Simply Living

Thinking outside the store-bought box: 5 ways to express your love on Valentine's Day

2012-02-13T05:36:00.000-08:00

A gift doesn’t have to be cost money to be meaningful. It can even be impermanent like these words in the sand and still have a lasting effect.

Simply Living
February 13, 2012

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. If you haven't already done so, shop owners are hoping you'll come into their stores today and buy-buy-buy. As lovely as many store-bought presents are, spending cash isn't the only way to express love. A wealth of gifts awaits that special someone and the only thing needed to procure them is a little creativity.

Flowers — Flowers are a Valentine's Day staple and the sweet smell of roses, carnations or a fragrant orchid can linger long after the blooms fade. But don't forget, flowers grow in earth, not in a florist's cooler. Consider taking a walk around your own yard to pick a bouquet of your own making. If you notice a particularly pretty or sweet-smelling bloom in a neighbor's garden, knock on their door and ask permission to pick one or two. Most likely, they'll say yes. Not only will you return home with a floral display that is uniquely yours to give, you will also have given a second gift to your green-thumbed neighbor. Your appreciation of their garden will make them smile for many days to come.

Sweets — Is any gift sweeter than chocolate or candy? How about a treat from your own kitchen? It doesn't take long to whip up a cake, sweetbread, muffins, a tray of cookies or a plate of chocolate-dipped strawberries. These days, the Internet makes it easy, even if your baking experience is next to zero. Actually, inexperience is a plus in this case because the recipient of your efforts will know you took extra effort to make them something special. For step-by-step help creating that perfect dessert, check out YouTube videos as well as online recipe websites.

Pampering — We can all use a bit of pampering and a trip to the spa is a wonderful way to tell your love interest how much you care about their overall well-being. But massage sessions can be pricey, especially on a limited budget. Fortunately, you don't need to schedule an appointment or spend any cash when you create a spa in your own home. The only things needed for this gift is the willingness to turn off the phones for an hour, dim the lights, put on some soothing music and focus on your partner. Brushing your loved one's hair may not be a normal part of a massage treatment but it can be a wonderful way to pamper your partner and pampering is what this gift is all about. Remember, you don't need strong hands or expensive oils to give a massage. Soft strokes, light scratches or gentle tickling all go a long way to demonstrating your loving touch.

Honey-do list — We've all got them: long lists of chores that need to be done. Taking it upon yourself to do one or two of the most demanding tasks without being asked (that's the key ingredient here) can result in benefits store-bought presents may never realize. Cleaning out an unkempt closet, painting a wall, weeding a garden, unclogging the gutters or vacuuming the house may not seem like the most romantic offering but be forewarned: Doing these chores can result in unexpected displays of gratitude. Make sure the bed is made if you decide to go with this Valentine's Day suggestion because there's a good chance you'll be landing on it in a romantic way by the end of the day.

Time out — Is there any better way to express your affection for the most important person in your life than to provide them with your undivided attention? Taking time out of your busy day doesn't cost a penny but it pays back in dividends that last forever. On Valentine's Day — on any day of your choosing — take time, make time, for your special someone. You don't have to do much. You can stay home and watch a movie. You can go for a walk or simply sit and talk. The main thing is to focus on the one person who means more to you than anyone else.

Businesses have seduced us into thinking the only way to express love is with material items, but that's simply not true. Valentine's Day isn't just a commercial venture. It's a time for each of us to remember what really matters in life. If someone is important to you, use this day to let that person know. Tell him you care. Give her a hug.

It doesn't cost a dime to give love away. It just makes sense.

A new flame really lights my fire

2012-02-06T03:10:00.000-08:00

Ralph and Atom enjoy the glow of the gas-fired flame

Simply Living
February 6, 2012

I've been spending quite a bit of time lately sitting by the fireplace. My bare feet rest on the raised hearth while a steady blaze warms my toes.

A fireplace is not a feature most Northerners expect to find in a Florida home, but when we built our house 20 years ago we knew we wanted one included in the design. Except for the five years when we lived in Kissimmee, we always had a fireplace.

Our first home was on Cape Cod, where some sort of wood-burning feature was an integral part of all residential construction. A mason installed the firebox, but my husband made it beautiful by facing the front and back with large stones that we collected from the beach.

When I think back to those days, it's hard to believe how much work we did. Before any stone was set in place, we handled it at least four times.

The first step, of course, was finding stones. To do that, we'd drive to the dock, get into either the family's old Beetle Cat sailboat or trusty Boston Whaler and head to one of several small islands in Pleasant Bay. Once there, we'd walk purposely along the shore with downcast eyes. When we found an unusually shaped, extra smooth or colorful rock, we'd pick it up and carry it back to the boat. When the boat was full we'd sail or motor home, transferring the rocks to our old Datsun station wagon before unloading them into a pile near the house. Eventually, we sorted through the pile, dividing the beach stones by size and shape. Once sorted, we took them one-by-one into the house.

Building that fireplace was quite the project, especially for a young couple with no previous masonry experience. We must have poured as much love into that structure as we did concrete and sweat, but it was worth it. The result was stunning. Our stone-faced fireplace was the perfect focal point for our hand-built home.

On Cape Cod, the hearth was truly the heart of our home, filling the house with warmth, ambience and a feeling of security. Of course, it also filled it with smoke, ashes and the occasional ember that burned holes in the yellow pine floorboards and covered the pretty beach stones with smudgy, black soot. The downside to a blazing fire is that burning wood is a messy affair. Bugs and dirt come into the house with kindling and cordwood and no matter how careful you are a certain amount of smoke inevitably sneaks into the air.

Fireside memories from old Cape Cod motivated us to include a raised hearth fireplace in our Lake County home, but stays in the cabins at Silver River State Park in Silver Springs were responsible for our switch last month from wood to gas.

A favorite part of our overnight getaways to a state-park cabin was time spent in front of the gas fireplace. Each time we were there, Ralph and I were impressed when a flick of a switch was all it took to set the realistic looking ceramic logs aflame. A pretty fire raged as long as we wanted it to without any smoke, dirt or nasty bugs.

For two years, Ralph and I talked about converting our wood fireplace to a gas unit like the one we enjoyed at the park cabin. We did research, visited local stores and looked at dozens of images on the Internet of different log sets and flames. Finally, we made a decision and after a few false starts due to faulty materials, our propane-fired vented gas log set was up and working.

Now, on a chilly winter morning, we can warm our toes by a dancing flame. My allergy-sensitive nose appreciates the lack of smoke in the air and my yen for a tidy house is satisfied by the no-fuss-no-muss nature of fake logs and a gas flame.

If you had asked me 30 years ago if I'd exchange wood logs for made-to-look-like-wood ones, I would have laughed and said "No way!" Three decades since, I've had time to reconsider. The ambience and ease of a gas log set makes sense in Florida's mild climate. It's the perfect way to take the edge of a chilly day without adding unnecessary work.

Needs change over time. So do people. What I need now is more focus-on-the-fire time. Think I'll brew up some tea, take it over to the fireplace, put my feet up on the hearth, push the remote and enjoy the fire's steady glow.

A little bird taught me about the benefits of being a lazy gardener

2012-01-30T05:48:00.000-08:00

An adult male goldfinch in the process of becoming more brightly plumed (image: allaboutbirds.org)

Simply Living
January 30, 2012

There's an upside to having a neglected landscape. A weedy garden or overgrown field is a boon to some wintertime visitors.

The American goldfinch (Carduelis tristis) is a seasonal fixture in the Sunshine State. This half-ounce bundle of bones and feathers likes nothing more than discovering safe foraging grounds dotted with dandelions, ragweed, milkweed, evening primrose or — most especially — those prickly, pesky thistle plants.

Like any true lover of warm weather, the state bird of Iowa, New Jersey and Washington leaves Northern abodes in early autumn when cold winds carrying a hint of snow start ruffling feathers. Traveling south in large colonies that often include other migratory birds, goldfinches settle in areas where a temperate climate extends the growing season.

Lately when taking a walk, I've noticed flocks of "wild canaries," as they are nicknamed, flittering across our fields and open spaces. These 4-1/2-inch-long fliers with an 8-inch wingspan consider food finding a group effort. When not after the above-mentioned seeds, they munch on sunflower, cosmos, aster and grass seeds, occasionally snacking on tree sap, buds and berries with an incidental insect for protein.

Because goldfinches come to Florida for respite rather than procreation, we miss seeing their finest displays of color. During a Northern spring, the male boasts a golden body with a bright white rump. His wings are black with white stripes and a jaunty black cap covers his head. This jazzy get-up is all about attracting the gals — actually, one girl in particular. Goldfinches are monogamous and mate for life. After mating, the female proceeds to build a tightly woven, cup-shaped nest in the forked branches of a tree and lays four to six light blue eggs.

Adult male goldfinch fully feathered with colorful plumage and ready to mate. (image: allaboutbirds.org)

The reproduction period takes place mid-to-late summer when weed seeds are plentiful. The eggs incubate for 10 to 12 days before hatching and 12 to 17 days later, the young birds leave the nest to spend several weeks stuffing themselves with seeds. Shortly afterward, the hatchlings join up with other goldfinches migrating south to warmer weather.

By the time the birds arrive in Florida in early autumn, the male's yellow plumage has faded to a dull olive. However, as the months go by and anticipation of returning north to mate mounts, the males' cheery coloration begins to return. When mid-February rolls around, a lemony sheen appears on the male bird's underside, growing more brilliant as the weeks go by.

The female, with more need for protection than ostentatious presentation, doesn't go through a similar molt. She has no black cap and only a hint of yellow on her underside. Her slightly striped olive tones enable her to blend well with foliage year round.

Goldfinches gravitate toward natural sources of food but when weed seed supplies dwindle, they frequent backyard feeders. People wishing to attract goldfinches can do so during winter by putting out fresh nyjer (thistle) and sunflower seeds. Nyjer is a high-energy food rich in oil. While nyjer seed will draw these pretty little birds to the feeder, its high oil content goes rancid quickly. To ensure a fresh supply, clean feeders at least once a month and store surplus seed in an airtight container.

Goldfinch gather around a thistle (nyjer) feeder (image: allaboutbirds.org)

Although I haven't filled feeders with nyjer or sunflower seeds, the goldfinches in our yard are not going hungry. Untended fields and weedy gardens provide plenty of natural foraging fare. To an uninformed eye, my garden might look ugly but the birds and I know there is beauty in sustenance. It's also reassuring to discover a beneficial side to laziness.

In snake v frog there's only one winner

2012-01-22T23:07:00.000-08:00

Hungry snake...doomed frog

Simply Living
January 23, 2012

People have it easy. If we're hungry, we go to the store, select food, go home and prepare a meal. If we're pressed for time, feeling lazy or indulgent, we eat at a restaurant.

That's not how it works for wild animals.

My husband called me away from the dinner I was preparing on a recent evening to come out to the porch.

"You've got to hear this sound," he said. "Some animal is screaming but I can't figure out what kind of animal or where it is."

We sat on the porch for about 15 minutes but didn't hear a thing.

"I guess it stopped," I said standing up, anxious to go back inside to check the vegetables roasting in the oven.

Just as I was about to leave, Ralph opened the porch door for one last look. That's when we heard it. Outside the door, a tiny young black racer snake had its mouth clenched around a green treefrog that was about 4 inches long. The snake, thinner than a pencil and less than a foot long, had a firm grasp on the frog's rear end. Despite the fact that all four of the frog's feet were free, its stance on life was fragile. Aware of the mortal danger it was in, the frog let out a mournful cry.

I had never before heard a frog screech. I didn't even know they could. Apparently, the situation triggered a primordial instinct. The clutch of a reptilian mouth caused the frog to emit a high-pitched scream. Black runner snakes overpower their victims by pressing their prey against the ground while holding them tightly within their jaws. It was a terrifying, life-threatening predicament for the frog.

For the snake, it meant dinner. No store-bought snack for this reptile. No drive-through dining or oven-roasted meal. Black racers eat rodents, lizards, frogs, birds and other snakes. They eat what they catch or they don't eat at all. For a snake — for any wild animal — dinner is not about preparation, presentation, mood or hour. It's all about survival, a do-or-die effort. It's not a pretty picture.

The snake, intent and patient, bit down on the frog, absorbing the amphibian's vital fluids.

Throughout it all, the frog was aware. Its eyes bulged, its legs twitched in frantic but fruitless attempts to flee. But the snake's hold was steadfast. I watched with horrified fascination, my camera tracking the frog's increasingly futile efforts to disengage and escape.

Tiny snake....big meal

In less than an hour, the snake had devoured the entire frog.

"Unbelievable," Ralph said as we watched the snake's muscles push the swallowed treefrog — now reduced to a large lump — down the narrow channel of its body.

"I never would have thought such a large frog could fit inside such a small snake," I responded as I pondered the frog's demise.

The snake remained on the concrete walkway silently digesting its meal. I returned to the kitchen, my own culinary efforts to check.

Digesting dinner

The snake and I had both spent about the same amount of time readying a meal that would provide us with sustenance. I cut up vegetables. The snake captured prey.

"People sure have it easy," I said to myself as I opened the oven door, the vegetables roasted to perfection.

I called to Ralph, "Dinner's ready!"

On my weekend agenda...go to the farmers market!

2012-01-16T06:41:00.000-08:00

People shop and stroll along Montrose Street at the Clermont farmers market.

Simply Living
January 16, 2012

A Sunday morning spent perusing the farmers market in downtown Clermont can be a thrifty as well as fun experience.

My purchases on a recent excursion included three sweet red peppers ($1 each), two yellow squash ($1 a pound), a large head of broccoli ($2 a bunch), three butternut squash ($1 a pound), seven bananas (50 cents per pound), an 8-ounce package of baby portabella mushrooms ($2) and one eggplant ($1). For less than $15, I returned home with enough produce to satisfy most of our needs for the week at about half of what I would have spent for comparable purchases at the supermarket.

A colorful selection of vegetables fill my basket after a visit to the farmers market in Clermont

I'm a fan of farmers markets. Part of my weekly routine includes going to either the Saturday morning market in Winter Garden, where I meet up with my daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren, or the Sunday market in Clermont, closer to home and therefore more convenient. Every now and then, I go to both.

Although purchasing produce is my main objective, people go to farmers markets for a variety of reasons.

Farmers markets are a great place to find unusual gift items, locate a source of farm-raised beef or purchase plants for the landscape. Some use the markets to seek out handmade crafts, custom artwork or locally produced food. Food-truck purveyors are on hand to provide an assortment of snacks while vendors set up booths to sell everything from organic peanut butter to handcrafted jewelry to gourmet dog biscuits. You can get knives sharpened in Clermont, take home a loaf of freshly baked bread or a bag of loose-leaf tea. One Winter Garden purveyor offers samples of unusual cheeses while another encourages browsers to taste the flavorful crackers his wife makes out of dried tomatoes, herbs and flax seeds.

Free entertainment is another reason people frequent farmers markets.

Usually, a musician — often a guitarist — provides passersby with a medley of melodious tunes. In Winter Garden, visitors can rest their feet in one of the many chairs lined up in front of the performance area, which happens to be located next to a female vendor who stays busy demonstrating a type of hula-hoop exercise equipment she sells. Customers can munch on homemade pastry and sip a cup of java while they listen to music, check out the hula-hoopers and watch the crowd go by.

A guitarist entertains passersby while canine visitors exchange nose-to-nose greetings at a downtown market

People watching is a popular occupation. With such a diverse group frequenting the markets, watching the crowd stroll by is a pleasant diversion from the workaday world.

Most farmers markets are located in downtown areas. A main street is often closed to cars for several blocks allowing pedestrians to walk without worry about vehicle interactions. This makes the venue popular with families, especially those with toddlers and babies in infant carriers or strollers. That also makes it well attended by bicyclists and pet owners.

Sometimes I think there are more dog owners proudly parading along behind their pets at the local outdoor market than any other category of shoppers. Something about a farmers market attracts a canine-loving crowd. Perhaps it's the opportunity to show off their well-behaved pets or simply to enjoy an outing amidst an admiring audience of children and adults. Kids certainly seem to appreciate the dogs' presence, often stopping mid-street to stoop down to pat the friendly animals.

The open-air ambiance of a farmers market is as appealing as its randomness. I never know from week to week who will show up. Although there are definite regulars, the inexpensive rent makes it affordable for small businesses to test the market without having to make a long-term commitment.

In addition to the farmers market itself, local shop owners in both Clermont and Winter Garden often extend store hours to take advantage of the crowd. This is particularly relevant at the Sunday market in Clermont, a day when most stores are normally closed.

One business that opted to be open on Sunday is the South Lake Animal League Thrift Shop. After browsing the booths set up along Montrose Street and stowing my produce purchases in the car, I make a point of popping into the thrift store to look for bargains. Meeting up with my daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren is the draw that gets me to Winter Garden, but having a chance to peruse the racks of gently used clothing, most available for the bargain price of a dollar per item, attracts me to Clermont.

There are many reasons to explore farmers markets. Whether doing it to save money, buy local or simply as a way to enjoy some free outdoor entertainment, check out the offerings near you. In addition to Clermont's Sunday market and Winter Garden's Saturday venue, the farmers market in Tavares is on Friday and in Leesburg on Saturday. All are located in the downtown areas and open from morning to early afternoon.

For a complete listing of farmers markets throughout the state visit farmersmarketonline.com/fm/Florida.htm.

Celebrating a year of walking while working

2012-01-09T07:36:00.000-08:00

A 1x10 board laid across the arms of the treadmill provides support for a laptop.

Simply Living
January 9, 2012

A year ago this week, I replaced the desk and chair in my office with a treadmill. For the past 365 days, whenever I've wanted to check email, write a column, do online research or see what's new on Facebook, I've done so in an upright position. My fingers tap the keyboard while my feet pad along on a band of movable floor.

My husband, a disciplined exerciser whose daily three-mile loop around the lake has been an integral part of his routine for years, has watched my indoor rambles with mystified indulgence.

"I don't know how you do it," he says, referring to my ability to punch computer keys while maintaining a steady pace. But what he's really wondering is: Why? Why would I opt to walk inside when I could be outside enjoying the fresh air and scenery?

I do it because I like it. I do it because I can. I do it to burn calories. I do it for my health.

Computers have the uncanny ability to alter time. A few minutes checking email can easily turn into two hours of browsing the web.

If I hadn't replaced my desk and chair with a treadmill, my derriere and the cushioned seat would be wedged together for a good part of the day. Sure, I'd get up for breaks, and I might even go outside to join my husband for a walk around the lake, but I'd spend the majority of my daytime hours sitting down fixated on a LCD screen.

With such a proliferation of technological gadgets vying for our attention these days, it has become common to spend more time exercising our fingers than our feet. That doesn't make it right. Or healthy.

A number of studies support the position that sitting down is causing rising health problems.

"Prolonged time spent sitting, independent of physical activity, has been shown to have important metabolic consequences," said Dr. Alpa V. Patel, senior epidemiologist at the American Cancer Society and lead researcher of a 2010 study on how sitting affects mortality.

Patel's research, which spanned 14 years and included 123,000 subjects, showed that women who sit for more than six hours a day were about 40 percent more likely to die during the course of the study than those who sat fewer than three hours a day. Men were about 20 percent more likely to die.

I have no desire to die early, but neither do I want to sweat my way to good health. That's why working at a treadmill desk is ideal. It is nothing like a ruthless gym workout. When walking-while-working on my treadmill, I do so at the leisurely pace of 1 mph.

At such a slow speed, integrating thoughts with actions is seamless. I'm able to do everything I ordinarily would do on the computer, but I do it while burning more than 100 calories an hour. Multiply that by the four to five hours I normally spend in my office and the numbers become significant.

One mph is the speed recommended by Dr. James Levine, an obesity expert at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn., and the person responsible for popularizing the concept of a treadmill desk.

"It's amenable to regular people," said Levine in a 2010 interview with The Plain Dealer in Cleveland. "You don't need to have a gym membership. You don't need to be physically trim to use it. And you don't need to sacrifice productivity or access to the workplace in order to improve your health."

That certainly has been true for me. I love my treadmill workstation, a homemade desk made out of a length of wood laid across the treadmill arms upon which my laptop sits. I love knowing that every time I log on to the Internet I'm strengthening muscles, building bone and improving my overall health.

Sometimes getting on a road to self-improvement doesn't necessitate a road at all. An inexpensive, easy-to-construct treadmill workstation has the power to transform a sluggish, tired workaholic into an energetic, happy and much healthier walk-a-holic. That's one feat my two feet can really take a stand on.

Mother of thousands

2012-01-02T05:30:00.000-08:00

An umbrella of red blooms sits atop a leggy stalk on a Mother-of-thousands plant

Simply Living
January 2, 2012

There’s a plant growing in my yard that I can’t seem to get rid of. Some people call it Mexican hat plant, Devil’s backbone or Alligator plant. Others know it as ‘Mother-of-thousands’ but from my experience, ‘Mother-of-millions’ might be a more appropriate moniker.

The botanical name of this prolifically reproducing succulent is Kalanchoe daigremontianac. Native to southwestern Madagascar, Mother-of-thousands is a perennial in Florida and other warm-weather regions of the country. In colder climates, it is cultivated as a houseplant and perhaps that’s where it belongs – some place where carpet, tile and hardwood flooring will limit its uncanny ability to self-propagate prodigiously.

Mother-of-thousands looks a bit like aloe. This potentially 3-foot-tall plant has a center stalk out of which grow a series of fleshy, 4 to 6-inch long serrated leaf-like stems that are green with a hint of purple on the undersides. During winter months, the stalk can produce an umbrella shaped terminal from which dozens of bell-like red flowers dangle.

Hummingbirds favor this attractive bit of botanical finery, which should make this easy-to-care-for perennial a welcome addition to the wildlife garden. Unfortunately, its invasive nature counterbalances its more positive features.

The key to Mother-of-thousands’s reproductive magic is visible on the edge of each of its leaf-like stems where small, round dark-colored plantlets form. One ‘leaf’ can contain 20 to 50 of these babies-in-waiting and every Mother-of-thousands plant boasts at least a dozen leaf-like stems. Do the math and the potential problem becomes obvious.

When the plantlets fall off, sometimes with white thread-like roots already in place, they settle on the ground and proceed to grow. Not fussy about soil needs, Mother-of-thousands seedlings have successfully rooted on our property in moist spots as well as in areas where water supply is limited. Much to my vexation, these tenacious succulents even manage to flourish where soil is seemingly nonexistent. I’ve seen plantlets achieve purchase in the cracks of concrete walkways as well as in the narrow spaces between our paved patio and stucco walls.

Who needs dirt? Mother-of-thousands can sprout and grow in the tiniest crack in concrete

On the positive side, Mother-of-thousands is easy to uproot. One yank with a gloved hand (to protect against the serrated edges) can pull these shallow-rooted perennials from their roost. On the negative side, each yank has the potential to dislodge several of the small, round dark-colored plantlets, making the entire let’s-just-yank-them-out-to-get-rid-of-these-pests plan redundant.

Considering the difficulty of total eradication, I’ve opted for the same approach with Mother-of-thousands as I’ve taken for Mexican petunia (Ruellia brittoniana) and wedelia (Wedelia trilobata), two other overly active reproducers that I made the mistake of introducing to the property. I stop treating them like garden plants. I dig up and relocate the offending perennials to wooded areas where they receive no irrigation or soil enrichment. I’ve found that when I stop treating invasives like pampered garden plants, they stop acting like unruly, out-of-control pests.

Mother-of-thousands isn’t a bad plant. It just isn’t the right plant to put in certain places.

Learning as much as possible about a plant’s behavior before installing it in your yard goes a long way toward avoiding future problems but don’t fool yourself into thinking education will put an end to errors. A cultivar’s beauty, color, fragrance or special characteristics can sway the mindset of even the best-intentioned gardener.

To prevent plants like Mother-of-thousands from becoming Mother-of-millions, exercise a gardener’s form of tough love: “You can stay on the property but I won’t spoil you.”

When miscalculations occur, make the best of them. Sometimes an effective compromise is the right answer when total eradication is too daunting.

Your choice...

2011-12-31T05:08:00.000-08:00

I wrote this poem in 2002 but it continues to represent my feelings for the New Year...

An optimist and pessimist await the New Year Hour

One with eager smile, one's expression sour.

The pessimist looks back and groans, "Time goes by so fast!"

The optimist looks back and grins, "More memories to last!"

The pessimist recalls the debts, the dollars thrown away.

The optimist recalls the gains, the values earned each day.

The pessimist sees struggles fought, times that trouble crossed.

The optimist sees each success and respects the cost.

The pessimist looks back and sighs, "I should have not done that."

The optimist: "How much I've learned..." And gives himself a pat.

The pessimist says, "What a year! I've never known such woe."

The optimist says, "What a year! ...Amazing how we grow."

One with eyes so used to seeing problems every day.

One with eyes so used to seeking out a better way.

An optimist and pessimist await the New Year Hour

One with eager smile, one's expression sour.

And when the midnight chime does ring both turn to look ahead

The optimist with hope and dreams, the pessimist with dread.

So pour a toast and raise a glass. Take a drink until

Your glass reflects the year ahead: Half empty or half full.

A new year = a new chance for successful sandhill crane nests

2011-12-26T05:32:00.000-08:00

Roosting cranes prepare to spend the night on a tiny spit of land submerged beneath a thin sheet of water.

Simply Living

December 26, 2011

We haven't had a significant rain in weeks and because of that, the level of water in our lake has gradually decreased. Islands of peat and sand that are normally submerged have begun to appear.

I'm not the only one to notice. A pair of sandhill cranes has returned, flying in every evening to roost on one of the tiny spits of land surrounded by shallow water.

For years, the seasonal islands in our lake have been the preferred nesting spot for a pair of sandhill cranes. Like many birds, sandhill cranes return to the same nesting places annually. In our lake, their chosen spot is always an island, a minuscule land mass a short distance offshore.

It's a precarious choice.

If the weather cooperates and rainfall is limited, the lake level will continue to drop and the islands will stay visible and viable for nest building. However, if sudden downpours happen and precipitation increases, the water level will gradually rise. The islands (including any nests and eggs) will disappear beneath a blanket of waves.

The sandhill cranes don't seem to mind the insecurity of their nesting site. Instinct tells them to return to the spot where they've nested before so that's what they do. Even though previous nests have been lost when water levels rose, an inner voice commands and they dutifully follow.

Earlier this year I watched as the birds — most likely the same two frequenting the lake today — industriously built a tidy nest of sticks and reeds on spit of land a few feet off the northern shoreline. First one then two eggs appeared. The adult birds diligently guarded their nest but no amount of care or avian protection could prevent rain from falling. In April 2011, water levels rose steadily until one day the nest vanished, submerging the eggs in a watery grave.

Two sandhill crane eggs as seen a few days before they disappeared beneath rising water in our lake last April.

It surprises me that the birds don't remember. If they did, I would think they'd try harder to find a different spot to raise their young. As Ralph and I walked around the lake, we passed several large masses of peat and sand that had recently appeared. The two cranes, however, hadn't chosen one of those islands for their nightly roost. The only visible parts of the still-submerged isle they selected were a few reeds poking above the quiet water.

Change happens quickly.

If it doesn't rain for a few more days, more land will appear. If we have a dry winter and if the birds decide to stay and build a nest, the eggs they lay will have a good chance of surviving.

That's a lot of ifs.

Nature is nothing if not full of surprises. I find it surprising that the sandhill cranes have returned to the same place they have nested before and equally surprising that they've timed their arrival exactly when the water level is low enough for submerged islands to appear. But perhaps most surprising of all is the resurgence of hope their arrival triggers.

Despite past disappointments, I'm optimistic that this time around nest building will be successful for the sandhill cranes. I'm hopeful that any eggs they lay will live, and any chicks that are born will survive.

We're on the cusp of a new year. I can't think of a more appropriate time for a flush of irrational optimism.

The sandhill cranes act on instinct, but they're not the only ones listening to an inner voice.

My instinct tells me to be ever hopeful, to see things in a positive light and wish for the best. Like the birds attempting to nest in our lake, I'm not always successful but that doesn't stop me from hatching hopes anew.

Journaling...a noteworthy effort

2011-12-19T05:48:00.000-08:00

An inexpensive monthly planner works well as a journal as long as you have a fine-tipped pen and small handwriting.

Simply Living
December 19, 2011

At the end of December, I enter reflection mode. I flip back through the pages of my journal to review annual goals and consider our accomplishments. Each turn of the page triggers memories. I remember the good times, the bad times and everything in between.

I've been our family's record keeper for more than four decades. During some of those years, my journaling efforts were sparse to nonexistent, but since 2000, I've been a diligent recorder of daily doings.

Each month, I post a family review on the computer, but every day I use good old-fashioned paper and pen to jot down the most important information. My journal is a monthly planner that looks like a thin book. Two pages span each month with small squares allotted for every day.

My writing is tiny. It has to be in order to fit even the most rudimentary reporting into the inch-by-inch blocks. A pen with a fine point is necessary, and when I have more to say than will fit, I turn the book sideways and write in the margins.

Record keeping is essential when you get to a certain age. Without a written log, I'd have no idea when we converted our youngest child's bedroom into a kitchen pantry, planted a stand of yin-yang bamboo across from my office window, bought a new-to-me car or did any of a number of small and large accomplishments.

Even when young, it's difficult to remember milestones. When my grandchildren were born, I encouraged their mothers, my two daughters, to keep journals.

"You think you'll remember when the babies first turned over, sat up or had their first belly laugh," I told them. "But you won't. Unless you write stuff like that down, you'll forget. You'll be too busy or too tired. That's just the way it is."

In addition to keeping track of day-to-day events, on the inside back page of my planner I keep a list of yearly goals. I learned years ago that one of the best ways to accomplish dreams is to spell them out, review them regularly and check each one off when completed. It's a simple but effective system. Ralph and I didn't accomplish all our goals for 2011, but a check-mark and date stands next to many.

Oddly enough, one of the most noteworthy of our 2011 accomplishments didn't take any effort by Ralph or me at all. It wasn't on our list of goals and it came about as a complete surprise — at least to us. In 2011, our number of grandchildren quadrupled, from one to four. Our daughter Jenny had twin girls in August, and just a few days ago, our oldest child, Amber, gave birth to her second child and first daughter.

December is, and perhaps always will be, a time for reflection. It's a heady feeling reviewing a year. As I leaf through the inked-in pages in my inexpensive planner, I'm amazed how a few words in a notebook can trigger a flood of memories. Like all years, 2011 was a mixture of positives and negatives. There were difficulties and frustrations, times of anxiety, worry and loss. Fortunately, there were also many days of gladness, unexpected wonders and unbridled joy.

It doesn't matter what form record keeping takes — an online blog, scribbles in a loose-leaf notebook or tiny printing in the blocks of a calendar. The important thing to remember is just that: to remember.

Vines are...divine!

2011-12-12T08:21:00.000-08:00


Blue sky vine beautifies a chain link fence

Simply Living
December 12, 2011

I love vines.

I love their tenacity and reckless abandon. I love the way they march onward and upward despite minimal care and attention.

I find their variations in fragrance, color and delicate beauty appealing. I see vines growing in wild places or in other people's yards, and I want them. They captivate and entice me.

Fortunately, I'm learning to resist.

Vines have a way of taking over. It's in their nature. If you are prepared and willing to put the time and effort into reining them in, then cultivating vines is a worthy occupation. They can look lovely crawling over an arbor, trellis or pergola, and they work well at hiding an unattractive wall or object. Vines add beauty to a hanging basket and do a good job as a ground cover. However, if you are unable to regularly monitor and control their growth, a pretty little vine can turn into a pretty big problem.

I've made the mistake of planting vines and watching them grow out of control on numerous occasions. I've done it with wild morning glory, purple and white wisteria, passionflower, cypress vine and Dutchman's pipevine. In each case, what started as a snip — a tiny cutting gleaned from a larger plant — turned into a rambling monster over the course of a summer.

Part of the problem is that vines know no bounds. When you plant a broccoli seedling or an impatiens plant, it grows bigger and broader but never wanders. It stays put — a concept that doesn't mesh with the word "vine."

A vine's essence is to grow up, stretch out, sprawl sideways. It does whatever it can to extend its range as far away from the initial root as possible. Some vines do their climbing with help from tendrils, while others twine or use aerial rootlets. Whatever the method, the result is expansive growth far beyond where the plant was originally established.

Pruning is necessary to keep vines in check.

When it comes to vines, I also require a certain amount of restraint. I need to prune back my predilection to cultivate more vines than I have time or energy to control.

Recently, I've found myself coveting a blue sky vine that grows along the entry fence to a home on one of the back roads I frequent. Every time I drive by, I feel a yearning. I want that vine! Its flowers are such a beautiful shade of blue. It looks so pretty along the fence.

If I stopped and asked, I'm sure the homeowners wouldn't object to my taking a clipping, snipping off a little segment to plant at my own home. But if I got a clipping, what then? Once it was rooted, where would I place it? Would it grow out of control as so many other vines have done? Would it become a problem?

It probably would.

Before I add any new vines to the landscape, I need a plan, a place for them to grow and a means to control them when — not if — they start to grow out of bounds.

I have a solution, at least in my mind.

I envision a series of arbors in a long row. The arbors would form a tunnel that I could walk through and on each one, a different vine would climb and twine. The arbors would be separate so that the plants couldn't intermingle. Mowing the ground between them would keep them contained.

I love vines but I'm trying hard to resist the urge to add more to the landscape. Someday I might get a snip of that lovely blue sky vine but I've promised myself it won't be until all the necessary infrastructure is in place and I have the time and inclination to keep the vine in check.

Firespike adds festive touch to garden

2011-12-05T05:45:00.000-08:00

A cloudless sulfur butterfly sips nectar from a firespike bloom

Simply Living
December 5, 2011

During December when brown leathery sycamore leaves are covering the ground and orange tangerines dangle from citrus trees like ornaments, the waxy red blooms of firespike add a festive glow to the garden.

Firespike, botanically known as Odontonema strictum, is an herbaceous perennial with foot-long spikes of showy flowers extending out of glossy foliage. Standing about 6 feet tall in shrubby clumps, this South American native is a wonderful addition to the landscape because it doubles both as an easy-to-grow bush and a wildlife magnet to butterflies and hummingbirds.

I can't remember when I first discovered the firespike plant or where my original cutting came from but this late-summer-through-winter bloomer has been adding color to my garden palette for years. Because it is so tall, firespike does best as a background plant where it can stretch upward without overshadowing shorter plants.

On several occasions, I've made the mistake of placing it in the wrong spot but I've managed to dig up and move plants without problems. That's because firespike is resilient. This drought-tolerant perennial will happily grow in sunny as well as shady locations and is easily propagated by divisions, cuttings or sometimes even by sticking a clipped off branch into the ground.

One has to wonder if a plant this easy to propagate is invasive. Fortunately, the answer is 'No.' Although it readily reseeds, sprouts don't emerge far from the mother plant so it doesn't spread out of control. New shoots merely increase the bush's girth.

Firespike's waxy red blooms, born in clusters along foot-long stems, make great cut flowers. They look especially nice in bouquets with Mexican sunflowers, another late-season blossom. I'm not alone in finding firespike attractive. Many species of butterflies like them as well. Cloudless sulfur butterflies are especially fond of this winter source of nectar. On a sunny day, several of the white-to-pale-yellow flutterers hover around a bush as if awaiting entry to a popular eatery.

Hummingbirds come to dine, too. Individual flowers have thin tubes with fluted rims that seem ready made to accommodate a hummingbird's bill. The blooms are also a brilliant candy-cane red, a color hummers find most attractive.

If you're thinking firespike sounds like the perfect plant, you're not far off. In addition to its tolerance of either shade or sunlight, firespike accepts a variety of soil conditions. It does well in sandy, loamy or even clay soil and doesn't suffer when pruned back during the growing season.

However, like most things that seem too good to be true, firespike has an imperfection: It can't tolerate cold. For the past three winters, freezing temperatures have killed back the top growth on every one of my bushes. Although the roots don't die and the plants rebound the next year, their sensitivity to cold leaves me, well, in the cold.

A single failing, however, can't spoil my enjoyment of this seasonal beauty. If firespike makes December a bit more festive and then fades away when freezing weather hits, so be it. Sometimes it's the tiny flaws that make us appreciate beauty, and the inevitable fade only makes the present more special.

Savor the moment

2011-11-28T04:19:00.000-08:00

Watching the babies you once held in your own arms mirror that love to a new generation is one of life’s many pleasures. In picture: (bottom row, from left) Brett Constantine holding Ella Constantine, Jenny Boas holding Maya Constantine (top row, from left) Amber Boas, Atom Fischler, Scott Fischler

Simply Living
November 28, 2011

At the end of October, I celebrated my 60th birthday. I've made many discoveries in my lifetime, but perhaps the most relevant is that the older I get, the more precious time becomes. When I was younger, I often wished time away.

"I can't wait until summer," I'd say, or "I wish it were the weekend."

These days, I try not to do that. I've come to realize how precious and limited time is, so I try to savor the moment. Not only do I take time, I consciously make time to treasure everyday pleasures.

It's the little things that make my heart sing. When I wake up and see the morning mist on the lake, I smile. I consider the amber light that precedes dusk a gift. When I smell a flower, pick a bouquet or watch the erratic flight of a dragonfly, I'm enjoying nature, souvenirs of life that are always there if I only make an effort to look at them and see.

Not a day goes by without multiple reasons to be thankful. The very act of waking up is a gift in itself. When I'm feeling bad — if I'm sick or upset, weary or depressed — I try to consider how much worse things could be. I'm thankful for the good times. I'm grateful for a world filled with marvel and wonder, for the love and caring of family and friends.

My husband, children and grandchildren provide endless sources of bliss. Ralph's kindnesses and little gestures — the breakfast he prepares for us each morning, the way he runs his fingers through my hair when we're watching TV, his eagerness to spend time with me, his patience and consideration — make me feel loved and appreciated.

Some people think money and material items are important, but my fortune is in having such a caring partner. My husband and I share that richness by passing it along to future generations.

This past week centered on family. All four of our offspring were here, including my two daughters, who have children of their own. As I watched Amber with her 2-year-old son and Jenny with her 3-month-old twins, I was awed not only by the passage of time but also by the layers of love that exist in a family. Seeing your own children grow up is remarkable in itself, but even more amazing is watching the babies you once held in your own arms mirror that love to a new generation.

Sixty years is the equivalent of 21,900 days, and while 21,900 is a large number, I don't think it could ever be big enough to waste even one of those days on wishes of tomorrow. The present is a gift that's precious and special. Being present — being aware of what's happening in the moment — is perhaps the most valuable gift of all.

Knock-knock...who's there?

2011-11-21T05:58:00.000-08:00

An Eastern Phoebe poses on a bamboo cane before attacking its reflection in the window

Simply Living
November 21, 2011

Several years ago, a rufous-sided towhee raged war against the window in my old office. Every day for weeks, the male bird relentlessly attacked the glass with his black, pointy beak.

A couple of years later, a red cardinal engaged in a similar battle. However, unlike the towhee, which focused his testosterone-triggered attention on one particular window, the cardinal made a broader territorial claim. His war involved any surface reflecting his image, including the side-view mirrors on my car.

This year, a new bird has taken up the cause. An Eastern phoebe, a sweet little bird in the flycatcher family, is determined to prove his prowess against the reflection he sees in my current office window.

The Eastern phoebe is a medium-size, brownish-gray bird with white-buff undersides, a black bill, a forked tail and a slightly oversized, darker gray head. One of the phoebe's distinguishing characteristics is the bobbing of its tail feathers up and down, often accompanied by the fluffing of its crown feathers.

Phoebes are wonderful birds to have around homes and gardens because they eat the insects most people find annoying. Ticks, spiders, flies, gnats, mosquitoes, moths, bees and wasps are among the delicacies phoebes enjoy. Bugs are usually caught on the wing, but the phoebe will occasionally pluck an insect off plants or, as I've recently observed, off a window screen.

Distinguishing between the two sexes by physical characteristics alone is difficult with phoebes. Males are slightly larger, and their plumage is somewhat darker, but both of those traits are hard to observe unless the birds are together — and phoebes rarely are. I saw two birds on one occasion, but the rest of the time, I've seen only one. From my observations of that solitary bug-catcher, I've concluded that the bird attacking my window is male — not by the way he looks but by his actions and voice.

Although female phoebes sing, their songs are brief and infrequent. The bird I've observed vocalizes continually. His habit is to perch upon a bamboo pole about three feet away from the window, bob his tail, make some noise, flutter a few inches up into the air, turn around and resettle on the pole, only to repeat the pattern. Intermittently, he attacks the window with his beak, sometimes latching on to the screen with his little claws, spreading his tail feathers and wildly flapping his wings.

The first time that happened, I got scared. I thought the bird was stuck, so I ran outside to help. I needn't have worried. Apparently, the whole body-to-the-window thing was part of his hormonally driven plan to thwart adversaries. As soon as the bird saw me, he easily detached himself from the screen and flew away. I guess the phoebe thought if he waged an all-out, full-body approach, he might succeed at scaring off his reflection. No such luck.

Male birds attack their reflections because of what scientists call "gonadal recrudescence." Testosterone surges during spring mating season and again in autumn. This hormonal flush causes some males to enter defense mode. They deal with any perceived threat to themselves or their mate through posturing, vocalizations and direct body contact.

Such noble but fruitless efforts … such winged flights of fancy.

As much as I love birds, I find the actions of these males baffling. Head-banging against glass seems a step backward on the evolutionary highway.

It's not as if birds are incapable of learning new behaviors. Over time, birds have learned to avoid poisonous or foul-tasting insects. They've learned not to frequent areas that would put them into direct contact with predators. There is even evidence that some birds have learned to avoid newly established and potentially harmful wind turbines. Yet, these flying bits of feather and bone can't overcome the urge to attack their reflection.

The little phoebe at my window is the latest in what will most likely be a stream of avian gladiators, willing to risk their all in defense of their families. Birds may be small — the phoebe weighs less than three quarters — but they are large in determination and devotion to a cause. I just wish their efforts were less painful.

Snakes make me feel safe

2011-11-14T04:45:00.000-08:00

A black racer slithers across the lawn

Simply Living
November 14, 2011

I was about to enter the porch from outside when a long, black snake slithered by.

"The black racer's back!" I shouted to Ralph as I stepped back to let it pass. "It's heading toward that hole underneath the addition."

Ralph and I share our yard with a number of non-venomous snakes, and the black racer is one of our regulars. We have what I like to think of as a symbiotic relationship. In exchange for a yard filled with snake-friendly hiding places, these slithering cords of bone and scale keep the rodent population in check. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Although many people would shudder at the thought of coexisting with snakes, I find it comforting. Snakes make me feel safe because, although I seldom see them, I know they are out there patrolling the ground around my house. I don't love mice, but snakes do. They love them to death — a good thing because the fewer mice there are to sneak into my house, the happier I am.

My affection for snakes is not new. I've felt this way since childhood, which is somewhat surprising since I grew up with a parent who abhorred snakes. My mother was so frightened by long, squirmy creatures that even an earthworm could trigger a trembling frenzy. Looking back, I can see how my mother's irrational fears might have prompted my own positive attitude. I like snakes in part because I know how misunderstood and underappreciated they can be.

Of the 50 snake species in Florida, only half a dozen are venomous, and two of the six (Southern copperhead and timber rattlesnake) are not even found in the central part of the state. Every year, venomous snakes bite about 8,000 people in the United States, but an average of only six people die from those bites. Nine times as many fatalities occur annually because of wasp, hornet or bee bites. The number of snake-related deaths is far too small to warrant such widespread paranoia.

Unfortunately, it doesn't matter how few dangerous snakes there are or how rarely snakebites result in death. Snakes remain one of the most maligned animals on the planet. All members of this beneficial species receive universal hatred and fear.

It's odd that creatures that do so much good are the subject of such loathing. Without snakes, mice and rat populations would get out of control, causing disease-carrying rodents to run rampant in yards, barnyards and houses. Fortunately, snakes don't let that happen. Unbeknownst to most humans, snakes go about their business of silently stalking and devouring prey. No dangerous poisons are necessary when snakes are on the job. No-pest control companies are involved or dollars exchanged. Snakes work for food and, luckily for us, the foods they prefer are the animals and insects we least want around our houses.

When I chanced upon a black racer as I was about to enter the porch, my reaction wasn't fright but delight. I hadn't seen the snake in a while, but the black racer was there all along. It was just doing what snakes do — furtively stalking sources of food and absorbing heat from the sun.

In a perfect world, people wouldn't react with irrational fear to animals that do more good than harm. They wouldn't go crazy at the sight of snakes. The vast majority of snakes in Florida present no threat to humans, yet people kill them indiscriminately. My yard is far from ideal, but when it comes to snakes, it is a perfect haven.

"I'm going to run inside to get the camera," I called to Ralph after I saw the snake. But by the time I returned, the black racer had disappeared into the hole. Fortunately for me (and for the snake!), there will be a next time.

An anhinga discovers Bare Lake

2011-11-07T04:33:00.000-08:00

An anhinga spreads its wings wide to dry in the breeze

Simply Living
November 7, 2011

An anhinga has taken a liking to our lake. It arrives in the morning and spends the day either in the water fishing or perched nearby drying its wings.

Anhingas differ from most water birds in that they don't have oil glands to waterproof their feathers. Unlike ducks that can dive under water and return to the surface, the anhinga must air-dry its feathers after each submersion. The bird in our lake re-fluffs its feathers in various locations. Sometimes it sits atop the mid-lake platform, while other times it stands on a partly submerged log, on the uppermost canes of bamboo or even on the arms of a plastic chair on our beach.

"Come see this bird by the beach!" my husband called from the porch.

"It's an anhinga," I said when I joined him outside. "Or a cormorant — I'm not sure which."

Because the two birds look very much alike and have overlapping habitats, they are often mistaken for each other. Both are large, dark-colored water birds without oil glands that swim through the water with only their heads exposed and spend extended periods perched along waterways air-drying their broad, outstretched wings.

Although there are several noticeable differences between the two fish-eating predators, the easiest way to determine which bird is which is to focus on the neck and bill. If you are looking at a slender, long-necked bird with a straight, pointy beak, it's probably an anhinga. However, if the bird you see has a shorter neck with a curved, hooklike bill, it is most likely a cormorant. Cormorants also have a distinctive orange throat pouch as well as a stockier body and shorter tail feathers than anhingas.

Despite those differences, I still get confused. I've found the easiest way to distinguish between the two is to think of the anhinga's nickname, snakebird. Since the anhinga's neck is so long, it is sometimes mistaken for a snake.

Anhingas and cormorants share similar diets, but their methods of catching food differ. The cormorant uses its hook-shaped, serrated-edge beak to grasp slippery prey, while the anhinga impales its catch on its long, pointy bill. Once prey is caught, the cormorant will eat under water while the anhinga tends to devour its meal on land by tossing it into the air and swallowing it whole. Occasionally a fish will be so severely speared that the anhinga will have to ease it off its beak by rubbing against a hard object.

I haven't watched the anhinga in our lake devour any fish, but I have seen it dive off its perch in search of food. The main time I notice this 3-foot-tall water bird is when its 48-inch long wings are open to catch the breeze.

"It really seems to like that plastic chair," my husband said as we stood outside watching the bird watch us while it air-dried its wings.

"I thought it would mind us being so close but it doesn't seem scared," I said as we eased closer to get a better look.

The bird didn't have much choice but to wait patiently for us to go away. An anhinga with wet wings has difficulty flying. It can do little more than skip along the water's surface while madly flapping its wings.

"I'm glad it's here," I said, when we returned to the house. "I like looking out and seeing it on the perch. It's a weird- looking bird, especially with its wings outstretched, but also exotic."

Herons, ibises, wood storks, egrets, rails, grebes, ospreys, hawks, various ducks and the occasional eagle have all made their appearance on our lake at one time or another. Some are regulars while others come and go with the seasons. Whether the anhinga is an occasional visitor or takes up residency matters little. Every bird is a welcome addition.

Halloween makes me happy

2011-10-31T07:18:00.000-07:00

Creative homemade decorations are displayed at a house in Minneola

Simply Living
October 31, 2011

I often found myself smiling as I drove through town these past few weeks. The reason for these sudden bursts of levity was tonight's holiday, Halloween.

Instead of just treating it as a one-night celebration, as it was when I was a child, an increasing number of people now extend the fun by decorating their front yards weeks in advance with spooky or simply playful displays. From the yards I've passed, I'd say the most popular decorations are giant spiders, spider webs, fake gravestones and dangling displays of ghosts, goblins and witches. Most of these Halloween symbols are store-bought, but I've come upon quite a few homemade exhibits as well.

People who choose to decorate yards usually opt for a few well-placed pieces to depict the mood they want to convey, but not everyone subscribes to the "less is more" concept. Just as some homeowners go over the top at Christmastime, certain people seem to know no limit when it comes to Halloween.

The resident of a two-story wooden house in the west Orange County town of Oakland is a perfect example. Dozens of life-size, scary-looking creatures fill this house's expansive front and side yards, while ghouls of every sort hang from trees and leer at passersby from the house's second-story balcony.

A home in Oakland goes a bit over the top with Halloween decorations

The yard is so cluttered with every conceivable holiday symbol (think jack-o'-lanterns, skulls and crossbones, spiders, gravestones, scythes) that it would be a challenge to count them all.

"Where do you suppose he stores them all when Halloween is over?" my practical husband wondered as we drove by the house. Not my first thought, but I had wondered that, too, especially since I know the same homeowner decorates his yard just as elaborately for Easter, Christmas and Thanksgiving.

The Oakland house is a marvel of holiday mania and attracts plenty of attention, but going all out isn't necessary to make an impression. One of my favorites is a simple Halloween display in a quiet Minneola subdivision.

Three pair of what look like adult-sized human legs protrude from the ground in this postage-stamp-size front yard. The fully dressed appendages are the only things visible. No head, arms or torsos are in sight.

When I first passed this display, my imagination was piqued. My eyes saw legs and feet, but my mind imagined upper bodies buried. Although the feet are immobile, I envisioned them kicking and thrashing about. I bet the person who created it gets a good chuckle whenever drivers like me do a double-take.

That's the thing about Halloween — it's such a playful holiday. Being different is applauded on Halloween, and outrageous behavior is acceptable. It's a holiday of broken rules. On most nights, kids are discouraged from eating sweets and told to keep their distance from strangers, but on Halloween, they're encouraged to knock on the doors of people they don't know and ask for goodies. Adults who might otherwise never talk to one another have a reason to be sociable, generous and friendly. On this one night of the year, neighborliness trumps discord, and fun and frolic win out over reserve.

Tonight on Halloween, I'll be accompanying my 27-month-old grandson and his parents on a short romp through their Winter Garden neighborhood. At his young age, I doubt if Atom can grasp the holiday's significance, but even at the tender age of 2, he's completely on board with the concept of "treats."

"More yummy!" I imagine him saying as he grabs yet another candy bar from a neighbor's hand.

For me, it will be a pleasure to see my grandson dressed up in a silly costume, continuing a practice that has been such a fun part of our family's traditions for years. Everyone can use more reasons to smile, and Halloween is a holiday ready-made for doing just that.

Coyote by the side of the road

2011-10-23T18:47:00.000-07:00

The coyote is a close relative to the domesticated dog but relies on its own wits and hunting skills to find food.

Simply Living
October 23, 2011

On my way to town, I saw a dead coyote. A wave of sadness washed over me as I drove by. I wondered if the animal was male or female. If it was a female, did she leave a litter of pups? If the animal I saw had pups, would they be old enough to survive on their own?

Coyotes give birth to an average of six babies, though depending on conditions, a litter can be as small as one or as large as 19. The pups are blind for their first two weeks and don't accompany their mother on hunts until they are 6 to 10 weeks old. After a year, coyotes become sexually mature, and they mate for life. If the coyote I saw had a partner, its mate was suddenly alone.

I realize that many people don't share my empathy for these wild members of the dog family. To them, large predatory animals such as coyotes pose a threat to the safety of humans and their pets, and that perceived danger justifies the animals' eradication. In their minds, the only good coyote (or alligator, bobcat or bear) is a dead one.

I feel differently. My heart goes out to all unfairly maligned critters — spiders and snakes included — struggling to survive in a human-dominated world.

Most wild creatures have it tough. People are constantly modifying animal habitat in the name of progress, often eliminating nesting grounds and natural food sources. Then, when the same animals whose homes and hunting grounds we've destroyed seek out alternative sources of food and shelter to survive, we victimize them for their efforts. We label them "dangerous" without bothering to understand who they are, what they are all about or how we may have contributed to the problem.

The coyote is a close relative of the domesticated dog. However, unlike pampered house pets whose human handlers present them with a daily diet, these 17- to 46-pound wild mammals must rely entirely on their own wits and hunting skills to find food for themselves and their offspring.

Mice, rats, squirrels and rabbits make up most of a coyote's diet, supplemented by fruits, insects, frogs and, at times, carrion. Occasionally coyotes — especially those with compromised hunting grounds — seek food in areas where farm animals or pets live. That's usually when problems arise.

Pet owners get scared if coyotes wander through a neighborhood, and ranchers feel threatened. That fear turns into rage if wild animals capture and eat livestock or attack a free-roaming house cat or small, unleashed dog. However, when a cat captures a songbird (often killing but not eating the bird), the typical pet-owner response is a resigned shrug, as if to say, "Ah, well, that's what cats do."

Pets receive a generous amount of leeway denied to wild animals such as coyotes.

I understand the sadness felt when a beloved pet dies unexpectedly. Years ago, an alligator ate our 13-year-old terrier, but the loss of the family pet to a hungry reptile didn't make me hate alligators. I knew that the 6-foot-long predator was only doing what alligators do: hunting for easy prey. We were aware at the time that an unusually aggressive gator was present in our lake, yet we thoughtlessly let our unleashed dog outside. It was our responsibility as pet owners to have better monitored his whereabouts.

In the wild, a coyote has a life span of 10 to 14 years, but just over 20 percent make it to adulthood. October or November is when most pups are mature enough to forage on their own, but those young, inexperienced animals are especially vulnerable. A car apparently hit the coyote I saw. I'll never know if it was a young adult just starting or a mature animal that left behind a mate and family.

Although the sight of the dead coyote by the roadside saddened me, in general, I'm encouraged by the species' success rate. Rather than decreasing amid the loss of wilderness area, populations have grown. Like their domesticated canine cousins, coyotes are adaptable animals. They have learned to forage for food and find shelter in suburban and even urban settings. Unfortunately, not all have learned to avoid cars.

It's hard enough for people to survive in the complicated world we've created, but it's more difficult for wild animals that must adapt. I passed a coyote the other day that didn't make it, but I'm hoping its family will survive.

SIDEBAR
For more information about coyotes, check out this Project Coyote, which, according to their website, "creates innovative solutions that foster peaceful coexistence between people and coyotes. We champion progressive management policies that reduce the number of human-coyote conflicts and the number of coyotes destroyed. We believe that, as North America’s native wild "song dog", coyotes are a vital component of our rural and urban communities, deserving respect for their adaptability, resilience, and intelligence."

A park with good taste

2011-10-16T21:07:00.000-07:00

Juicy oranges grow next to the fitness course at Aesop's Park in Tavares

Simply Living
October 17, 2011

There are many words to describe a park — scenic, convenient, nicely landscaped — but "tasty" is not usually one of them.

Aesop's Park in downtown Tavares is the exception. The 11.5-acre park at the end of Caroline Street, which will have its grand opening Saturday, meets all of the usual descriptions while striving to satisfy the tastes of the community with an edible landscape.

"We have been planting lots of fruit trees," said Tim Ernst, a landscape specialist for Tavares. "We're hoping people will use the fitness areas and then, after exercising, refresh themselves by picking an orange off the tree."

Park visitors also can sample blueberries, figs, bananas, pears, pineapples and persimmons in season.

I love the concept of a city's inviting the public to enjoy fresh fruit while visiting a park. Although some public venues showcase gardens and fruit trees, it's a rare place that lets visitors try samples for free.

While still in the beginning stages, Aesop's Park already has much to offer. In addition to fruit trees, the park has a community garden with raised-bed plots available to the public for $20 a year, a butterfly garden bursting with blooms, a nature-themed playground and tennis courts. There's also a dog park with a dog-washing station and a fitness course for the exercise-minded.

People who love books will gravitate to the park's "reading tree," where a wooden bench encircles a camphor tree, enabling book lovers to enjoy their favorite reading material while relaxing in the cool shade.

A wooden bench surrounds a broad camphor tree providing shaded reading stations at Aesop’s Park in Tavares.

Anglers of all ages will appreciate the fishing lake, a small pond in the center of the park stocked with 1,000 catfish, courtesy of the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission. People like me, who simply want to meander along scenic paths, have the added benefit of picking ripe fruit to munch on as they wander along.

The recently planted trees are young, and production is modest. But as time goes by, the quantity of fruit will increase. Plans are also in place to add move varieties of edibles and to include information about each variety.

"We're going to have information plaques by the fruit trees to let people know what they are," said Tammey Rogers, director of the Tavares Parks and Recreation Department.

The park has been a labor of love by a staff excited about its effort to transform a limited-use facility into a park that meets the needs of a diverse community.

"There wasn't much to do here before or reason for people to come," said Rogers, "but that has changed as we've cleared more land and expanded the park."

I have no doubt I'll be returning to Aesop's Park throughout the year. Let's see … blueberries ripen in May, orange season begins now and runs through the winter. Hmmm …I can see where this is heading!

Back roads yield sighting of seldom-seen birds

2011-10-10T05:34:00.000-07:00

The Florida Scrub-Jay, the state’s only native bird, exists nowhere except in Florida. Sadly, even though it is listed as a threatened species, populations of this unusually friendly bird continue to decrease.

Simply Living
October 10. 2011

I often take alternative routes to town. Rather than stay on the straight four-lane, I turn onto narrow side roads, meandering up and down hills, around curves, over bumpy roads and through landscapes more rural than commercial.

One of my favorite back roads borders an abandoned orange grove slated to be a mega-development before the bottom fell out of the real-estate market. I like that route because it's rich in wildlife and short on traffic. Driving along at a sluggish 35 mph, I'm more likely to pass a gopher tortoise than another car.

While other vehicles are a rarity on this particular stretch, birds are not. Hawks hover overhead and ospreys fly by with fish in their talons. One time in the early evening, I pulled over to watch a large owl on the prowl. But the main reason I take that route is to see scrub-jays.

The Florida scrub-jay (Aphelocoma coerulescens) is a living treasure. Native to and found only in the Sunshine State, this 12-inch-long, 3-ounce blue-and-gray crestless cousin of the common blue jay is a friendly, intelligent and highly social bird. Mature pairs mate for life, raising their young on a diet composed mainly of acorns, insects, fruit and small vertebrates. Family units often include adult offspring that help raise their younger siblings while doubling as sentries on the lookout for predatory hawks.

As its name implies, the Florida scrub-jay favors scrubby areas. In order to supply its needs, a family group requires about 25 acres in which oak trees less than 8 feet tall cover 50 to 90 percent of the land and underbrush is six inches tall or shorter. When scrub oaks are unavailable, they often set up residence in neglected citrus groves.

Unfortunately, such property also works well for residential and commercial development. Habitat loss has resulted in drastic decreases in Florida scrub-jay numbers. The bird was listed as a threatened species in 1975 by the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission and in 1987 by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

Despite those classifications, scrub-jay populations continue to plummet. A 1992-93 statewide survey conducted by the Archbold Biological Station in Lake Placid numbered the Florida scrub-jay population at about 10,000 but in May 2011. A follow-up count revealed that fewer than 6,000 birds remain in all of Florida.

Because I know how rare Florida scrub-jays are, I was awed the other day to chance upon not one, but three of these winged beauties sitting atop successive trees. Driving down that route along acres of nonproductive orange trees, I always hope to encounter birds, but I don't always see them. On this particular day, I was unusually lucky.

I wish Florida scrub-jays shared my good fortune.

The birds I saw standing guard on the branches of dead orange trees might be able to protect their families from hawks and owls but have no control over the actions of people. In the wild, the inherently friendly Florida scrub-jay will eat peanuts out of a person's hand. It's sadly ironic that the very beings it trusts present its most serious threat.

Someday, when the real-estate climate improves, developers inevitably will plow down the stubby orange trees, replacing them with paved roads and home sites. If the birds are lucky, they will relocate to another abandoned grove. If they're not lucky, they'll become just another name on the list of extinct species.

Destructive as people can be, we also have the ability to help. Organizations like the Clermont-based Florida Scrub-Jay Trail (scrubjaytrail.org; 352-429-5566) educate the public about the scrub-jay's plight while programs like the Nature Conservancy-sponsored Jay Watch (352-732-1225) trains community volunteers to monitor bird populations.

It was a heartening experience to see three scrub-jays the other day, but as I drove on, I couldn't help but wonder what if instead of being rarities such sightings were commonplace? If more people get involved to help the state's only endemic bird, things could turn around and Florida scrub-jay populations might one day rebound.

Fields of flowers

2011-10-03T06:34:00.000-07:00

Broad fields of coastal-plain golden-aster bloom in early autumn.

Simply Living
October 3, 2011

Some things are so common, they become unnoticeable.

Blue skies are like that. When I moved to sunny Florida from overcast Cape Cod, I was constantly aware of the continual brightness. Every day I'd awaken to find rays of sunshine streaming through my windows. Although I was initially awed, after about a year of living in the Sunshine State the novelty of one brilliant day after another began to fade. Bit by bit, my mindset adjusted. I stopped being keenly aware of the sky above and began to take daily doses of brightness for granted.

"It's another picture-perfect day!" someone might say. "Oh, yeah," I'd respond matter-of-factly, glancing upward. "So it is."

The same thing can happen with wildflowers.

It took me about a week of driving past large fields of golden-aster before I realized the land I was passing was bursting with blooms.

During early autumn in Central Florida, huge expanses of coastal-plain golden-aster are flowering. The small, daisylike blossoms are about an inch across, with about 20 dandelion-colored petals encircling a slightly darker center. Multiple flowers open atop ungainly 2- to 3-foot-tall woody stalks. While each bloom is a sweet little flower, the entire package — stalk, stem and blossom — is unimpressive and ordinary.

In my rural neighborhood, golden-asters cover acres of undeveloped land. They also appear in small clusters alongside roadways and mailboxes and in just about any other place where land is untended and weeds can grow.

The fact that golden-aster isn't a showy plant might contribute to its anonymity. Unlike larger, brighter or more unusual blooms, this humble flower is easy to miss. What isn't as easy to overlook is the plant's ability to dominate acreage. Once aware of its existence, you will notice these wildflowers everywhere.

There are three reasons that golden-aster has proliferated so successfully. It tolerates a wide range of conditions, it's extremely hardy and it has an effective method of dispersing seeds.

The plant does best in dry, sandy soil — the type found in pinewoods, oak scrub and disturbed areas. It likes sun but proliferates freely in shady habitats as well. Extremely moist locations are a no-no for this no-nonsense perennial. And when it comes to propagation, golden-aster has it down pat, dispersing individual seeds in its puffy, round seed balls through air as well as by contact. This plant rarely succumbs to disease or insect attacks, but it does attract a fair number of butterflies and moths, which find it a suitable source of larvae food.

With so much going for it, you'd think this herbaceous Florida native would be a must on any gardener's wish list. Think again. The plain truth is, despite its attributes, golden-aster isn't as attractive as other plants in the aster family. Demand is low, so few native plant nurseries carry it. Beauty sells. Anything less...not so much.

If, instead of golden-aster, I drove by acres of sunflowers, coneflowers or phlox, I bet it wouldn't have taken me a week to notice them. Then again, like the Florida sky so blue, over time even stunning flowers might have gone unnoticed.

We live in a world filled with splendor. To enjoy it, all we have to do is open our eyes to the ordinary as well as the extraordinary. Golden-aster may be a fairly nondescript wildflower, but when seen from a distance, it fills the land with a golden hue. Blatant beauty may sell, but subtle beauty survives, and if the landscape around my neighborhood is any indication, golden-aster is nothing less than a thriving survivor.

Do pears grow well in Florida? Ap(pear)ently, they do!

2011-09-26T11:31:00.000-07:00

Old-fashioned Southern pear trees produce heavily even when neglected for years.

Simply Living
September 26, 2011

My son came back from a walk the other day with about a dozen old-fashioned Florida pears that he had picked in a nearby abandoned orchard. Although the tree had received no care for years, that didn't seem to affect its production. Dozens of hard, amber-skinned fruit still hung from its scrawny limbs.

Southern pear trees are like that. These small to medium-sized deciduous trees tend to resist disease, tolerate extended droughts and produce prodigious amounts of tan- to brown-skinned, white-flesh fruit. Of the many old-fashioned varieties, Orient, Kieffer and pineapple pears stand out as staples of many longstanding Florida homesteads.

Because I wasn't sure which variety Tim had picked, I contacted Brandy Cowley-Gilbert, owner of Just Fruits & Exotics nursery in the Florida Panhandle town of Crawfordville. After I described the pear's size, shape and texture, Cowley-Gilbert said my son had probably gathered a bunch of Orient pears.

"The Orients have been around for a long time," she said. "They are a round, large pear that ripens in the fall and grows well in Central Florida."

Cowley-Gilbert said pears, persimmons, blackberries, muscadine grapes and pomegranates are fruits that will survive despite years of neglect.

"These are long-lasting fruits that can still produce 40 to 50 years after they were planted," she said.

The people who planted the pears that Tim picked probably didn't grow them as a table fruit. The softball-sized Orient and other "sand pears" (the name for a class of Chinese pears traditionally grown in the South) are a cooking fruit used in baking and canning and to make chutney, preserves and even wine.

The main thing I do with them — and what I did with the cache Tim gave me — is to make a simple pear sauce.

After washing and slicing the pears into small chunks (skin and all), I put them into a pot with about two inches of water, cover and cook over high heat. When they begin to boil, I turn the flame down and simmer, stirring occasionally, until the chunks slip off a fork when pierced. At that point, I turn off the heat and let the soft fruit cool a bit before pureeing in a food processor and adding a sprinkling of ginger, cinnamon and a little sweetener.

I like to use plant-based, no-calorie stevia as a sweetener, but at times I've used maple syrup, agave and honey. I've also even eaten the pear sauce plain, allowing the fruit's natural sugars to do the job.

The day after I made the pear sauce (devouring most of it when still warm!), I realized that I'd overlooked one of the pears. The forgotten pear was too small to make into sauce by itself or to use in baking, so I decided to cut off wedges as if it were an apple to eat fresh with a chunk of sharp cheddar cheese.

Even though most people use the sand pear for cooking, I found its fresh flavor satisfying. The pear was crisp and slightly sweet and made a perfect "pairing" with the cheese. Orient pears resemble the round Asian pears sold in the produce department of grocery stores, but the flesh's texture is somewhat harder.

It's too bad that a fruit that used to be a mainstay of most Florida homesteads and diets has become unfamiliar. Most Floridians are probably unaware that certain varieties of old-fashioned pear trees not only grow but thrive in a climate best known for its citrus.

"Pears are truly one of the easiest and trouble-free fruits the homeowner can grow," Cowley-Gilbert said.

If the quick disappearance of my pear sauce is any indication, they are also one of the tastiest.

Little-known persimmons are worth discovering

2011-09-19T09:28:00.000-07:00

Two plump tanenashi persimmons, similar in shape and taste to commercially grown hachiya persimmons, ripen on the tree as temperatures cool.

Simply Living
September 17, 2011

Ralph just came in from picking persimmons. One of our trees is loaded with fruit, and my husband aims to pluck the ripe fruit before the bugs, raccoons, possum and fox discover them.

For a long time, eating ripe persimmons has been one of our autumn rituals, but it wasn't always that way. Like most Americans, I knew nothing about persimmons. I didn't grow up having a bowl of them on my breakfast table like bananas. When I felt like a snack, I didn't bite into them like apples, nor did I bake with them or make them into puddings. Persimmons did not have a place in my life until the 1990s, shortly after we moved to Lake County.

In those days, the bright-colored orange fruit native to China held great promise as a replacement crop for frost-killed citrus groves. Throughout Florida's central and northern regions, farmers planted extensive orchards of the small, deciduous trees in the hope that the fruit, which is a dietary mainstay of many Asian countries, would catch on with U.S. consumers.

We planted our first trees around that time, and while interest in persimmons shifted slightly, it never caught on to the extent growers hoped it would. These days, persimmons are more familiar to American shoppers than they were 20 years ago, but to many, they remain a mystery. That's too bad because these shiny-skinned edibles are well worth sampling for their sweet flavor and high nutritional value.

Low in calories and with zero fat, persimmons are a great source of dietary fiber as well as being high sources of vitamins A and C. Unfortunately, discovering the fruit's many attributes involves actually tasting one, and to do that, consumers have to learn when a persimmon fruit is ripe enough to eat.

There are hundreds of different types of persimmons but only two varieties — hachiya and fuyu — are commercially available. Of the two, hachiya is most common in grocery stores. That's regrettable because unlike fuyu, which is edible when its flesh is either soft or hard, hachiya is palatable only when its flesh has attained a jellylike consistency. One bite into an unripe hachiya stops most people in their tracks, preventing them from ever trying a persimmon again.

Both fuyu and hachiya persimmons are orange fruits that ripen from September through December. The skin on tomato-shaped fuyus is thick, similar in texture to that of an apple. I like to eat them like apples, one bite at a time, until I get to the throwaway stem. My husband approaches the fruit differently. He cuts off the tough outer skin and slices the flesh into wedges. I like his method, and if I weren't so lazy, I'd prepare them that way too.

Hachiya persimmons are also orange-colored but their skin is thinner than the fuyu and their shape is acorn-like instead of round. They are also an astringent fruit, while fuyu persimmons have no astringency at all.

When ripe, hachiya flesh has the consistency of a ripe plum. If you bite into the fruit before then, the inside of your mouth will feel like it is full of fuzz, the way it does when you take a bite of an unripe banana.

Because I'm an impatient eater, I often approach a hachiya like a plum. I pick it up and bite into it, skin and all. It's a sloppy affair, with slippery flesh and dripping juices threatening to drop onto clothes. Ralph's technique is much neater and more civilized. He cuts off the stem end and uses a spoon to scoop out the sweet-flavored, soft insides.

The tree that Ralph just finished picking is a tanenashi persimmon, similar to the commercially grown hachiya. Assuming he can stay ahead of the creepy crawlers and wildlife nibblers, that one tree should provide us with enough fruit to eat fresh, freeze and share with family.

But you don't need your own tree to discover the wonders of this little-appreciated-in-America fruit. Next time you're at your grocery, buy one and take it home. If it is a fuyu persimmon, go ahead and give it a try, but if it is a hachiya variety, exercise patience. Wait until the flesh is plum-soft before taking a bite. Once you've tried it, don't be surprised if eating persimmons becomes one of your autumn rituals as well.

Love plants? Love mysteries? You'll love this series!

2011-09-12T07:28:00.000-07:00

Susan Wittig Albert has written more than 100 books, including the popular China Bayles mystery series.

Simply Living
September 12, 2011

I love a good novel, especially one with interesting characters, a captivating story line and the ability to teach me something new about topics I hold dear. That's why I'm a fan of the plant-themed China Bayles Mystery Series by Texas Hill Country author Susan Wittig Albert.

In each of the series' 18 novels, main character China Bayles (big-city lawyer turned small-town herb-shop owner) solves murders through a combination of botanical know-how, deductive skills and legal reasoning. Each novel expands my plant knowledge while providing a welcome and entertaining literary escape.

I don't like slasher stories, psychological thrillers or books that frighten or give me nightmares. Neither do I abide by unnecessarily sad or uncertain endings. None of that happens in a China Bayles mystery. When I open the pages to one of Albert's books, I am guaranteed a good time. I enter a world I can relate to — a small town inhabited by a quirky but lovable cast of characters who struggle to overcome common, everyday problems. Albert's stories end happily, a feature I covet in both books and movies.

Although each of the series' 18 mysteries is an independent read, the stories always begin in the fictional Texas Hill Country town of Pecan Springs, where the lives of the main characters progress from one book to the next. That makes each installment like a visit with old friends. With a turn of the page, I "catch up" with a cast of imaginary people who have come to feel like they're almost real.

Front and center is the proprietor of the Thyme and Season Herb Shop, China Bayles, and Bayles' best friend, business partner and mystery-solving sidekick Ruby Wilcox. She's a New Age maven with a propensity for right-brain thinking that contrasts nicely with Bayles' more left-brained, practical approach.

Bayles' love interest, Mike McQuaid, is a former detective who, following a work-related injury, trades his badge for stints as a private investigator and university educator. Other recurring characters include McQuaid's son, Wilcox's daughter, various local business owners and relatives and friends of the main characters. The entire package is sprinkled with humor and includes satisfyingly unpredictable endings.

Albert published her first China Bayles novel, "Thyme of Death," in 1992. It must have been around that time when I chanced upon it on the shelves of my local library. I quickly devoured that book and have been gobbling up new installments ever since. Fortunately, Albert has written more than 100 titles under her own name and various pen names. With the exception of 2002, there has been a new China Bayles novel annually. The most recent release, "Holly Blues," came out in 2010. I'm never left hungry for long.

In addition to each story's underlying botanical theme, every chapter is anchored by herbal quotes, proverbs, plant-related recipes and gardening folklore. In "Indigo Dying" (2003), I read about the different cloth-coloring properties and histories of various plants, along with recipes for herb quiche and frijoles de olla (beans in a pot).

In "Rosemary Remembered" (1995), the folk saying that headed Chapter 12 — "To learn humility, one must weed the Thymes" — struck me as particularly relevant. At the end of each novel, a list of pertinent resources provides motivated readers with ways to continue learning about plants mentioned in the stories.

One of the few things I enjoy more than getting lost in a book is learning more about one of my favorite subjects. With Albert's help, I'm able to broaden my botanical knowledge in a memorably entertaining way.

It's hard to love a plant like Spanish needle

2011-09-05T05:11:00.000-07:00

Spanish needle's small, daisylike flower (left) turns into a sphere of barbed seeds that latch on to anything they touch.

Simply Living
September 5, 2011

I'm not a fan of Spanish needle (Bidens alba), but I feel like I should be because this white, flowering relative of asters has many of the attributes I look for in a plant.

It attracts wildlife (especially bees and butterflies), has both edible and medicinal properties and is a Florida native. However, it also produces an abundance of hard-to-remove, needlelike black seeds that are frustratingly difficult to remove from any article of clothing that happens to brush against them.

I've been battling Spanish needle on our property for 20 years, and I haven't won yet. Right now, I'm looking out my office window at an explosion of these leggy weeds that have sprung up in what is supposed to be my ginger garden.

I'm trying to like them. I really am. But two decades of disdain is difficult to overcome.

I'm not alone in my feelings. Ever since people have been in contact with Spanish needle, they have made up names to express their impression of a plant so intent on propagating itself through contact that its seeds adhere like barbs to anything they touch. Among its many monikers are beggartick, hairy beggar's tick, shepherd's needle and devil's sticktight.

Spanish needle is a perennial wildflower with a deep taproot and small, daisylike blooms. It likes hot weather, it's drought- resistant and it's not particular about soil conditions. It isn't fussy about location, either, growing well in both sun and shade. Although its white, yellow-centered flowers are tiny (about an inch across), each 3-foot-tall plant has multiple blooms.

When flowering, it is innocuous and even beneficial. Some people might even say the flowers are pretty. I wouldn't be among them, but flying insects must think so. The plant attracts numerous butterflies, bees, wasps and dragonflies and is the larval host for the emerald moth, dainty sulphur and Florida duskywing butterflies.

After flowers fade and seeds develop, the Spanish needle earns its negative nicknames. A single plant can produce more than 1,000 two-toothed seeds, each with the annoying ability to cling tightly to hair, fur or cloth. Its hitchhiking habit serves the plant well, enabling it to do what plants need to do: spread out and reproduce. I have to admit it is extremely successful at those goals.

On one level, I appreciate Spanish needle. It is a hardy, resilient, determined plant. It has managed to survive — even thrive at times — in places it is not wanted. Those very traits, however, also make me dislike it. I can't tell you how many times I've struggled to dislodge the barbed seeds from my husband's white socks or from the hem of any skirt I've been foolish enough to wear when I've walked in the woods.

There's a strong movement afoot to embrace native plants. Spanish needle may be a Florida native that bees and butterflies adore, but that doesn't mean I have to like it or want it in my yard. Neither should I feel guilt each time I fantasize about ripping out every last specimen (as if that were even possible!).

No, some plants' negative features simply overshadow their attributes. That's how it is for me and Spanish needle. Sometimes, the best weeds are the ones growing elsewhere

Weeds gone...garden ready to plant

2011-08-29T06:07:00.000-07:00

A truck full of weeds means lines of weed-free pots ready to be planted with new vegetables and flowers.

Simply Living
August 28, 2011

It feels good to have the garden weeded. Ralph and I returned from our New England trip to find more than 100 15-gallon potted plants in desperate need of attention. A tangle of unwanted growth had besieged our container garden.

The weeds didn't suddenly emerge during our absence. Their campaign to subdue our intended crops had been weeks — in some cases, months — in the making. Our mistake had been to ignore obvious signs, allowing tenacious roots to become well established. It took time away to make us realize the mess that our forestalling had created.

"What do you think about doing some weeding this evening?" my husband asked the day after we got home. With daytime temperatures hovering in the mid-90s, evening seemed a sensible time to tackle this project.

I told him it sounded good, and when late afternoon rolled around, I donned gardening gear — old jeans, ratty shirt, gloves, hat, socks and shoes — to join my husband for a robust, down-to-earth workout.

"I'm going to begin over here," I said from one end of the row as my husband started pulling weeds at the other. "I'll call if I need help with any big ones."

I called a lot. There were plenty of huge weeds — invaders so large and well-rooted that no amount of yanking would dislodge them.

"I'm going to dump the whole pot out," Ralph said after one frustrating attempt to de-weed a container overtaken by a particularly vigorous and stubborn specimen. Into the truck's bed it went. We worked for about two hours, and in that time managed to clear weeds out of about half the pots. The following day, we conquered the remainder.

"It feels good, doesn't it?" I said as we dipped into the lake to soak off sweat and smudges of dirt.

Ralph nodded, adding: "I didn't think we'd get so much done."

I had to agree. Despite years of working together on countless home and garden projects, I'm still surprised how much can be accomplished in relatively short periods. Focus is the key.

Looking around, I noticed more flower beds begging for attention in addition to all the non-garden-related projects in want of completion.

"If we could just work like this every day for a couple of hours," I mused, "imagine how much we'd get done."

It was a familiar fantasy.

"Yeah," he agreed wistfully, "if we only could."

Ralph and I both knew that chances of that happening were zero to slim. Although we've spent our entire adulthoods independently employed, we have yet to master the art of consistent self-discipline. Some lessons are apparently more challenging than others, and, for us, the ability to keep on top of our ever-burgeoning to-do list remains an indomitable objective.

"Now that we've got the container garden weeded," Ralph said as we were drying off from our dip, "we really should mulch the pots and get some more seeds planted."

He's right, of course. Add those projects to the list. More chances to hone our self-discipline are close at hand.

Twin grandbabies doubles the pleasure

2011-08-22T06:21:00.000-07:00

Twins Ella Lily (left) and Maya Lilac with grandparents Ralph and Sherry Boas.

Simply Living
August 22, 2011

No pleasure is quite as pure as the sight of a newborn baby and that pleasure doubled when my husband and I attended the birth of our twin granddaughters.

Jenny and Brett live in Central Massachusetts. Last year, they rode a tandem recumbent bicycle across the country. This year, they gave birth to two babies. Doing things by twos seems to be this couple's norm. When they asked us to be there for the twins' birth, Ralph and I had no hesitation. We eagerly said "Yes!"

Two years ago, I was in the delivery room for the birth of my first grandchild, Atom, but Jenny's birth was going to be different since the babies were to be delivered by a scheduled Caesarean section. Hospital rules allowed only two people to accompany the mother. Daddy-to-be Brett had the place of honor, leaving one slot available for Ralph or me. Since Jenny was happy to have either of us in the operating room, we decided it was Ralph's turn to experience a grandchild's birth.

Brett's mother and I waited together after they wheeled Jenny away. About 20 minutes into the surgery, Ralph came back to update us on the progress.

"It's amazing! Incredible!" he gushed. "The babies are born and Jenny's doing great. Everything went well. It's almost unbelievable what they do."

His joy was so pure, his excitement so real — I was glad we decided Ralph would be the one to witness the birth.

In less than an hour, the surgery was over. Nurses wheeled Jenny and the girls back into their hospital room accompanied by new daddy and one awestruck grandpa. Kathy and I finally had a good look at our new grandchildren. Blond haired 7 pounds, 2 ounces Maya Lilac and her dark haired 7 pounds, 8 ounce sister, Ella Lily, were love personified.

"They're so big but so small," I thought as I held the swaddled bundles of bliss in my arms.

Little fingers, tiny toes…bright eyes take in a world suddenly so large. The magic of birth is one of life's everyday miracles.

Ralph and I spent a week in Northampton enjoying the wonder of newborn babies. We changed diapers, soothed the twins when they fussed and cuddled against their newborn sweetness. Being around babies is a transforming experience. It makes you see the world through different lenses and changes your perspective.

Each of us began life as tiny babies, dependent upon others for comfort, care, nurturing and sustenance. We enter this world innocent. Our needs are basic. Feed us, clean us, keep us dry and, most importantly, cradle us with love.

It's easy to let everyday worries, problems and cares predominate. It's easy to let family take a backseat to the needs of others. But being there for the birth of your child's child (or in our case, children) is a none-too-subtle reminder that family comes first.

We're back home in Florida now, 1,500 miles away from our two newest grandchildren. I have a strong feeling Ralph and I will be racking up those frequent-flier miles in days to come.

Simple orange flowers ask little, give much

2011-08-15T08:28:00.000-07:00

The gulf fritillary is one of the many butterflies attracted to orange cosmos

Simply Living
August 14, 2011

Its proper name is "Cosmos sulphureus," but I've always called it "orange flower." This unpretentious, hardy wildflower is one of my favorite blooms.

When I lived in Kissimmee, my yard overflowed with orange flowers. My first plants were a gift from a generous stranger, a gardener whose flower beds I had stopped to admire. She gave me seeds that I brought home and sowed. Most of the seeds sprouted, growing into tall, broad butterfly-attracting blooms.

Orange flowers do best when planted in a light, rich soil in sunny locations. Although tolerant of poorer soil and dry conditions, the plants grow larger and bloom more profusely when grown in enriched, irrigated soil.

Although the soil around my Kissimmee home was initially poor, I lived in a community of well-maintained lawns where neighbors were constantly mowing, raking and bagging clippings of St. Augustine grass. Since I knew how fast grass clippings break down, I made it a point to collect those bags as soon as my neighbors could place them by the curbside so I could dump them in my garden beds. With so many applications of free, biodegradable grass-blade mulch, the soil was soon rich enough to support a profusion of plants, including orange flowers galore.

Fast-forward two decades, and orange flowers no longer had a place in my garden. At some point, perhaps during a move, I had lost my saved seeds. Although I grew other flowers, I missed the orange ones that had always bloomed so consistently and profusely. Determined to correct the situation, I went on a wildflower hunt, searching neighborhoods in the Clermont area where they might grow. I found one such yard in Greater Hills, just down the street from one of my rental homes.

Once again, I knocked on a stranger's door. The lady who answered listened to my story and, like her counterpart in Kissimmee, was happy to provide me with seeds. It took only a few minutes to gather a small container of the black, quarter-inch-long spikes. I took them home to sprinkle on the flower beds, but I didn't plant them right away. Remembering how well they responded in Kissimmee to grass-clipping-enriched soil, I did some prep work. I mowed our yard, raked the clippings and deposited them in the garden bed before sprinkling the seeds on the soft, nitrogen-rich blades. As the seedlings grew, I kept adding grass clippings as mulch.

The young plants responded to my attentive care by growing quickly. They got taller, their stems grew broader, and soon bright, friendly orange flower faces appeared.Bees and butterflies arrived, landing on the blooms to gather nectar and pollen. When the flowers faded, seeds developed, and when the seeds matured, they fell down and sprouted soft mulch. Just as the orange flowers did in Kissimmee, the plants thrived in the enriched soil.

I love many things about this simple bloom native to Mexico. It is unassuming, pretty and cheerful. It attracts wildlife, reseeds readily and resists pests. It also makes great cut flowers and is one of the best blooms to use in pressed flower arrangements.

With so much going for it, it's hard to believe I went without this lovely plant for so many years. Fortunately, we've reconnected and have what I consider a reciprocal relationship. I provide the plants with good soil, water and mulch. They return the favor by being butterfly magnets for my yard and by filling my vases with saffron-colored blooms.

After a long hiatus, orange flowers are back in my life as a botanic expression of beauty, simplicity and the splendor of nature. Some relationships are too special to end.

Hello ibis...goodbye garden bugs

2011-08-07T19:05:00.000-07:00

The plumage on immature ibises is brown with white undersides.

Simply Living
August 7, 2011

An immature white ibis (Eudocimus albus) is using our container garden as its personal foraging grounds. This is the first ibis — juvenile or full-grown — to visit any of our gardens. We frequently see ibises by the lake feeding in the shallow water. But in the 20 years we've lived here, none has ever before ventured into our backyard where the container garden is located.

This bird must think he stumbled upon a bonanza!

In mid-summer when there is so much to do outside, the maintenance of the container plants tends to fall by the wayside. We continue to irrigate and are still harvesting various heat-loving vegetables, fruit and herbs. But other than brief forays to gather figs, basil, tomatoes or parsley, the area is mainly ignored.

This lack of attention has enabled a mean tangle of out-of-control weeds to flourish. The weeds have produced so much tall, bushy growth the already narrow aisles between rows have essentially disappeared. The garden has become a moist, lush, largely left-alone area — an ideal foraging spot for an immature white ibis.

Unlike adult ibises, which have white plumage with black wingtips, immature members of the species are mainly brown with white markings on their rumps, underwings and bellies. Both young and old have long pinkish-red legs and curved pinkish-red bills. Males and females look very similar, although the males are slightly larger weighing in at around two pounds.

The white ibis is a common wading bird in Florida and throughout the Southeast. Perhaps one reason the population of this bird has thrived when other wading bird species have declined is its ability to adapt to different habitats and foods.

These 2-foot tall trawlers tromp through almost any damp area — saltwater, freshwater, mud holes, marshland and short grass — to find edible delicacies such as snails, crayfish, crabs, worms, insects, frogs, snakes and small fish. With its long, curved beak slightly ajar, the ibis is able to probe the ground, plucking food by touch and sight.

In the garden, the ibis doesn't always walk on the ground and it doesn't always use its beak to probe the soil. Sometimes it gets right up into the pots, stepping from one container plant to another. Instead of poking the ground for insects, it plucks at spiders and bugs on the leaves above its head. I was amazed the first time I saw it standing in a 15-gallon pot of broccoli, stretching its curved beak upward to snatch some sort of edible from an overhead leaf.

While most birds are wary of people, the white ibis seems to tolerate a certain amount of human intrusion. On numerous occasions, I have surprised it in the garden. Although obviously startled by my sudden presence, the young bird didn't fly off. Instead, it moved a bit farther away as if to say, "All right, I'll get out of your way so you can pick your cherry tomatoes and gather your basil, but make it quick then get out of my garden!"

Having an immature white ibis frequent our garden has enabled me to learn so much more about this species than I ever knew before. I now know ibises are not nearly as nervous around people as are many other birds. I know they endure downpours by finding a place to stand on the ground and staying there until the rain stops. I know they spend a lot of time searching for food, eating the food they find and (much to my husband's dismay) leaving the discharged results of their diet right there where they've been feeding. I've also learned how difficult those large, sticky droppings are to remove from bare feet and the bottom of sneakers.

At some point, the young ibis will molt, changing color from brown to white. When that happens, there's a good chance it will give up its independent ways to forage with others. White ibises are highly social birds that normally breed, roost and feed in flocks. That means I have a small window of opportunity to observe a bird that I may never be able to follow so closely again. If the price I must pay for this unexpected opportunity is a bit of poo on my shoes, so be it. Sometimes it's a wiser move to scrape shoes than say "shoo!" to one of nature's fascinating creatures.

Even hummingbirds need moments of rest...

2011-08-01T09:23:00.000-07:00

It is a common misconception that hummingbirds never rest. They actually spend considerable time perched on thin branches.

Simply Living

August 1, 2011

Last winter, when the temperature dipped into the low 20s, the two bottlebrush trees in my yard suffered mild cold damage. Most branches survived, but on each tree, a single uppermost limb died.

Ever since, I've been intending to cut off those limbs. It looks silly when a healthy green tree has one obviously dead branch, especially right at the top. But as so often happens with minor projects, it took a back burner to more pressing matters. The trees remained untrimmed all winter, spring and summer.

Now that it's midsummer, I'm glad I procrastinated because I've come to realize that dead branches on the top of flowering bottlebrush trees have a purpose. They make ideal resting spots for hummingbirds. When these tiny fliers are not zooming from one nectar-producing cluster to another, they use the brown, leafless branches as perches.

I made this discovery while on the porch. One of the bottlebrush trees is about 15 feet away from the house, directly in front of where I was sitting. I was looking at the tree, berating myself for not doing the pruning, when I noticed the type of quick flying action that only hummingbirds produce.

I focused my attention on a tiny creature that weighs less than three paper clips. I saw it methodically circle the tree, poking its long beak into several flowers before alighting on the dead branch. Once perched, it sat. And sat. And sat.

When I think of hummingbirds, I think of them flying, their little wings beating a furious 60 to 80 times per second as they gather nectar from predominantly red-colored flowers. I know that to survive, they must consume anywhere from half to eight times their body weight each day, and that in addition to the sweet juice from flowers, they build muscle by eating protein-rich insects, spiders and pollen. What I didn't realize was how often they rest.

Hummingbirds spend just five to eight minutes of each waking hour eating. That leaves plenty of time between bursts of food-finding action to sit quietly, conserving energy. Rest is biologically beneficial because, when active, their little hearts beat about 1,260 times a minute, compared with 250 beats a minute when perched on a branch.

Perching suits these most diminutive members of the bird community. Their extremely short feet — which have three long toes in the front and one in the back, all with lengthy, curved nails — are practically useless for anything other than grabbing hold of thin limbs. Unlike other birds, hummingbirds are unable to walk or hop on the ground.

I squatted to get a better view of the bird in the bottlebrush tree. As I watched, the hummingbird scanned the sky from its top-of-the-tree vantage point. Just when I was beginning to wonder what it was looking for, two other hummingbirds zoomed in. In less time than it took me to register what was happening, the hummer buzzed off to chase the intruders away. Both male and female hummingbirds are territorial. Female birds defend their nesting territories and males protect what they consider their home turf.

I'm not sure if the bird I watched was a male or female, but I know it was successful in scaring off the other two hummers each of the multiple times they tried to approach the bottlebrush tree.

I had no idea that my avoidance of the pruning task would yield such positive results. If visits from hummingbirds happen when I leave dead bottlebrush limbs untrimmed, I wonder what would take place if I put off doing some of the other things on my outdoor to-do list? Let's see … the garden needs weeding, there's edging to do, plants to thin out, others to repot.

Hmm …I may have stumbled upon a procrastination justification!

One person's weed...another person's gift

2011-07-25T05:18:00.000-07:00

The tiny pink flowers of Portulaca pilosa, commonly known as pink purslane.

Simply Living

July 25, 2011

Until recently, our yard had a number of bare spots. Not anymore. All of a sudden, many of those exposed areas are covered with the tiny pink flowers of Portulaca pilosa, commonly known as pink purslane.

I didn't plant these undomesticated relatives of moss rose and I doubt if a green-thumbed gremlin is sowing seeds behind my back. No, my surprise blooms came directly from nature. Although some call them weeds and scorn their appearance, to me, pink purslane is a gift I'm glad to receive.

Portulaca pilosa is a Florida native that loves hot weather and tolerates drought. A low-growing succulent, it attractsbees, butterflies and birds. Although pink purslane is one of its nicknames, it is also called shaggy portulaca, pigweed and kiss-me-quick, one of my favorite monikers because it not only suggests the flowers' lipstick color but also its fast-growing pace.

Perhaps the name that best captures the plant's essence is chisme, Spanish for "gossip" because that's how fast the seeds spread. Portulaca pilosa propagates easily through underground rhizomes, seeds and broken-off pieces of stem. It also has the uncanny ability to lie dormant for up to 40 years before sprouting and bursting into bloom.

That must be what happened in our yard. Dormant seeds were probably disturbed during recent excavations. With the ground upturned, underlying seeds found themselves facing a perfect storm for germination. The intense summer heat, sudden showers and limited botanical competition encouraged sprouting. And sprout they did. When I walked back from the barn on a recent morning, I saw that several brown patches of dirt had vanished beneath carpets of bright pink blooms.

Not everyone greets purslane's ability to pop up unexpectedly with such an enthusiastic welcome. Many people consider this ground-hugging wildflower a scourge on the landscape. To them, it is an invasive weed choking out grass, popping up through cracks in pavement and creeping its way into unwanted garden space. They strive to eliminate all traces of purslane by whatever means necessary.

I don't feel that way.

Why waste time and energy spewing environmentally dangerous herbicides on a plant that has so much to offer? In addition to being an attractive groundcover that thrives on neglect, flourishes in places where few other plants grow and attracts wildlife, purslane is also a powerhouse of nutritious value. This edible herb is high in vitamins A and C, contains traces of iron, calcium, potassium and phosphorus and has more omega-3 fatty acids than any other plant source.

In a 2006 TV broadcast of The Oprah Winfrey Show, Dr. Mehmet Oz touted purslane's merits.

"Purslane is rich in omega-3 fats," he said. "Those are the healthy oils we want to coat our membranes and our joints. You can make them in salads. In my home, we mix them with yogurt and garlic and it's just spectacular."

I haven't tried Dr. Oz's concoction, but in my own lazy way I've come to appreciate purslane's edible qualities. As I do with sorrel, another somewhat acidic but juicy wildflower, I like to pluck off a few purslane leaves to munch on when I'm in the garden or taking a walk.

It is possible to make flour out of the plant's ground-up seeds or to sprout the seeds like alfalfa, but purslane's most commonly eaten parts are its tender tips and stems, which are tastiest when picked before flowering. Pinching back the plant at this stage has the added benefit of encouraging new growth, an important feature for those who value the sweetly sour flavor of this underappreciated potherb.

Purslane recipes are many and varied. The raw tips are good in salads and sandwiches but can also be steamed like spinach, stir-fried, pickled, used as a thickener for soups and as an ingredient in a number of baked dishes. Medicinally, the leaves make a soothing poultice for wounds and burns. Native Americans used a juice made out of purslane leaves to relieve earaches and traditional Chinese medicine uses it to treat infections and dysentery. Its syrup purportedly treats dry coughs.

It has been an unexpected treat to discover pink purslane in my yard. Finding a preponderance of volunteer plants that not only look pretty but also taste good and attract wildlife is nothing short of wondrous. Yes, they are weeds and, yes, they spread robustly. But is that really so bad?

Perhaps A.A. Milne had it right when he wrote, "Weeds are flowers too, once you get to know them."

New to gardening? Plant a cherry tomato!

2011-07-18T05:41:00.000-07:00

Tomatoes the size of large marbles grow in clusters on heat-loving cherry tomato plants

Simply Living
July 18, 2011

If you have never gardened before but want to begin, plant a cherry tomato. Fast-growing, prolific and practically foolproof, these marble-sized red, orange or yellow fruit (yes, tomatoes are actually fruit, not vegetables) make a wonderful first-time gardening project.

One plant is all you need. A single cherry tomato planted in rich, loamy soil will produce more fruit than most people can eat. I know because I have four, and that's three plants more than needed to fulfill the culinary needs of my family.

Unlike many other vegetables, cherry tomatoes like hot weather. Plant a seedling now and by the end of August, you'll have surplus tomatoes to share with friends. We grow our plants in 15-gallon nursery pots, but they also do well when planted directly in the ground.

Successful gardening of cherry tomatoes depends on three basic variables: location, soil and water.

Location: Choose a sunny spot. These members of the nightshade family require six or more hours of sunshine to do what they do best — produce prodigious amounts of bite-sized fruit. Because of their propensity to sprawl, give them plenty of room to expand. Seedlings might be little when purchased, but young plants grow quickly. That's especially true when planted in the right kind of soil.

Soil: We like a homemade blend of compost, manure and peat augmented with wood chips for aeration, but if you're a new gardener, you might want to buy a ready-made mixture formulated for vegetables. Miracle-Gro, Jungle Growth and Scott's are among the many companies offering such products. Some even include built-in time-release fertilizers.

Water: A regular irrigation schedule, supplemented by hand watering when needed, is necessary for good growth and production. Determining how often to water is a matter of experimentation. Tomatoes that are not getting enough moisture will have wilted leaves, while overwatering causes the fruit to split. We mulch our tomatoes heavily with grass clippings to preserve moisture and water daily. In areas where water requirements limit irrigation to twice a week, it helps to supplement by hand. Besides, spending time in the garden watering plants is a good way to become familiar with each plant's needs.

Like most garden plants, cherry tomatoes are vulnerable to certain insects and disease problems. Fungus and viruses can affect plant production. Caterpillars can munch leaves, while slugs, snails and stinkbugs can damage the fruit. Fortunately, potential problems are easy to nip in the bud when you are frequently outside watering your plants or harvesting fruit. We opt for hand-picking pests instead of blasting them with pesticides, but both methods are effective.

The biggest mistake I make growing cherry tomatoes is providing inadequate staking. A healthy plant can grow 6 or more feet tall and almost as broad. This year I thought I was being clever to surround each seedling with a bamboo teepee. For the first few weeks, I diligently secured the growing stems to the upright canes with garden twine, but before long they grew so fast, I couldn't keep up. When I enter the garden now, the teepees tilt precariously, and the plants take up so much space I can barely squeeze by.

In an ideal world, my staking and tying would have continued throughout the plants' long productive period, and no stems would be touching the ground, but this is hardly an ideal world. My lack of attentiveness resulted in limbs lying directly on the ground, where crawling bugs have easy access. I won't be harvesting those tomatoes. Fortunately, I won't need to.

The cherry tomato plants in my garden are producing more fruit than I can eat, so it doesn't matter if a few go to waste or wind up as the main course of an insect's supper. However, over time, many of those unpicked or dropped fruit will sprout into more cherry tomato plants. That's where all my present plants came from. They began life as last year's dropped fruit.

If you're a newbie gardener looking for an entree to the world of gardening, cherry tomatoes is the way to go. But be forewarned: Successful gardeners must be ruthless. One cherry tomato plant today will turn into multiple plants next season. When they do, thin out those volunteers mercilessly, saving only one or two of the healthiest-looking specimens as keepers. Do that, and your reward will be a controllable harvest of homegrown goodness.

Being a parent means living in an unending zone of crisis

2011-07-11T07:53:00.000-07:00

It's not unusual for a parent to inadvertently get locked out of a car but when a baby is locked inside, it's time to call 911,

Simply Living
July 11, 2011

There should be a sign on our front door that says "Entering Crisis Zone." Hardly a day goes by without some emergency commanding our attention.

Today's crisis occurred minutes after Ralph and I lay down for our midday rest. We were settling down on the bed — me with a book in hand, Ralph already sprawled out, ready to snooze — when the phone rang. It was on Ralph's side of the bed, so he picked up. Our daughter was on the line in near hysterics.

"What happened?" I heard him ask before he switched on the phone's speaker. "You locked yourself out? Where? And the baby's in the car?"

"In the parking lot at Target," my daughter explained. I could hear the trembling in her voice. "What should I do?"

Our 23-month-old grandson was inside my daughter's locked van in a Target parking lot. Unfortunately, the clicker and keys were in the car, too. When her shopping was completed, Amber had fastened the tired baby into his car seat, shut the door and instantly realized that she had locked the baby in — and herself out of — the vehicle.

It's an easy mistake to make. I once locked myself out of my car twice in one day! However, I never locked myself out with a baby in the car, and never in the middle of one of Florida's hot summer days.

"Let me call Target and see if the security guard can help," I said, as I hurried to the computer to look up the Clermont Target phone number.

While I talked to a helpful employee, Ralph used the cellphone to relay information to Amber.

"The security officer is trying to find you in the parking lot," he told her. "Wave your arms or do something so she can find you."

Unfortunately, in her anxiety, Amber neglected to tell me which Target she was patronizing. I assumed it was the one in Clermont, but I assumed wrong.

"I'm not in Clermont," Amber explained. I could hear our grandson's cries in the background. "I'm at the Target in Winter Garden."

Back to the computer I went, searching simultaneously for Target's Winter Garden phone number and for local locksmiths. When I got the Target representative on the line, her response was unexpected. "We can't help you," she said. "Call 911."

The locksmith said the same. "If the child is under 2," he explained, "you need to call the fire department. They'll come right out."

And they did. Our daughter called 911, and help quickly arrived. The van door was unlocked, and our grandson's tears stopped as soon as his mother picked him up. Everyone was fine, if a bit shook up.

"Well, that was unexpected," my husband said, as we walked back to the bedroom. "You never know what's going to happen."

He's right. You never do. The entire episode probably took less than 20 minutes, but it was 20 minutes of adrenaline- pumping tension for everyone involved. That's how life is. One minute you're lying down, ready to take a nap. The next minute you're in crisis mode, calling 911.

Maybe the only sign I need on my front door is one saying "Parents Live Here." Being a parent — no matter how old your children are, or even if your children have children of their own and no longer live at home — means living in a never-ending zone of crisis.

"Putting out fires," my husband said. "That's what we're good at."

I couldn't agree more.

Fireworks can't compare with nature's own sky shows

2011-07-04T05:40:00.000-07:00

Sky shows aren't always pyrotechnical...

Simply Living
July 4, 2011

Many Floridians will be attending firework displays tonight as part of their Fourth of July celebration. Pyrotechnics have been associated with Independence Day since July 4, 1777, a year after the first public reading of the Declaration of Independence in Philadelphia. In those days, revelers celebrated the day by lighting bonfires, ringing bells and setting off fireworks.

Although Congress did not make the Fourth of July an official holiday until 1870, people continued to mark the day by igniting black gunpowder and other explosives. Right from the start, fireworks became an Independence Day tradition accepted by all and loved by most.

Although I appreciate the spectacle of orchestrated pyrotechnic displays, they don't make my heart sing. Despite living in theme-park-crazy Central Florida, where, for the price of admission, one can attend extraordinary illuminations, I shy away from such over-the-top events. Even smaller, city-sponsored displays or backyard blasts of bottle rockets fail to pique my interest. Given the choice of watching fireworks light up the night sky or watching stars do the same thing, I choose stars every time.

I'd rather sit on my front porch on July 4 (or, for that matter, on any other day), gazing out and upward. With a cup of tea in hand, friends and family nearby, I savor the pleasure of nature's own sky show.

On past Independence Days, my stay-at-home pastime has yielded some amazing performances. I've seen beautiful moonrises reflected on the lake as well as moonless nights filled with twinkling stars. Flickering fireflies have added sparkle to the lawn, while fleeting meteors have showered the sky.

On nights when it has been stormy, lightning has illuminated the darkness. I've been entertained by the percussive tattoo of raindrops on the roof accompanied by jagged streaks of white and the roar of thunder. Heat lightning has been equally impressive. I've watched silent streaks of brightness do an electrifying dance.

Because of Central Florida's fabulous cloud shows, lightning-free Independence Days have also been captivating. Puffy pillows of shape-shifting clouds change color by the minute, capturing my imagination and inspiring awe. Why pay for fireworks that explode in patterns when cloud patterns are there, free for the watching?

But my passion for nature's own sky show isn't about money. It centers on beauty and the wonder of nature. Dusk is a special time of every day, holiday or not. Sunset is a dash of transition, dividing the day into light and dark.

The waning sunlight triggers activity for many mammals, birds, insects, amphibians and reptiles. Diurnal birds fly by in a "V" formation. As they head home to roost, nocturnal creatures are just waking up. A decided buzz underscores the evening hours. At dusk, an insect chorus presents a rising song accompanied by the steady croak of frogs and toads. Aerial entertainment begins with dragonflies, followed by bats, nightjars and owls. I get more pleasure watching the erratic flight of mosquito-catching bats than watching Roman candles, missiles or flowery diadems.

Even without artificial illumination, nature puts on impressive displays. And if you miss one show, there will be another — not only on July 4 but every night of the year.

The best part of any trip is coming home

2011-06-27T07:12:00.000-07:00

The last leg in any trip is the dirt road home

SIMPLY LIVING
June 27, 2011

Home. What a wonderful word. Only four letters but they encompass so much.

I was away from my own home last weekend to spend time with my very pregnant daughter and her sweet husband in Northampton, Mass. Jenny and Brett will soon be first-time parents to not one but two babies. Before the twins are born, I was eager to spend time with the child I birthed 30 years ago.

Northampton, Mass. is a vibrant college town nestled in a fertile valley where lush gardens and tall trees surround pretty wood-frame houses. Jenny and Brett live on the bottom floor of an older two-family building. It is a lovely place in an exciting area.

Our visit was the perfect balance of at-home and in-town time. We filled the hours with meandering walks through picturesque neighborhoods and intimate talks in the cozy quarters of Jenny and Brett’s house. We perused weekend tag sales as well as the offerings at local shops. In addition to tasty creations cooked up in their kitchen, we lunched at a favorite restaurant and participated in a strawberry shortcake supper to celebrate a nearby town’s 250-year anniversary. I was able to catch up with mutual friends with enough time left over to pull a few weeds in Jenny and Brett’s garden.

The trip was a success yet I was elated to return home.

Home. How happy I was to be back in my own bed with my husband by my side. My yard. My garden. My potted plants in the porch. My kitchen table. My favorite food in the fridge. Patterns and routines of my own creation.

Going away can be wonderful but coming home is the best.

I’m grateful to be so content. Some people struggle their entire lives to find a place where they feel so at peace. On my trip, I renewed contact with one such person, a young traveler friend who has spent years at a time in far off locales exploring different cultures.

“What do you want to do,” I asked her, “now that you’re back in the States? Where would you like to be? Do you want to settle down?”

I found her answer unsettling.

“I have no plans,” she said. “I could be anywhere, go anywhere, do anything I want.”

I suppose some people think her situation idyllic but to me the thought of constantly traveling from one place to another is disconcerting. Where is your home base when you are constantly on the move? Where are your roots?

In my mind, the very concept of home involves the putting down of roots. Home is a respite, a safety net, a place where I can retreat from worries, disappointments and woes. It isn’t always perfect but it’s always there. It is shelter, security and asylum when needed.

As I flew back from New England, I thought about home and pondered its meaning. I was on a full flight. Passengers who were either returning from or en route to a home of their own occupied every seat. Although we come from different backgrounds and live in different places, I suspect each of us share similar yearnings. At the end of our trip, we all want to arrive safely at our destination. We want to feel welcome and secure. We want to be home

I went away for a weekend and I had a great time. But the best part – the part I treasure most – happened after my drive back from the airport. It was when I stepped out of the car and into my husband’s waiting arms.

Each of us defines home differently. To my young friend, it’s a backpack and the excitement of exploration. To others it’s four walls surrounding a big hearth. And sometimes it’s as basic as a loved one’s embrace.

Effective weeding involves getting to the root of the problem

2011-06-20T07:31:00.000-07:00

The EZ Digger makes weeding more efficient

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 20, 2011)

I've been pulling weeds. My body is sweaty and smudged with dirt, but my mind is surprisingly clear.

Before working in the garden, mental weeds had infiltrated my thoughts. A muddle of small (and some not-so-small) problems had taken root in the fertile soil of my imagination. Bit by bit, they had multiplied, overshadowing seeds of reason.

Fortunately, a desire for fresh tomatoes broke the cycle.

I got up and went into the garden, brushing past unwanted growth on my way to the tomato plants. After filling my basket, I looked over the situation and made a decision. I set the basket down on the bench, put on my gardening gloves and got busy.

I've always liked weeding. There's a certain satisfaction to be had thwarting the spread of insidious invaders. A few good yanks can dislodge an intruder. A couple of more tugs and a stack of spent greenery has filled the wheelbarrow. Weeding is honest work that produces visible results.

I can't believe how quickly time went by as I unearthed one tenacious sprig after another. My husband was already in the garden. Knowing my mood and seeing me so unexpectedly occupied, Ralph tentatively approached with a question.

"Want to use my weeding tool?" he asked, referring to the EZ Digger, a plow-shaped hand spear he bought from Fedco Co-op Garden Supplies in Maine.

Ralph has been singing the praises of this weeding tool for months. He loves the way the 7-inch-long by 3-inch-wide blade with the tapered point slices through soil to release deep roots.

"You don't want to just pull out the tops," he's always saying. "To do a good job weeding, you have to pull out the roots."

Ever since he first tried the tool, Ralph has encouraged me to use it. Unfortunately, I have always shunned his advice, casting a deaf ear on his repeated pleas. In my mind, weeding is supposed to be hard work best done with brute strength and sweat alone. Any tool that makes it easier seems oddly out of place. However, this time when he asked, I accepted his offer. I picked up the tool and took it in my hand.

The sharp, pointy blade reaches deep in the ground, loosening the soil around stubborn roots. Rather than replacing the "yanks, grunts and tugs," it complements them, making the job more efficient and satisfying.

Ralph and I worked alongside each other compatibly. He listened to music on his headphones while replanting vegetables while I discarded worries and unpleasant thoughts with every pulled weed. I tossed stress and unhappiness on the compost along with piles of pulled plants. By the time we were finished, the garden looked better, and my mood had improved.

It's no surprise that gardening is therapeutic. Tending a flowerbed or a patch of vegetables provides far more benefits than food for the table or blooms for a vase. Gardening is exercise. It's also relaxation. Digging in the dirt — with or without a useful tool — dislodges worries, along with weeds.

But my husband is right: Regardless of how hard you work, weeds will return if you just break off the tops. Whether mental or physical, getting to the root of the matter is essential.

Find the root. Pull it out. Start over fresh.

Sometimes the only way to get out of a funk is to get into the gunk of hands-on gardening.

An outdoor spigot keeps indoor floors clean

2011-06-13T06:50:00.000-07:00

A simple spigot outside the entry door can help keep flooring dirt free

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 13, 2011)

We recently had our carpet cleaned for the first time in 20 years. After two decades of constant use, you'd think the rugs would be filthy, but they weren't bad at all. Except for a small area in front of the fridge and stove (yes, our kitchen is carpeted), we had no noticeable stains.

There are three reasons that our wall-to-wall covering stayed in such good shape for so many years:

•Instead of a plush texture, we chose a commercial-grade, tightly woven carpet.
•All spills and dirt are cleaned up immediately.
•We wash off shoes or bare feet before entering the house.

Residential carpeting tends to be thick and plush, chosen more for softness and appearance than function and durability. Commercial floor coverings are the opposite, selected for ease of maintenance, long life and lower cost. Of course, some carpets have all those characteristics, but they are usually pricey.

When we built our house in 1992, our wallets were thin and our needs were many. Instead of buying top-of-the-line residential carpeting, we bought an upgraded pad to put under an inexpensive, tightly woven commercial-grade carpet. The higher-quality pad provided a plush feel to an otherwise hard surface. Also helpful are the flecks in our carpet's predominantly blue color. The subtle shades of other colors help disguise dirt.

Although our carpet choice was somewhat unconventional for home use, it suited the needs of our family. At the time, we were two adults and four young children plus two (supposedly) outdoor pets. Comfort was as important to us as durability, since we have always spent considerable time on the floor sitting, stretching and playing with the kids.

We haven't been disappointed. Our low-end, commercial-grade wall-to-wall looks and feels good. It stood the test of time remarkably well.

With the right carpet, cleanup is easy. A battery-operated vacuum and damp washcloth work wonders to make messes disappear quickly. We seldom use anything stronger than plain water or soap and water to wash away those inevitable spills, "accidents" and tracked-in grit. The key to successful maintenance is on-the-spot spot cleaning. My cleaning mantra is: Immediate attention prevents retention.

An even more effective way to stop sand, garden dirt and assorted outdoor detritus from working its way into the rug is to make a habit of rinsing off shoes or feet before entering the house. In some cultures, removing shoes upon coming inside is a normal part of everyday life. Our family takes a different approach. We hose away potential problems. My clever husband installed foot-level spigots just outside our two main entry doors.

Ralph's foot-washing device was composed of a piece of PVC pipe tapped into a main water line. The pipe runs from the main line along the house to the doorway. At that point, a 90-degree elbow enables the pipe to turn upward for about three feet. Then, with the help of two more elbows and a valve, it crosses the wall before curving back down. This "U-shaped" design permits us to control water flow from a waist-high lever while rinsing our shoes or bare feet on the ground. It's a natural setup, very convenient and easy to use.

As someone who has owned rental homes for 35 years, I've seen my share of badly abused flooring. A careless resident can ruin new carpeting in a matter of months while a careful person can keep carpet looking new for years.

Living in a carpeted home can be pleasant if the floor covering meets the homeowner's needs. For us, comfort was as important as durability, low cost and proper maintenance. Add to the mix a skillful, inventive spouse and you have a combination too noteworthy to sweep under the rug.

A culinary equation

2011-06-06T07:35:00.000-07:00

Sweet basil is a flavorful herb that loves hot weather

Simply Living

Basil=pesto, and pesto=yum!

I'm no mathematical genius, but the above equation holds a simple truth. It's also true that there's finally enough basil in the garden to make pesto.

Basil loves hot weather, and the recent blast of tropical heat encouraged our basil seedlings to sport an abundance of new leaves.

Sweet basil is a fragrant culinary herb in the same family as peppermint. Although this familiar, easy-to-grow plant is supposedly an annual, in Florida it often acts like a perennial, reseeding itself in the garden bed.

Last April, my husband sowed basil seeds in several 15-gallon containers filled with a rich mixture of composted manure, peat and woodchips for aeration. Although the seeds sprouted in a timely fashion, that's about all they did.

"What's the matter with the basil?" I kept asking. "It's not growing much. Do you think I should buy some young plants instead?"

I was impatient. I wanted the basil to get big so that I could start snipping off leaves to make pesto. Pesto is a flavorful paste composed of basil leaves, chopped nuts, garlic and olive oil that Ralph and I use liberally in many of our meals. It seemed like the young plants, which had sprouted a couple sets of small leaves, were going to remain that size forever.

"Be patient," my husband insisted. "I planted plenty of basil. You'll have more than you know what to do with pretty soon."

I was doubtful then, but I believe him now.

Toward the end of May, when daytime temperatures climbed into the 90s, our container garden suddenly overflowed with basil-gone-wild. Overnight, scrawny seedlings filled out, turning into plump bundles of pungent goodness. Within weeks, I went from fretting over the lack of aromatic herbs to wondering if I could keep up with the supply.

Basil is native to India, where it remains woven into the fiber of everyday life. Worldwide, there are more than 160 named cultivars of this heat-loving plant. Some have variegated or curly leaves that, when crushed, emit the aroma of cloves, cinnamon, lemon or camphor. The leaves also vary widely in color, from purple to red, blue and various shades of green.

Basil has anti-oxidant, anti-inflammatory and anti-bacterial properties. Herbalists have long tapped the plant's value as a tea, tincture, infusion or essential oil. However, its most common use is culinary, with pesto topping popularity charts.

My pesto recipe calls for about two dozen broad basil leaves, rinsed, shaken dry and chopped to a fine paste. After placing the well-chopped leaves in a bowl or jar, I mince about half a cup of walnuts and add them to the mix. Over the top, I pour enough extra-virgin olive oil to cover the combination. Before stirring it all together, I add a couple of freshly pressed garlic cloves and a few shakes of a no-salt kelp seasoning powder.

Traditional pesto recipes call for pine or pignoli nuts. I like pignolis and occasionally use them for pesto making, but pine nuts are pricey. Walnuts work just as well, are less expensive, chop easily and provide a pleasing flavor and texture.

Another traditional ingredient is hard cheese. I prefer pesto with Romano or Parmesan, but my salt-conscious husband does not. We compromise by adding grated cheese at the table, as individually desired.

As much as I enjoy picking and inhaling the fragrant scent of basil, my favorite part of the pesto-making process is chopping the leaves and walnuts. In the past, I used a blender or food processor. Both appliances produce a consistently fine and smooth paste but are noisy and annoying to clean. Since I frequently make small portions of pesto, I need the experience to be fun.

That's why I chop the nuts and basil by hand.

I find the rhythmic sound of a smooth-bladed knife on a wood chopping block soothing in an I'm-forced-to-slow-down-and-enjoy-the-moment sort of way. It always amazes me how quickly the consistency of large basil leaves and whole walnuts changes after a few minutes of persistent blade action.

My basil concoction adds the flavor of summer to a meal of whole grain noodles, a stir-fry, mixed vegetable dish, homemade pizza or even a sandwich spread. For two people, one making usually lasts about a week, but soon I'll be preparing for winter.

The slightest hint of cold causes basil leaves to wilt, so until Ralph and I master the art of indoor herb growing, we'll need to keep the freezer stocked with frozen pesto. You needn't be a math whiz to see the logic in that.

Unidentified wildlife sighting...what was it?

2011-05-30T05:05:00.000-07:00

Was it a weasel?

A mink?

or, a more likely possibility, a fox squirrel

Simply Living

May 30, 2011

I saw a weasel or a mink. At least, I think I did. I was driving down a bumpy dirt road leading a prospective tenant to one of our more secluded rental homes when a medium sized animal dashed across the road.

My first thought was, “That’s a big squirrel.”

But something felt off.

The animal seemed too large for a squirrel and its coloring was wrong. Predominantly brown with a decidedly darker tail, it didn’t look like any squirrel I’d ever seen. As my car crept closer, the fur-covered critter stopped running and posed on its hind legs.

“Hmmm…,” I thought as I slowed the car, “I wonder what it is…”

Well aware that it was being watching, the mysterious mammal sniffed the air and looked around before deciding to head for the trees. That was when I knew for sure it was not a squirrel. When squirrels run, they scamper. Their bodies lack an undulating gait. The animal I saw was sleek and smooth. It moved like an otter. As it vanished into the pinewoods, it looked like a large inchworm on speed.

My encounter was over in seconds but I had sufficient time to make certain assumptions. Although it had an otter-like gait, it was not an otter. This creature had the same long, lean body type but it was furrier and smaller than a river otter.

“Is it a mink,” I wondered, “or a weasel?” I have never seen either in Florida but that doesn’t mean they are not here.

I continued on my drive and showed the rental house to the prospective tenants but my mind was on the sighting. When I returned home afterwards, I couldn’t wait to share the experience with my husband.

“I think I saw a weasel,” I told Ralph excitedly, “in the pinewoods outside our gate, although it could have been a mink.”

“There aren’t mink in Florida,” my sweet husband replied laughingly. “Are you sure it wasn’t an otter?”

I hate being alone when I spot wildlife. It vastly decreases the believability factor.

“I was definitely not an otter and I don’t think you’re right about minks,” I said as I walked into my office and turned on the computer.

Ralph disappeared into his own office and while he plowed through stacks of paperwork, I perused Florida wildlife sites.

It turns out that mink and weasels do indeed live in Florida but sightings of these elusive animals are rare. The Southern Mink, Mustela vison evergladenis, is a threatened species that lives mainly in three south Florida counties. Although Lake County is a long way from the southern mink’s home turf, its description in The Field Guide to Rare Animals of Florida – especially the part about the fur coloration - sounded spot on:

Medium sized (17 - 25 in) member of the weasel family, with the characteristic long, slender body, short legs, long tail, small head, and rounded ears. South Florida individuals are smaller than other subspecies. Fur is dark brown over most of the body and blackish brown on the distal half of the tail. Occasional specimens have a white patch on the chin or the chest.

Weasels are in the Mustelidae family, which also includes mink, otters, skunks and ermine. Like the southern mink, three species - the Florida weasel, long-tailed weasel and southeastern weasel - also reside in the Sunshine State. While weasels are not officially threatened, calculating statistics on their population has been difficult since they are so seldom seen.

Of the three types of weasels in Florida, all but the southeastern weasel live in Central Florida. Weasels are smaller than their mink cousins. These smallest of Florida carnivores have long, slender bodies, short legs and long tails, tipped in black. I was happy to discover that they are often compared in size to gray squirrels.

Although I have no idea if I’ll ever see this furry fellow again, I’m sure of one thing – I will be looking for it whenever I’m outside. Several years ago, I saw a deer in a nearby wood. I haven’t seen another deer since, but that hasn’t stopped me from scanning the forest with hopeful eyes. The same is true for wild boars, fox, coyotes and bobcats. I’ve observed them all on occasion but those occasions are rare enough to keep me always on the lookout.

There’s no question - spotting wildlife is exciting. Even fleeting encounters like the one with the potential weasel/mink make my day and fill me with awe. They also make me wonder: how many other animals am I missing? So much goes on in nature without our knowing it. Even now, as I ponder these thoughts, animals are on the prowl. It’s a humbling realization.

Postscript: Sharon, who read the print version of my column in the Orlando Sentinel, said I might have seen a Sherman's fox squirrel. After researching this "species of special concern" I think she may be right. Perhaps my sighting wasn't of a weasel or an Everglade mink after all.

The Sherman fox squirrel is the largest squirrel in the western hemisphere - about twice as big as the common gray squirrel. Its fur colors varies greatly so it is possible that the black tail I noticed along with the lighter colored body could have belonged to the fox squirrel. Another telling fact: fox squirrels are often found in pine forests - the very place where I saw my mystery animal - where they feed on seeds inside pine cones.

Lubbers under attack

2011-05-23T05:58:00.000-07:00

In the nymph stage, lubber grasshoppers have soft black skin with yellow and red stripes

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 23, 2011)

Every evening, my husband goes hunting. He doesn't carry a gun or a quiver of arrows. His weapon is a one-gallon bucket filled with soapy water. The prey he single-mindedly stalks is grasshoppers — specifically, the infamous lubber grasshopper. Over the past few weeks, my gentle, sweet husband has caused the demise of several hundred of these plant-eating monsters.

Landlubbers must really like our property because each spring, baby lubbers emerge to parade across the ground. Throughout Florida, Georgia and other Southern states, nymphs barely a half-inch long hatch out of eggs laid by adult females who cleverly deposited their eggs close to sources of leafy vegetation at the end of the previous summer.

Because each fertile female can produce more than 100 eggs, it's not surprising that springtime heralds a population explosion. With no predators except loggerhead shrikes (and gardeners like my husband), the land is littered with these hungry nibblers.

Unfortunately, lubbers don't stay little for long. Young grasshoppers go through five stages of development, called instars. By the middle of summer, they have expanded to four inches, thanks to a voracious appetite for tender greens. Although lubbers will eat most vegetation, they are especially fond of rain lilies, amaryllis and other bulb plants. Their exoskeleton, which is initially soft, black and striped with bands of yellow and red, turns hard at maturity. As they mature, their color also changes from black to a dull yellow with spots of red and black.

Most grasshoppers can fly, but lubbers cannot. Their wings are not large enough to support the weight of these fast-growing invertebrates. However, being unable to fly isn't a handicap. They are adept at hopping and crawling, and their bright color warns potential predators to stay away. When that's not a sufficient deterrent, they also have the ability to hiss, spit and spray foul-smelling foam. The entire package yields one formidable, forbidding insect.

Despite its put-offish appearance and unpleasant defenses, I don't think my husband would have taken on lubbers had they stuck to ornamentals. They didn't. Their fatal mistake was to target Ralph's broccoli plants.

At this point, I should mention that broccoli is my husband's nirvana. If he had to choose one vegetable to eat, it would be no contest. Broccoli would be the hands-down winner.

This year, with more time to garden than he has had in a long while, his broccoli plants were a wonder to behold. Apparently, the lubbers thought so too. Every evening, several dozen settled on the uppermost leaves of the broccoli plants to nibble their way to sleep.

Seeing so many of the destructive insects in such a docile and vulnerable state was more than my husband could tolerate. It triggered his attack mode.

"They're so easy to catch," he said as he walked up and down the row brushing handfuls of bugs into the suds. "You should try it."

I declined his invitation but tagged along to watch the show. I was already familiar with lubber hunting.

Before my husband's broccoli-incited warfare, I had spent years waging my own battle with these plant-eating bugs. Their ability to chew their way through some of my favorite flowers had activated my own inner hunter. I have not only drowned the dastardly critters in soapy water but have snipped them in half with a scissor, stomped on their massive bodies with a heavy-soled shoe and even, in desperation, squished them between gloved fingers.

According to my husband, my methods are too gross. Instead, he takes a nightly walk through the garden rows, handpicking lubbers off the leaves of his precious plants. His diligence has paid off, as I see the lubber population waning. The question is: Will his efforts minimize next year's population?

Meanwhile, whatever grasshoppers have eluded Ralph's skillful hunts are growing larger, bolder and more unapproachable by the day. They have yet to molt into their final and most intimidating instar — the yellow-shelled stage, when they look like miniature lobsters and behave with bravado more akin to a bear than a bug. When that happens, I'll be curious to see how my husband responds. Will his nightly vigil continue, or will the lubber's bluster deter his efforts?

My husband's a brave man with a strong desire to defend his broccoli, but I fear he may have met his match in the mature lubber.

"When they get bigger, I'll just put on gloves," he insists. "Big, thick rubber gloves."

Rubber, meet lubber. Let the battle begin!

Too many books

2011-05-16T05:28:00.000-07:00

After sorting, books are neatly stacked on shelves

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 16, 2011)

Books. I love them, but I have too many. The bookshelves in my house hold a lifetime collection of hardback and soft-cover selections. Practically every room of our house contains one or more bookshelf. The printed words of famous and lesser-known authors even fill the attic, where stacks of too-special-to-give-away-but-not-special-enough-to-display tomes are quietly stowed.

I love books, but clearly, my passion was out of control. My husband and I had accumulated printed matter to the point where — at least for me — it provided more pressure than pleasure. I hated seeing silverfish eat their way through pages, and my nose didn't like the layer of dust that settled on the bindings. "Musty" and "messy" defined the shelves. In some rooms, books overflowed onto the floor. The time was ripe for a reassessment of our bibliophile predilection.

Last weekend, I took it upon myself to tackle the problem. Difficult as I find it to dispose of the books, I made myself sort through our horde of written words.

Books differ from other material items. I can toss away old clothes and knickknacks without much trouble, but when it comes to an author's typeset words, I hesitate. Do I really want to give it away? Will I miss it if it's gone? Will the children want it? Or the grandchildren?

When Ralph and I started our family, my in-laws gave us a box full of children's books. "Ferdinand the Bull," "Harold and the Purple Crayon" and "The Possum That Couldn't" were among the many wonderful picture and story books my kind in-laws had thoughtfully saved. My father-in-law carefully re-bound frayed covers and taped over rips before passing the books to the newest generation. I tried to follow their example and, for the most part, succeeded. When I was sorting through the bookshelves the other day, I didn't toss away those treasured tomes. I placed them in a glass-covered bookcase for my own grandchildren's use.

Other books weren't as lucky. I filled about 10 boxes with old almanacs, novels, essays, collections of stories, reference works and schoolbooks. As difficult as it was to decide which would stay and which ones would go, the times we live in made my work easier.

We purchased most of the books in pre-computer days. Back then, if you wanted information you had two choices: Go to the library or buy a book. Ralph and I did both. But why hold on to books if the information they contain can be easily found elsewhere? These days, if I want to look something up, I turn to the Internet instead of paper pages. I still frequent public libraries, but my need for a vast in-house library has considerably waned.

The fact that I have whittled down our collection by getting rid of few hundred books doesn't mean my house has become a literary-free zone. It never will. Even though we have entered the e-book era, I still love the feel of a real book in my hands. I love the excitement of turning pages and staying awake into the wee hours to finish a novel too captivating to put down. One of life's simple pleasures is being surrounded by special books whose words either resonate with meaning or trigger precious memories.

As difficult as it was to start this project, the finished product was worth the effort. I found getting rid of stuff to be extremely satisfying. My house looks better, and that makes me feel better. I love books, but I've found it important at certain stages of life to learn to let go. Letting go is a sensible release, and de-cluttering is an exercise in delight.

Two owls strive for second chance at parenting

2011-05-09T05:41:00.000-07:00


Mama screech owl with eggs in her recycled mailbox nest

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 9, 2011)

Screech owls are a hoot. I know this because I've been following one pair's antics for the past two months.

For the fourth consecutive year, a nesting couple of Eastern screech owls has returned to a recycled mailbox mounted under the porch eaves. If their chosen location were any closer to our house, it would be inside.

This is the second mailbox the diminutive owls have occupied. The first mailbox is also under the porch eaves but mounted lower, in a more exposed location. The female laid four eggs in that box, but three of the eggs fell out, at which point she abandoned the fourth.

It might be helpful to interject a few words about screech owl nest-building skills: They don't have any.

A screech owl nest is hardly a nest at all. The basic process is this: Find a hollow space. Claim it. Lay eggs. No laborious construction effort is required, and no soft, downy material is gathered. Although comfort isn't paramount, efficiency is. Screech owls make fast work out of finding a site so that they can get down to the important business of raising a family.

Hardwood trees are the most common nest location for screech owl nests. Cavities abandoned by flickers or pileated woodpeckers are particularly popular. I'm sure there are oaks in our woods containing screech owl nests, but I haven't sought them out because … well, I'm spoiled. The pair that has adopted our recycled mailbox has made bird watching so easy.

I can sit in my porch practically underneath the nesting female and listen to her shift about in her metal home. The female owl is a fidgety creature. I guess that's understandable when you spend all day and night inside a large tin can filled with nothing more than your accumulated eggs and whatever tidbits of food your devoted mate has deposited on your doorstep. Flying insects, moles, mice, lizards and spiders are among the edibles screech owls consume.

When the female fidgets, she makes the eggs roll, reminding me of balls in a bowling alley. Without a lip to hold them in, it's no wonder she lost three eggs from the first mailbox.

Eastern screech owls lay one egg every other day until a clutch of two to eight eggs (the average is four) is produced. Incubation lasts 28 days, counted from the time of the first egg. While screech owls mate for life, their partnership includes definite male/female roles. For instance, the male plays no part in the actual incubation. His job — and it's a job at which he excels — is to be a loyal protector and provider of food.

Every day, while his partner sits in her metal hothouse, Mr. Owl positions himself in one of three nearby perches, on a branch of a bottlebrush tree, in a clump of bamboo or next to the porch door. It is his job to sit there, less than 20 feet away from his family, to watch over and protect them.

A screech owl's small size — less than 10 inches tall and weighing under 8 ounces — makes it vulnerable. Predators include larger owls, raccoons, weasels, snakes and even blue jays. By spending his daylight hours so close to his mate with a clear view of her nest, the male owl is ready to thwart potential attacks. I have yet to see him defend his nest, but every day I watch him watch his surroundings.

The male's job description changes at night. Dusk signals the end of guard duty and the start of provider mode. A few days ago, I sat outside just before dark to see if I could watch the male owl leave his perch to catch food for his mate. I parked myself in a chair less than three feet from his perch and commenced waiting.

He saw me. I saw him. He didn't seem the least bit threatened or disturbed by my presence.

At one point, he stepped a few inches closer to the edge of his perch, a signal that flight time was imminent. I put my book down and focused all of my attention on the male screech owl. I consider myself an astute observer. Nonetheless, I missed his takeoff. An owl's flight is so fast and silent, even a mindful watcher can be caught unaware.

Being privy to the screech owls' steadfast devotion and unwavering patience reminds me of a nursery rhyme I learned long ago:

The wise old owl
Sat in an oak.
The more he saw,
The less he spoke.
The less he spoke,
The more he heard.
Why can't we be like
That wise old bird?

Making memories one berry at a time

2011-05-02T05:47:00.000-07:00

Third generation picker, Atom Fischler, feeds a ripe blueberry to his grandpa

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 2, 2011)

Picking fruit is one of our family's favorite pastimes. Our fruit-picking fervor is obvious by the stains on our fingers and the smiles on our faces.

We're as passionate about the start of each fruit's season as most Americans are about the onset of their favorite sports. Hang a bucket from our necks and point us in the direction of some early Sharp blueberries or white-flesh peaches and we're as excited as ticket-holders on the way to the stadium.

In Central Florida, late April through May is blueberry season. This year, that most-anticipated period coincided with a visit from our daughter and son-in-law. Jenny and Brett are (for the moment) our only children who don't live in Florida. They live in Massachusetts, where forsythias and daffodils are blooming but blueberry season is still several months away.

Two days after I picked them up at the airport, we woke up early, packed the van with our assorted gear and headed over to Mark's Blueberries in Minneola. We've lived in Groveland for 20 years and, if memory serves, we've been gathering fruit at Mark's blueberry fields for that entire time.

Picking berries has always been a whole-family event. As soon as they were old enough to walk on their own, our children learned to follow rudimentary u-pick rules:

•Pick only ripe fruit.
•Don't break plants in the process.
•It's OK to eat a little as long as you pick mostly for the bucket.
•Don't dump a bucket over, especially when it's full.

Diaper-clad toddlers, like my grandson, are just beginning to understand these lessons. At 22 months old, Atom is in the "green berries are yucky" stage of learning. He listens attentively to directions like "just pick the blue ones," then proceeds to pluck whatever berry he can grab. He has the concept down, but it needs fine-tuning.

My children were equally oblivious when they were little, but repeated exposure to foraged food sped up the learning. When they were little, we went road-trip-crazy, picking our way cross-country and back and forth between Cape Cod and Florida.

Whenever we traveled, we sought out local u-pick farms. During those trips, we picked all kinds of edible delicacies, including apricots, figs, peaches, apples, cherries, assorted berries and tropical fruits. One farm worthy of repeat visits was Westmoreland Berry Farm in Colonial Beach, Va. It's a long, tedious drive from Florida to New England, and it helped to stop along the Rappahannock River in the northern neck of Virginia to gather quantities of red raspberries, plump blueberries and sweet peaches.

Memories of those long-ago times drifted back to me with Jenny and Brett visiting. Returning to Mark's with our children and grandchild reminded me of the days when our own kids were little and we spent so much time outdoors enjoying one another's company while picking fruit.

On Saturday, Amber and Atom joined us at the blueberry field. Together we trolled the rows in search of the largest, sweetest, most flavorful fruit. When Atom tired, we took turns holding and talking to him.

As usual, Amber was her industrious self, picking only the cleanest, sweetest fruit. Jenny was less fussy, as was I. To me, it's all about filling my bucket. I care less about variety and size than I do about quantity. Fill it up, take it home, start eating — that's my philosophy.

My husband is a grazer. He likes to mosey along in search of that elusive bush no one else has found. For him, each blueberry-picking excursion is a quest for that perfect find: a bush heavy with clusters of tasty, ripe berries. Despite our diverse picking styles, we managed to score enough fruit on Saturday to last until Wednesday, when Mark would reopen and Jenny and Brett had to leave.

The plan for Wednesday was to pick berries before heading to the airport. Amber, Atom and Jenny's brother Tim joined us at the field, and together we gathered more than 20 pounds in less than 45 minutes. When we returned to the house, Brett added three boxes of blueberries to his already bulging bag, and before long, another batch of fresh-from-Florida fruit was en route to New England.

I was sad to say goodbye to my daughter and son-in-law but I was glad to send them off with a taste of home. The flavor of love makes everything sweeter. With Mother's Day around the corner, it pleases me to know one of our most basic family traditions is being carried on by the next generation. A family that picks together sticks together, and in Florida, during May, that means blueberries.

Dueling Vines

2011-04-25T06:38:00.000-07:00

A wall of jasmine covers a large section of the clay wall

Simply Living

Two flowering vines are competing for my attention. Japanese honeysuckle and Confederate jasmine are both blooming right now. Cloying aromas fill the air. In our yard, both plants grow next to each other on the clay wall, about 40 feet away from the wisteria, which stopped flowering just before the others began. When I walk outside and take a whiff, it’s impossible to tell which fragrance is which.

I’ve always liked vines. In addition to their enticing scents, I find vines inspiring. They offer so much potential. Filled with strength and determination, these botanical climbers twine upward, stretching toward the sky. Wispy tendrils wind around whatever material is handy in a steadfast quest for support and height. Their movement is compelling. Even when vines sprawl on the ground, they do so with abandon.

“Mine! Mine!” They seem to exclaim, “The world is my banquet!”

A vine’s hunger for real estate is insatiable. If something nearby is climbable, the vine is right on it. It doesn’t matter if it’s a tree or trellis, wall or woodpile. As long as there’s something to cling to, instincts kick in and a steady rise upward and outward begins.

Often, that rise is a vine’s undoing.

An overly ambitious climber might warrant removal. Several years ago, my son and I painstakingly tore out a solid wall of passionflower vine, which I had foolishly started from a single small plant. I did the same with wild morning glory, another equally aggressive grower.

Both vines thrived along the clay wall. They liked it so much they proceeded to sprawl across the wall and up the hill like out of control steamrollers. However, instead of flattening every living thing in sight, the vines embraced them with smothering hugs.

That’s the problem with some vines. Their very nature gets them in trouble.

I have an uneasy feeling that past mistakes are about to be repeated. The problem isn’t with the honeysuckle or even the more aggressive jasmine vines. It’s with the wisteria. The wisteria took off this year as if injected with growth hormones. Pumped up and on the run, it’s become the Barry Bonds of botanicals.

From my office, I look out at the clay wall. To the right I see the wisteria, no longer blooming but lush with verdant foliage. It fills about a 30-foot-long stretch. To the left is a 20-foot expanse of Confederate jasmine, the white star-like flowers aromatic and full. Both vines have managed to encompass large swaths of land while the less aggressive honeysuckle has stayed in small islands of resistance.

“Don’t let us die!” honeysuckle vines seem to cry. “Don’t let us be buried beneath botanical bullies.”

It has happened before. Neither Mexican flame vine, coral honeysuckle nor cypress vine could hold their own against more dominant climbers. The phrase, “survival of the fittest,” usually refers to animals but it applies just as easily to plants.

My intention with the clay wall has always been to see it covered by a succession of flowers. I envision a wall of color and different scents, one bloom and fragrance fading into another as months go by.

Unfortunately, it hasn’t exactly worked out as planned.

Apparently, vines don’t coexist as harmoniously as I had hoped they would. Each species is greedy for as much square footage as it can grab. In that way, I suppose vines are like people. They want their space and their neighbor’s space too. Harmonious succession? They could care less! Cooperative interaction? I don’t think so!

That’s too bad because vines have so much potential. Then again, so do people.

Discovering DVR allows more time for nature

2011-04-18T06:18:00.000-07:00

THE BIG BANG THEORY -- One of the shows Sherry Boas likes to DVR -- Brainy best friends Leonard (Johnny Galecki, right) and Sheldon (Jim Parsons, left), can tell you anything you want to know about quantum physics, but when it comes to dealing with everyday life here on earth, they're lost in the cosmos. Neither fully understands that scientific principles don't always apply in matters of the heart - until they meet their sexy new neighbor, Penny (Kaley Cuoco, center), a friendly screenwriter/waitress from the Midwest who also happens to be newly single.

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 18, 2011)
The television industry calls digital-video recorders "time-shifting" devices but to me, a DVR is a stress-busting time-management tool that makes modern life just a little bit easier.

A few months ago, our home became one of the 46 million TV-watching households in the United States that use some sort of digital–video-recording device. Many have a standalone DVR like TiVo added to their cable television package. A few others record television shows directly onto their computer hard drive. Because Ralph and I live outside of any cable provider's territory and since the technology to marry television to computer is still in the courtship stage, we joined group three: consumers who use a set-top box with a built-in DVR purchased through their satellite provider.

Our new unit looks very much like the satellite receiver it replaced. My capable, thrift-conscious husband installed the unit himself with help from the satellite company's telephone support staff. When he finished, we sat down in the living room and picked up the remote.

I am not the most tech-savvy person. I can't count how many times I've struggled to find the desired button on various devices. I expected the usual confusing configuration when we picked up the new DVR remote but was pleased to find it surprisingly straightforward. Even I, a reluctant learner when it comes to any new gadget, figured out how to use the remote in a matter of minutes. Button arrangement is sensible and intuitively designed. Moreover, the unit's capabilities are impressive. We can select in advance which programs we want to watch and the DVR will record them even when the television is turned off. We can choose to record individual programs or weekly shows and can even program the unit to record only new episodes instead of repeats of any previous recordings.

I had heard many good things about DVRs before we got ours but I had no idea this new technology would have such a positive impact on our lives. I realize now that prior to having a DVR, one of the things I unconsciously structured my day around was television viewing. If a show I wanted to see was scheduled for a specific time, I made a point to be home then even if doing so was inconvenient. I often stayed up too late to watch something interesting and I missed many programs altogether because they ran the same time as another show or when I was unavailable to watch. Thanks to the digital-video recorder, those situations no longer occur.

Our little set-top box has made convenience paramount. I watch what I want to watch when I want to watch it. I no longer have to be home at a certain hour or swap sleep time for entertainment time. An additional benefit is the ability to shorten my TV time by fast-forwarding through commercials. Advertisers may not like this feature but I love it. The DVR has enabled me to reclaim control over television viewing.

However, as good as a digital-video recorder is, it is not perfect. The system is unable to correctly record programs that have delayed start times due to breaking news or sporting-event overtime. Also, for some inexplicable reason, one of the buttons on the living-room remote control doesn't work. The bedroom unit works fine but the mute button on the living room remote is dysfunctional. Tech support's explanation was a verbal shrug. "The remote doesn't work the same way on all televisions," the technician explained. "There's nothing we can do."

These are small glitches in an otherwise well-designed system.

Raving about a DVR may seem out of character for someone focused on appreciating the simple things in life but the reality is our set top-box has helped me enjoy my surroundings with a less-stressed attitude. It has allowed me to have a more regular sleep pattern and to spend more time outside enjoying nature.

Set the timer. Let the recording begin!

What's a stinkbug taste like? Don't ask!

2011-04-11T05:32:00.000-07:00

Two brown marmorated stinkbugs mate on an unripe mulberry

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 11, 2011)

Stinkbugs are a malodorous lot. But, as bad as they smell, they taste even worse. I know this because I have eaten them, though not intentionally.

My experience with stinkbugs involves mulberries and the gluttonous way I pick and eat fresh fruit. When I'm picking, I can't stop eating. I pluck one ripe morsel after another, popping them into my mouth with abandon.

Unfortunately, on numerous occasions, an unobserved insect taints the taste. Stinkbugs like mulberries, too, and because these half-inch-long bugs can quickly move from one side of a berry to another, they are quite easy to overlook when picking fruit.

What's not easy is getting rid of the spit-it-out-immediately sensation that happens as soon as stinkbug meets mouth. In a word: Horrific! Imagine a mouthful of rancid oil mixed with the numbing sensation of Novocain. That description doesn't do justice to the stinkbug's powerful punch.

Indigenous to Asia, the brown marmorated stinkbug slipped into the Western Hemisphere less than 15 years ago. These agricultural pests, which were discovered in Allentown, Pa., wasted no time sucking the juices out of fruit, vegetables, flowers and farm products throughout North America.

I can't remember exactly when stinkbugs began feeding on our mulberries, but we've had them long enough to make their avoidance part of our mulberry-eating experience. When we pick berries at our house, we put on shoes to avoid fire ant bites, wear old clothes in case of stains and do our best not to inadvertently ingest stinkbugs. The trick is to slow down enough in the eating process to examine each berry BEFORE ingestion. That's my undoing. I'm not nearly as careful or patient as I should be.

The oh-so-unpleasant odor is the creature's defense. It's hard to be critical of any animal's desire to protect itself from danger. If I were about to be consumed by a giant predator, I'd do my best to scare my enemy away, too. For a stinkbug, defense comes in the form of a scent gland in its thorax between its first and second pair of legs. When punctured, crushed or in some other way threatened, the gland produces a substance that smells (and tastes) foul.

Although stinkbug infestations are a growing problem for farmers concerned about crop damage, this winged insect poses no threat to humans. Stinkbugs don't sting, bite or harbor diseases. As long as people refrain from handling or eating them, they will never experience the insect's pungent odor.

I accept the existence of this malodorous pest as just another obstacle to overcome in the quest for nature's sweetness. Sometimes in life, we bite into more than we can (or want) to chew. The stinkbug's scent is a gagging reminder that gluttony is not a desirable path in the search for goodness and that sometimes it's best to take things slow, pick cleanly and proceed toward our goals with patience instead of an overwhelming desire for more.

Pause before plunging? Kingfishers do!

2011-04-04T06:53:00.000-07:00

Perched on a bamboo pole in the middle of the lake, a belted kingfisher takes time to survey its surroundings before plunging into the water after another meal

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 3, 2011)

Belted kingfishers are busy birds. They spend a good part of their day pursuing food. Small fish, dragonfly larvae and water bugs are fair game for these year-round residents of Central Florida.

I've been having fun watching one particular kingfisher that has claimed our lake as its private watering hole. From my porch-side perch, I can observe the kingfisher on its own perch, a bamboo pole that sticks out of a submerged peat island.

Like ospreys, herons and cormorants, the belted kingfisher uses that airy vantage point to scope out its surroundings. This bluish-gray bird with a white belly, white neckband and oversized head employs keen eyesight to survey an underwater smorgasbord.

The kingfisher is an exceptional hunter. When diving, it swiftly navigates through the top 18 inches of water to capture prey. Its long, pointy beak minimizes splash while maximizing speed. Its beak is such an aerodynamic appendix that many Japanese bullet trains mimic its design. Its eyes are also special. It has a transparent third eyelid, and its lenses function both under water and above.

The other day, I watched as the kingfisher dive-bombed one hapless prey after another. Each time, the crest-headed bird chose a target before plunging headfirst into the shimmering depths. Within seconds, it returned to the perch with its catch clamped in its pointy beak. Before eating — great gulps taken with an uplifted head — the bird killed its prey by repeatedly banging it against the bamboo cane.

As fascinating as it is to learn about the kingfisher's habits and watch it hunt, my favorite thing about this frequently observed water bird is its distinctive call. Scientists describe a kingfisher vocalization as a rattling cry, but I think of it more as a beckoning trill. Whenever I hear it, I stop what I'm doing and look around until I locate the source. If I'm lucky, I catch sight of the bird while it's flying. Belted kingfishers often vocalize on wing when they're about to take yet another headfirst plunge into the water.

I don't know where my kingfisher lives, but I'm excited to find out. Kingfishers nest in deep burrows along the edges of lakes and rivers. They often share their tunneled abodes with swallows. Along the banks of our lake are many potential nest sites in vertical walls of clay, kaolin and sand. In some places, bored holes already exist. For a long time I've wondered what animals made those holes. Now I realize that at least one of those holes could be a kingfisher's home.

Kingfisher courtship happens in springtime. The male bird woos a potential mate by trying to feed her a freshly caught fish. If she accepts his culinary advances, the birds mate, build a nest and raise a family. Often they raise several families. During one nesting season, a single pair of kingfishers can produce three sets of offspring.

Kingfishers are monogamous and remain together throughout the breeding season. They also share much of the work of parenting. During daylight hours, the male relieves his mate by sitting on their brood of five to 10 eggs, but at night the female takes over. Eggs hatch in 20 days. That's when the real work begins.

A brood of hatchlings requires more than 100 fish a day. Fortunately, both parents pitch in. They feed their young by regurgitating fish and aquatic invertebrates into the opened mouths of their hungry horde. It's no wonder the kingfisher is seldom idle. Parenting babies is demanding work.

The belted kingfisher may be a busy bird, but taking time — making time — in my own busy day to watch its exploits has the surprising effect of calming me down. Worries dissipate as I sit near the water's edge, snapping off photos. Tensions ease as I listen to the belted kingfisher's trilling call and watch it survey the landscape from its bamboo perch.

It's hard to spend as much time as I'd like doing things that make me happy, but sometimes a bit of self-indulgence is worth the effort. Even a busy bird like the belted kingfisher takes time between fishing ventures to digest its food and consider its surroundings. Only then does it take another plunge. Shouldn't people be able to do the same?

A sweet addiction

2011-03-28T06:31:00.000-07:00

Black mulberries go through several color transformations before they are completely ripe and ready to eat.

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 27, 2011)

I'm having a hard time controlling myself. Mulberries are ripe, and I can't stop eating them.

This year's crop is the biggest ever, and for some reason the birds — cedar waxwings, in particular — have not arrived to eat them. That leaves more berries for me to devour, and devour them I have. I can't seem to keep my mulberry consumption under control.

Pick a bowlful. Eat a bowlful. That has been my pattern. A couple of hours later, I'm at it again. By the end of the day, I'm wishing I had exercised some restraint.

"I don't feel so good," I told my husband the other night. "I think I may have overdone it a bit with the mulberries."

"You think?" he responded rhetorically, while directing his gaze toward my purple-stained fingers. "How many did you have today?"

"More than I'd like to admit," I admitted. "You know how I am with berries. I have no self-control."

Confession time: I am a berry addict. Put me in front of ripe fruit and you'll have a hard time prying my greedy little fingers away. That's especially true when the fruit is growing not on shrubby bushes or prickly vines but on huge trees.

My friend Pat recently moved to Florida from New York. He had never seen a mulberry tree, so I invited him to see and sample ours.

"Isn't it a bush, like in the nursery rhyme?" he asked.

"Not even close," I said, as we approached a grove of mulberry trees laden with ripening fruit.

Despite what "Pop Goes The Weasel" suggests ("Round and round the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel"), the mulberry is not a small plant. It's a large, deciduous tree. Several of ours are more than 30 feet tall and equally as broad.

The fruit develops on new growth and hangs from bendable limbs accessible by both adults and children. There are no thorns to contend with on this powerhouse of productivity, and it is one of the first plants to bear edible goodies in spring.

On our property, we grow three kinds of mulberries — white flesh fruit, black flesh fruit and red mulberries. The latter are native to America, but both white and black mulberries originated in China and were imported to this country in the 1700s.

Silkworms feed exclusively on the leaves of white mulberries. In Asia, the trees are an integral part of the silk-making industry. In the United States, the primary use of mulberry trees is to provide shade and attract wildlife.

Dozens of birds feed on the early season fruit. People — especially children — also find the abundant berries a welcome addition to their pre-summer diet. Unfortunately, the sticky purple morsels aren't as popular with parents, who have to clean up messes made by stained hands and juice-splattered feet. The mulberry's messiness has caused many a tree to meet an untimely demise.

On our property, we don't mind the mess. Sure, throughout the growing season, our fingernails are purple, and we have to remember to remove shoes before entering the house. But that's a small price to pay for such an easy source of tasty treats. We especially prize white mulberries because they provide all the goodness of the dark-skinned fruit without nearly as much mess.

My only problem with mulberries is my lack of self-control. How much goodness is too much? Is it possible for something to be too sweet? I'll get back to you on that. Right now, a mulberry tree outside is calling my name. I have berries to pick.

Well...well...well...

2011-03-21T11:48:00.000-07:00

Getting wet is all in a day's work for the crew of All-Water Services

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 20, 2011)

One of the things I cherish about living in the country is our pure, sweet well water.

The well we drink from is 80 feet deep. The well driller who installed it 20 years ago said he tapped into an underground river. In digging, he unearthed fossilized shells and shark teeth that I keep on a shelf in my office. Every time I look at them, I'm filled with awe for not only the remarkable history they contain but also the deep, reliable source of drinking water they represent.

We are dependent on our water, so I knew we were in trouble one recent night when I turned on the bathroom spigot while getting ready for bed to find a mere trickle of water.

"The pump's out," I called to Ralph, who had already gotten under the covers.

It was 11 p.m. and pouring outside, but he reluctantly got up. We rounded up the needed equipment — umbrella, flashlight and hammer — donned some warm clothes and headed up the hill to see if we could fix the problem.

Anyone who depends on a well for household water and irrigation learns to identify and (hopefully) fix some common well and pump problems.

A few taps with a hammer on the pressure switch will occasionally bring a stalled motor back to life. Ants that get into a pressure switch can short it out. Remove the ants and, if you're lucky, the problem goes away. Pressing the reset button on the control box will sometimes save an expensive visit by repairmen.

The other night we tried all the above, to no avail. The pump wouldn't start no matter what we did. The remaining option was to install a new control box, a fix that had helped in similar situations before. If that didn't work, we'd have to call in the well driller.

We went back to bed and slept restlessly, thinking of ways to avoid the expense of a new pump.

Early the next morning, we hit the Internet and phones. We located a control box and our helper, James, drove into town to get it, then came back to replace the old one with the new. When he was done, we had thrown $250 into a hole that still didn't pump water.

By then it was midmorning, and the inconvenience of living without running water was beginning to show. In the kitchen, dishes covered with the sticky remains of oatmeal and blueberry pie filled the sink. We were using buckets of lake water to flush toilets and brushing our teeth with the stale supply from our emergency stash — bottles we'd put aside months ago.

Ralph dialed well drillers to see who was available on short notice. Several calls later, he contacted the crew at All-Water Services Inc. in Groveland. Derrick Brigmond, the youngest member of the family-owned business, said he could come by in the afternoon.

Around 1 p.m., the workers arrived. By then my kitchen looked like a disaster area. With my youngest son home for spring break and my daughter and grandson expected for dinner, I could feel my mood sinking into a hole about as deep as the well that wouldn't work.

About two hours and $2,850 later, a new pump and motor were in place.

"The motor was fried," said Darren Brigmond, as he and his son packed their equipment. "It could have been hit by lightning or it could just have been age. It's hard to tell."

It is hard to tell when the problem you're dealing with is 80 feet underground in a secret river. Fortunately for us, that river is still flowing with enough pressure to supply us and our plants with the high-quality water we've come to treasure.

Good, clean water is one of life's most basic needs. It is so essential that we take it for granted until something happens and the water is gone. The next morning, when I turned on the tap to brush my teeth, I did so with renewed appreciation for one of life's most precious commodities.

An old adage says, "If you spend money like water, you'll always be broke." But as I recently learned, if your well is broken, spending money may be the only way to make sweet water flow.

Three blooms...three memories

2011-03-14T12:08:00.000-07:00

Purple wisteria

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 13, 2011)
I've done a bit of traveling lately, but I haven't left home. The fragrance of newly bloomed plants has taken me back in time and across the miles to remind me of places and people I love.

Sweet alyssum was the first flower to trigger a memory.

I was visiting my daughter at her Winter Garden home, where she has planted her first entirely-on-her-own garden. I hadn't been to Amber's house for several weeks, and although I'd heard about all the vegetables and flowers she was growing, I'd yet to take a tour.

We were chatting as I stepped outside, but a strong whiff of a familiar scent stopped me midsentence.

"Is that alyssum?" I asked, looking around. Just outside the door, a cluster of fragrant white blooms hugged the ground. "It is alyssum! It smells just like Grandma's yard in Seattle."

Suddenly, instead of standing in Amber's backyard, I was 3,000 miles away. I was in front of my mother-in-law's home on N.E. 147th Street, where blankets of white and purple alyssum poked through the concrete next to the garage. Whenever we visited, the sweet aroma of alyssum flowers was there to greet us.

I have always loved that smell and the memories it triggered. Grandma Boas died last year, and the next-door neighbors bought her house. Our days of sitting in Grandma's flower-bedecked living room overlooking Lake Washington are gone, but as long as I can smell alyssum, I can be there in my mind.

When I returned home from visiting Amber, I ordered a packet of "honey-scented alyssum" seeds called "Summer Romance" from Renee's Garden.

My second journey began in my own backyard.

I was taking out the trash on the last day of February when I noticed a rush of color against the clay wall. I put the bags in the trash can and went over to where a stand of mature wisteria vines covers a section of carved-out hill. The day before the vines were bare, but overnight it had rained. The wisteria responded by producing masses of purple and white blossoms. I lifted a pendulous cluster of blooms to my nose.

One whiff and I was back on Cape Cod.

On Cape Cod, wisteria signaled the end of winter. After several months of cold, gray, wet and snowy weather, it was a sign we were eager to receive. In April, vines that ambled over stone walls and climbed sagging trellises burst into bloom. The air was heavy with their aroma. I'd go outside with clippers and return home with a basket full of blooms. Vases of wisteria brought springtime indoors.

It has been years since I lived on the Cape, but one sniff was all it took to transport me to back in time. I was a young mother in our hand-built house in the woods. The kids were little. They were busily drawing pictures on a long roll of brown paper spread across the pine floor. I stood in the kitchen listening to their chatter as I cleaned up after the midday meal. On the windowsill behind the sink sat a huge bouquet of wisteria flowers. With each dish I scrubbed, I inhaled the sweet promise: "Winter is over! Spring is here!"

My third olfactory journey was closer to home. In fact, it was right here at home. Ralph and I were on our way to the junk pile in search of some paving stones to use in the garden when I smelled perfume in the air. Our junk pile is a few steps beyond a grove of citrus trees. We have only a few trees, but even one orange tree blooming will fill the air with an intense perfume.

The smell of orange blossoms is the aroma of home. It speaks of Florida and sunshine and family time together. When I first moved to Groveland, groves of citrus trees still covered the hills. There are far fewer now than there were in the 1980s, but the trees that remain still stop me in my tracks. Their heady fragrance proves the past is not over — at least not completely.

As long as scent can trigger emotions, a bit of yesterday will always be here. People who say time travel is impossible must never have taken a flight of fancy. That's too bad, because it can be quite a trip.

I'm hiding...come find me!

2011-03-07T05:25:00.000-08:00

Small phone + large stack of papers = a frustrating search

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 6, 2011)

"Have you seen the phone?"

I ask that question several times a day. So does my husband.

It's usually followed by one of us saying, with (I'm embarrassed to admit) more than a hint of self-righteousness: "Where'd you leave it?"

The second question is followed by a frantic search that escalates in proportion to a series of accompanying queries. On the surface, the questions seem helpful. In reality, they're anything but.

"Where'd you have it last?" "Did you leave it in the car?" "How about your pocket?" "Did you check your purse?"

The answers are (in order):

"If I knew where I had it last, I wouldn't be traipsing around the house picking up pillows and looking under papers muttering expletives."
"No."
"I already checked."
"It's not in my purse, and why do you always think it's in my purse, anyway? How about in your shorts? Maybe you had it last, not me."

After a while, one of us lights upon the brilliant idea of calling the missing phone from our land line. Of course, we could have done that initially had we thought of it, but we didn't.

We weren't thinking. That's the problem.

So, we make the call and somewhere in the distance a familiar tune beckons.

"It's in the bedroom!" or "It's coming from the porch!" or "It's right here on my desk! Yeesh! I looked there twice! How could I have missed it?"

Pick any of the above. At one time or another, we've found the phone in each of those places.

The object of our attention is a simple (translation: outdated) clamshell design. We could text with it and take pictures if we wanted to, but we don't. We bought the phone for one reason: to talk. Of course, to do that, the phone must be present, and as far as I can tell, it doesn't come with a feature that lets aging boomers locate the device when they forgot where they left it.

Marriages thrive on a diet of mutual respect, appreciation and tolerance. I love my mate and enjoy his company, but when we're searching for a misplaced cell phone, he drives me crazy.

That's probably because his mannerisms mirror my own. We're both frequently preoccupied and shamefully forgetful, and our forgetfulness is vexing. No one wants to be that person — the one who is constantly wondering aloud where she left this or put that.

Yet here we are. We have become our parents. We've entered the "muttering" phase of life, when things refuse to stay put and some yet-to-be-discovered force causes small objects such as cell phones, keys and important notes to vanish inexplicably.

Until the phone rings and the wayward object is located.

Promises ensue.

"I will try harder," I vow, "not to leave the phone in the car, on my desk, on the porch or (all right, I admit it) in my purse."

I promise to try harder to focus on what I'm doing. I will pay more attention. My husband promises, too. Time passes. If we're lucky, we make it through an hour. Then it happens again.

"Have you seen the phone?" I ask as I wander through the house.

Tiny ants...big OUCH!

2011-02-28T04:36:00.000-08:00

Immediately after a red imported fire ant nest is disturbed, the ants launch a merciless attack.

Given the choice of wearing shoes or not wearing shoes, I always opt for going barefoot.

But being barefoot is dicey in a state where the potential for ant bites is great. Floridians whose unshod feet touch the ground are apt to come home with painful stings inflicted by a tiny insect with a long name: Solenopsis invicta Buren.

Nicknamed RIFA, for red imported fire ant, it's one of two species of fire ants that live in the Sunshine State. The RIFA is widespread, but Florida is also home to a less common species known as the native or tropical fire ant. Neither of the species takes kindly to being stepped on, and they respond to such unwarranted behavior by attacking mercilessly.

If you spend any time outside, you know what I mean. According to a University of Arkansas report, these powerful dirt movers infest more than 275 million acres of land in the United States and Puerto Rico and inject their venom into millions of people annually.

Although we call them ant bites, what we really experience are painful stings.

Fire ants grab the attacker's skin with their strong mandibles to inject a venom that causes an immediate, localized pain. Within minutes, a red, raised spot usually develops, followed a day later by a white, pimple-like pustule that itches like crazy.

Because each ant can sting repeatedly — and because several ants often attack simultaneously — multiple stings are the norm. It's not uncommon to run away from a fire-ant encounter with dozens of stings.

Ubiquitous as fire ants are in our lawns, fields, driveways and sidewalks, they were not always a part of the Florida landscape. In the early 1900s, these South American natives made their way into the southern United States by way of cargo ship. Early seafaring vessels used soil as ballast, and it's likely the dirt-dwelling ants came aboard inadvertently and were then unloaded in America.

Once here, the ants prospered. Colonies multiplied and spread rapidly. Red, imported fire ants now populate every county in Alabama, Florida and Louisiana. They exist in parts of Arkansas, Georgia, Mississippi, Oklahoma, North Carolina, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas and Puerto Rico. They have even made their way to California, Missouri and across the Pacific to Hawaii.

The insidious fire ants can't tolerate cold. If temperatures drop to freezing for more than a couple of weeks, the ant colonies die. Fire ants dig into their complex underground burrows for protection. Although they don't hibernate, they are increasingly less active when it's cold outside.

Although it isn't exactly barefoot weather, winter is the safest time to venture outdoors shoeless in Florida. I mention that because as of this past week — if judged by fire-ant activity — winter is officially over. My feet are proof. At the start of the week, I was going barefoot, but by the end of the week, I wasn't. My toes were so dotted with ant bites that I refused to leave the house without some sort of foot covering.

From an entomological point of view, fire ants are fascinating critters. They have complex social systems, unbelievable strength and an impressive ability to adapt to a broad range of environments. But that doesn't mean I have to like them.

The bottom line is that these small insects with the big sting are painfully annoying, practically impossible to avoid and incredibly difficult to eradicate. The best we can do is tread carefully and keep a spray bottle filled with vinegar handy. If applied immediately, white vinegar helps quell the discomfort of a fire-ant attack.

Being barefoot may be my preferred state, but practicality trumps preference when it comes to fire ants. I may hate shoes, but I love the way they protect me from ant bites.