, a tournament player and Scrabble Club organizer who lives in Massachusetts, suggested I try playing online.

"It's easy," he said, but I didn't believe him at first.

Experience taught me that most new computer programs involve a steep learning curve. The idea of adding yet another task to my already heavy computer load seemed too overwhelming to consider.

So I didn't.

For several months after Brett's suggestion, I continued to beg my 16-year-old son to play with me. Every now and then -- emphasis on "then" -- he relented and played. It felt more like pity-Scrabble than anything.

"All right," he could have been thinking. "I might as well give her a little attention. She's been asking me to play with her for weeks."

Despite his lack of gusto, those games were always fun. Toby is a terrific player and, while his teenage ego requires him to believe he is far better than me in just about everything, when it comes to Scrabble, I feel we're well-matched. But time takes its toll and after he refused my umpteenth request, I reconsidered Brett's suggestion.

One day I took the plunge.

"Show me how to play online," I asked my youngest child.

As a young math-loving, chess-playing person, Toby has an intuitive ability to understand such things. For several years now he has been a member of ICC, the chess equivalent of online Scrabble, and both programs operate similarly.

After a few basic instructions, I was ready to begin. I picked out a "handle" -- the online name I would use -- and selected the type of game I wanted to play. My choices included the number of minutes I wanted each match to last, whether I wanted to be penalized for using nonacceptable words and whether I would play against anyone or only players who met certain pre-selected criteria. So far, so good.

That first game remains a blur. I recall being scared I would do something wrong. I was confused in the beginning and I'm pretty sure I lost. Fortunately, Toby stood by to guide me along.

"Quick! Quick!" I panicked right after the game began. "How do I rearrange the letters on my rack?"

"You can move them with the mouse or right click alongside the rack and they'll be rearranged automatically," he responded calmly.

Although I didn't think it would happen, I started regaining my composure by the fifth or sixth move. Virtual Scrabble began to make sense. I've learned more new words in one month than in all my previous years of playing and I eagerly anticipate the day my rating breaks 1,000. Toby says I'm addicted and he's probably right. The other night I woke up from sleep and was unable to lie back down without words flashing through my mind, my body restlessly tossing and turning.

"I'll get up for a little while," I told myself as I wandered down the hall toward my office.

"Maybe I'll sign on for a few minutes just to see if anyone's playing."

At 3 a.m., three wins, one loss and four bingos later, I made my way back to the bedroom. I'd gained a few points and added the words "sware," "cadi," and "fou" to my burgeoning vocabulary. I also fell asleep as soon as I hit the bed and slept like a baby. If that's what being addicted is all about, sign me up. Wait -- I'm already signed up. Good, then let the games begin.

The ordinary becomes extraordinary through Florida visitors' eyes

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel September 8, 2008)

Sometimes we forget how extraordinary our surroundings are, and it helps to look at the familiar through another person's eyes. That happened the other day when a young couple from Spokane, Wash., accompanied their relatives on a visit to our nursery.

While their companions concentrated on choosing the best plants to provide a privacy screen, the young couple -- they couldn't have been more than 21 or 22 -- took in the semitropical, Central Florida surroundings with childlike curiosity.

Their first question -- "Are there alligators in the lake?" -- was a typical, first-time-in-Florida query. I would have mistakenly pigeon-holed them as non-outdoorsy, timid types had they not followed up with another question.

"What kind of spider is this?" they asked, pointing to a spiny-backed orb weaver that had strung an intricate web between an irrigation spigot and bamboo cane.

I could tell by their voices, postures and rapt attention these two were not intimidated by nature's minutiae. I love it when I meet people like that. Too often, adults -- even some children -- are so frightened by spiders, snakes and other creeping, crawling critters that they lose all perspective and act irrationally.

We all know sane, peaceful individuals who turn into screeching killing machines when they encounter one of nature's smallest creatures. Instead of learning about these fascinating and often beneficial critters, they go ballistic. They grab whatever object is handy -- shoe, bug spray, shovel or fly swatter -- and go into destroy mode.

Fortunately, that was not the case with my Spokane visitors. They were eager to learn all they could about the unfamiliar.

Looking more like a miniature crab than an arachnid, the spiny-backed orb weaver's compact, oddly shaped black-and-white body is distinguished by six pointy, red spines. Although quite small -- less than one-third-of-an-inch long and barely a half-inch wide -- this harmless, insect-eater's bizarre appearance differentiates it from other spiders.

Because it is frequently found in gardens -- as I am -- I've grown accustomed to seeing this spider and rarely pay it much attention. But the young couple paid attention. The backyard beauty that I had come to see as ordinary was far from common to these Pacific Northwest residents.

"I've never seen anything like it," said the woman as she peered at the spider waiting mid-web for a mosquito to trap.

That could have been the end of it -- one weird-looking creature to demonstrate the unique Southern landscape. But at that point, another insect caught their attention. They reacted with simultaneous squeals of surprise.

"What's that bug?" they asked, pointing at a large, fuzzy-looking orange thing scurrying across a sandy stretch of ground.

"Oh," I responded matter-of-factly. "That's a velvet ant. Be careful. They sting."

My response may have been understated, but there's nothing run-of-the-mill about a velvet ant's appearance. Like the spiny-backed orb weaver, this is a one-of-a-kind critter in Florida's insect world.

Nicknamed "cow killer," this colorful member of the Mutillidae family is a good example of a look-but-don't-touch critter. Although it resembles and moves like a cuddly wind-up toy put into motion, the inch-long insect is really a wingless wasp with a potent sting. According to legend, a velvet ant's venom can kill a cow, and while that's probably a stretch, I'm not about to put it to the test.

From a respectful distance, we watched as the bright-orange-and-black insect followed a fast-paced path to an underground burrow, where it was most likely bound to either lay eggs or find food. It must have been a female ant, because its elusive male counterpart has wings and is slightly larger.

For a few minutes, the three of us stood side by side, captivated by the velvet ant's determined trek through blades of grass and over bumpy ground. I don't know what my visitors were thinking, but I could tell they were fascinated. So was I.

It's easy to take things for granted. Repetition has the tricky ability to rub the shine off novelty. When I moved to Florida, I was completely awed by torrential downpours that ended as quickly as they began and by the sight of rain pouring down on one side of the lake and not the other. Eventually, I grew used to these things.

I even grew used to rainbows. Imagine that -- taking rainbows for granted. But it happened. A little bit of time and a lot of repetition turned the extraordinary into the ordinary.

That's why I'm glad my mind-set has been rebooted. I don't know how long this fresh outlook will last, but thanks to two crazy-looking bugs and a couple of curious tourists, I'm enjoying a fresh perspective -- seeing my surroundings as if for the first time.

Florida's a wild and crazy place filled with some weird and fascinating creatures, and I'm here to enjoy every minute of it.

Have some patience -- and the best pineapple you ever tasted

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel September 1, 2008)

We just finished eating our third freshly picked pineapple of the season. Delicious.

Homegrown pineapples are not only sweeter and more flavorful than their store-bought counterparts -- they are ridiculously easy to grow. Just cut the leafy crown off a purchased product -- you have to do that anyway when you're slicing it up -- and instead of tossing it into the trash, plant the crown in the ground. You don't need special soil or miracle fertilizers.

Pineapple plants like ground that is sandy and well-drained -- probably the same kind of dirt you have in your backyard.

Before planting, some people say you should either cut away any existing flesh or, at the very least, make sure all soft fruity parts are completely dried out. It's probably good advice, but I'm too impatient to wait several days for a callus to form and I'm too lazy to strip away existing soft flesh. I prefer the "hurry-n-bury" method -- quickly cut off the crown and rush outside to anchor the stiff, spiky leaves in the sandy soil.

One thing that shouldn't be hurried is deciding where to plant your pineapple. While the severed crown may be only six or eight inches tall and about half as wide, remember: it is going to grow.

As the plant develops, this Brazilian native will extend its leaves upward and outward. At maturity, a single crown will require a space that's about 3 feet wide by 2 feet tall. And consider those leaves. Pineapple leaves look and feel like green, serrated swords. Ouch!

The first time I planted a pineapple crown I placed it in a convenient spot right along our front walkway. Mistake. As the plant grew, so did its pointy sharp leaves. Make sure you place your young starts a good distance away from where any bare-legged people might pass by.

Homegrown pineapples are tasty, but people who insist upon immediate gratification should avoid growing these relatives of bromeliads and Spanish moss. It takes a minimum of 18 months, often longer, for fruit to develop. Even then, after all that waiting, you only reap a single edible pineapple from each crown planted. But that's all right. One bite into a slice of the pale yellow fruit and you'll be glad you waited.

Homegrown pineapples are so flavorful chiefly because gardeners have the luxury of waiting until a fruit is completely ripe before twisting it off its stalk. Commercial growers can't do that. Like most fruits grown for market, pineapples are harvested well before their prime when their waxy outer rinds are still a dark murky green. This common practice may extend the fruit's shelf life and prevents spoilage during transportation, but it doesn't do much to enhance the pineapple's heady essence.

Until I grew my first pineapple, I didn't know its bumpy outer skin turns bright yellow when the fruit is ripe. From years of shopping, I'd learned that (A) a golden tint to the rind is good and (B) leaves that are brown and shriveled are bad. The entire rind on a naturally ripened pineapple is the color of summer flowers -- sunflower yellow or daffodil bright. Add in the seductively sweet scent that accompanies a mature specimen -- an aroma that evokes images of a tropical beachside paradise -- and you can imagine how rewarding it can be to grow your own.

It's not only people who appreciate the taste and smell of this herbaceous perennial. Opossums, raccoons, squirrels and foxes share a fondness for the ripening fruit. With their sharp teeth, wild animals can do what people cannot -- chew their way through the tough outer skin to get at the juicy inner flesh.

That's what happened to the first pineapple I picked this year. I eagerly watched as the rind became more yellow each day. After about a week of anticipation I asked my husband, "Do you think I should pick it today?"

"Give it one more day," he suggested confidently. So I took his advice. And he must have been right because that night, a sharp-toothed furry critter confirmed his assessment by taking a large bite out of one side of the fruit. Sure enough, when we picked the slightly gnawed fruit the next morning -- after cutting around the gnawed spot and giving it a good washing -- we were awed by its sweet, juicy flavor.

I don't know why the animal stopped at one bite but I'm glad it did. Sharing is important, but when you've waited more than 18 months for a few mouthfuls of flavor, it's hard enough to divvy up the bounty with your family, let alone with an opossum or raccoon.

Pineapples are a never-ending pleasure. Each harvested fruit provides a crown that starts the whole process all over again. All it takes is one store-bought fruit to begin the cycle, so give it a try. The next time