Christmas 2015

T'is the week before Christmas and all through the house
Every creature is stirring including the mouse,
The stockings are hung and are half full already
The fam will be coming with 4 dogs a'plenty.
The kitchen is turning out marshmallow treats
The vacuum is on and the beds have fresh sheets
The board games are dusted and ready for fun
The menu is planned but there's work to be done.
Not everyone celebrates the way that we do
Some live behind dumpsters and have nothing new
No one to sit down with, in warmth and good cheer
No one to hear stories, no one to be near.
It just takes a minute, or maybe a couple
To give of your time to the folks who have nothing
To learn their first name and talk for a while
Reach into their lives with an ear and a smile.
And if you can do it, it's a wonderful lift
To bring them a blanket, or gloves, or a gift
It will lighten their burden, and maybe your own
May Humanity start in our hearts here at home.

--Nanci

An Inside Straight

The wind is howling outside, winter is near, and sun is streaming through the windows. That's California for you.  We are grateful for putting up the G-in-a-B a month or so ago.  It is a tube metal A-frame structure with vinyl sheeting to house the tractor and riding mower, and smaller equipment that could stay out but is better off protected.

More cats arrived @ the place next door but we haven't seen them since the first few days.  We are toying with a feral of our own now that we know the dogs are receptive and it seems so lonesome still without Yolo.

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday in a lot of ways. Sometimes we've got a houseful, sometimes not; sometimes we're home, sometimes not. It's an in-the-moment kind of holiday and embracing whatever comes. So when we're home, it's bird and dressing, masheds and gravy, fresh cranberry, some type of pasta, a bunch of veggies, a dessert, and rolls.

We didn't have fresh apricots on hand for the fresh cranberry and improvised with figs from the freezer and brandied apples from the pantry. The marinated tray had some green beans and pepperoncini from the garden. The pasta had all garden sauce and seasonings, which was fun.

The bird was all natural, but previously frozen ... so what does that make it ... not quite fresh but ? The Hubs brined it, and we had enough room to put both kinds of stuffing -- my Aunt Myrt's famed bread sage (or garden sage), and Randy's savory cornbread.

Almond Roca was new, and it was easy. It is basically salted caramel beyond the soft ball stage with chocolate & chopped roasted almonds piled on. We tried a pumpkin pie fudge, with fresh pumpkin from last year that had been pureed and frozen. Fudge is too rich and sweet, and this was too, so the next batch will be half the sugar for the flavors to balance out.  I think it might be a keeper with some quantity adjustments.

Fall is salted caramel and apple season, and just for fun we crushed a small piece of AR in a jar of cooling caramel and that opened up a whole new world.  Next year will probably be full of yummy experiments with natural sugar substitutes for our sugar sensitive friends & fam, and developing a line of fresh caramel flavors. And now that hearts are broken with marshmallow, who knows what else.

The herb garden is now picked clean and we're using the oven as a dehydrator.  Small dehydrators work and so do hooks in the garage, but we are up against holiday giving ideas and there is a lot to do. We set a 175 oven with 6 trays of herbs in a single layer, and left the doors cracked open so it dehydrates and not bakes. We rotated often and the herbs crumbled and were easy to clean. Extra treat: small mason jars at the Dollar Tree - two for a buck - that are just the right size.

The kids did the white tornado in the kitchen, and then we all had a nice big piece of Madelyn's homemade apple pie, before some heading off and some playing Yahtzee until the carbs took hold. The day ended too soon,  like always.

So Black Friday is a blogging day, chatting with friends, drinking coffee late into the afternoon, and hanging with the Hubs&Co.  I was happy to see our beautiful new stove in action. And there's still a full weekend before it's back to work.

Marshmallow Fluff

2 egg whites at room temp
1/4 t. cream of tartar
(IN A STAND MIXER, beat on medium and high until soft peaks form. Set aside)

3/4 c granular sugar
1/2 c. light corn syrup (we used a little less)
1/4 c water
pinch of salt
(COMBINE in small saucepan over med heat, bring to boil stirring often, and use a candy thermometer for it to reach 240 degrees - turn off.)  Tip: our stove cooks a little hotter so we fluctuated between low and medium and took our time getting to 240 degrees but it did not burn.

MIX. Turn the stand mixer on low and slowly drizzle the hot sugar into the egg mixture. Once added, increase the speed to medium high for 7 minutes until stiff, glossy peaks form.  Add 1 1/2 teaspoons of vanilla extract and beat 1 more minute on high.

Store in airtight container in refrigerator for up to 2 weeks.

The Change

The farmers have begun turning over the soil in the alfalfa fields for the first time since we arrived. Slowly they work the fields, day after day, first with a rough machine that cuts through the parched soil in large clumps and then with other tools to break it down. With every row the ground squirrels scurry away.

Hawks line the trees and electric poles, and circle from high above, happily picking off dinner.  This week, a large Hawk proudly stood its ground in the middle of the road, knowing I would stop for him, and I did. We looked one another in the eye, in what was a very long staredown in bird time but probably less than 5 seconds in mine. Once that was settled he flew off to preen himself and I made my way to the drive.

Through the weeks, the soil has turned a dark mocha color as it is finely churned.  Sunflowers are coming, we hear, and that means bees. I'm already making plans for an extended garden and a special pocket for my EpiPen. How I wish we had a 2nd floor balcony to sit out and watch the field come to life over a cup of java.

Someday these fields will be an orchard of almonds to begin a lucrative and productive crop. His livelihood and lifestyle depends on a bountiful and high yield harvest, but we wonder what it will be like to no longer sit out at night with the world at our feet looking out at the long, open land.

We are into Fall now, and thankfully the promise of El Nino. The temperatures already cool to the 60s at night and the Hubs enjoys being outside.  Another Fall will come and then Winter, without the sheep squatters who grazed on the alfalfa these last few years. We will miss them skirting through the temporary electric fence, and playing King of the Hill on our pile of shredded bark. Once the transition is complete, we are looking forward to the end of open trenches that draw so many summertime mosquitos.

Yolo cat is gone, sadly hit and killed. Our sleepy little street is busy with trucks during harvest and our animals aren't used to that. Although we can never replace him, we are in the market for a new country-wise outdoor cat (ideally a friendly feral) to keep the field mice at bay. 

I love this time of year. Fresh pumpkin puree is waiting in the freezer for muffins and scones and holiday pies. Salted caramel sauce is selling again, and the new stove will have its maiden voyage for turkey day. I am excited to cook the sides right along with the bird in the small center oven - especially simplifying the timing challenges of Thanksgiving. 

Happy Fall to all.

The Real Deal

It was a simple plan to beautify the exterior and protect it from wear.  We had interviewed and hired a siding company because they could preserve the original siding and install a vapor barrier and new siding over the old stuff that was flaking away and needed to be protected from further decay.

When the crew arrived, they realized the siding had to go, because it was loose and bowing and impossible to put the new over the old.

I was heartbroken. We were told it was original to the house and we were serious about preserving it.

I railed against the wind. And then reluctantly. From work. I agreed.

I continued to worry all morning that we had not made the right choice. It is a charming home, and perhaps somewhere in the future a family might want to authentically restore it. Around noon the Hubs who was project managing started texting me. The project was underway, and there were some exciting discoveries.


The top layer was not the original siding. Look!

Under the porch along the front of the house they discovered like-new lath and plaster walls. Un-insulated. That explained a lot.

The south wall is a big 2 story section with the office and hall bath below, and the Dormer guest room above.  Under the top layer they found ugly green vertical siding with insulation dating to the 60s.  Under that was a layer of solid horizontal tongue and groove hardwood they guesstimated to be from the 20s or 30s. It was in nice shape, with weathered patina and a couple of tins of Sheik condoms tossed in the walls. (Rudolph Valentino was very big.)


And there in a tiny little corner under an original electrical panel was one tiny section of rough hewn vertical tongue and groove slats that everyone is pretty sure was the real deal from 1902.

The north wall is the largest section, with the kitchen and dining room down, and a large bonus room up.  There were no layers other than the top layer of siding, and just enough insulation to cover the ground floor. We had thought the a/c unit wasn't strong enough to cool the bonus room, but now we know...

No one would have bothered insulating the upper level because until about 6 years ago it was unimproved attic space.  Now that it's a bonus room, we will be grateful to have fixed that problem.

We got to see the old chimney that used to go to the wood burning stove in the kitchen. The top of the chimney is still on the roof and it's all sealed up behind the walls. We got to see all the straw nests the birds built in the space above the porch.

With added insulation, repairs made to long-ago damaged support beams, and a permanent fix for a couple of incorrectly anchored windows, and maybe this sweet old gal will last another hundred years.

I'd like to think that.

A Good Kind of Old

I have fallen in love with listening to someone old.

My father's wife, who outlasted me with enough grace and patience to become a cornerstone of my adult life, is now in her 90s.  One might think - 90 - wow - her body must be hunched over with a mind that is completely unaware of her surroundings.

A dozen years back, she sold everything and moved into a very nice residence for the elderly, with a pool and gym, a 4 star restaurant, and several hundred others who were transitioning through the phases of old age. By everything I mean, she sold, gave away or donated the house she and my father shared, all the stuff accumulated over a lifetime together, and had just a little room to bring a few favorites.

And then she called me up for advice on how to date, it had been so long.

She took up the internet in earnest to keep in touch, and learned to Skype and began reading my blogs. As her hearing worsened, she sought out better phones and amplifiers, and instructed us how to better enunciate and modulate our voices. We don't bother with large family groups anymore, or restaurants, because it's no fun for her watching other people talk and laugh without her. We visit her in small groups where the quiet of her home helps the communication.

When her eyes started to go, she pursued often painful treatments to slow the deterioration.  She bought floor lamps with large magnifiers to play cards with her friends, and a magnifying machine so she could read and manage her business affairs.  When those tools became less useful over time, she did not give up. Even with a serious stroke,  she worked hard to regain her independent living status.

There is little waste in the discussions we have together. They are rich and deep when you reach extreme old age.  What is it like to be living somewhere people are all old?  Death is not swept under the rug, or viewed as separate from life, I am told. It is ever present in conversations and empty chairs. Does she find that depressing?  Not at all. Everyone accepts the stages of life. There is sadness, of course, but also inspiring examples by watching others cope with worse difficulties and still managing a very good quality of life. I was excited to hear her say it is a hopeful place to grow old.

Do people squabble living in such close quarters?  Not so much anymore, but people are people, so sometimes.  She fills her time with a large group she meets for breakfast for laughter and storytelling about grandkids and great grandkids. They talk politics, and living trusts and investments, the state of our banking system and how in the world there will be a successful bailout in Greece. Some evenings there are musicians who play, or excursions into the city for plays and lectures.

I marvel that this is 90s in the modern world of good medicine and nutritious food ... and good genetics.

She worries she is difficult to understand and it is hard to communicate with her.  {Which in old speak means, she is not hearing from family as often as she'd like, and she is feeling her world contract.}

I laugh with her and tell her stories that in every way connect her to my life. What I really want to do is reassure her how blessed we are to have her so completely herself, in reasonably good health, with an active and inquisitive mind. 

I begin to hear fatigue in her voice, and I know it's time to go. And then I wait for it, the sing song-y lilt in her voice when she says: I love you Nanci Anne!  And give that husband of yours a big hug and a kiss for me!

I hang up thinking that I want a thousand more conversations like this, about life and love and the view looking back. I have told her this, and she smiles through the phone and says if we don't have time to finish them all, there will be plenty of time to talk to our heart's content in the next life.

New Territory

As I sit looking out this morning over the lavender, the lawn and to the big trees beyond, the shadows are long and the leaves are backlit in the color of Kelly green.

On this spot an old abandoned house was given a new lease on life. So, too, a little feral cat appeared one day last year, part of the Feral Recycling Program to give it a second chance.  At first, the little cat would peek from behind a fence, curious but wary.  He lived under an unoccupied home, and foraged for himself until food and water appeared regularly, and he fell into the groove. He lays at the doorstep now, stretching his paws long and comfortably on the side of the house which in catspeak means come out and play. The dogs watch from the house as I sing, 'You'll never get away from me' from the musical Gypsy.

After a cuddle, he prances ahead to the tune of 'Following the Leader' on the way to the food bowl, and I am amazed this wonderful cat could have been overlooked.

Out front there is a gangly shrub we nearly cut down before realizing it was a pomegranate tree. Boy was that a near miss.

This spot was also where a young dog found its way back to usefulness.   It didn't take long to discover her forgiving and kind nature and the unlimited potential of life lessons about love and trust and facing down prejudice.

And just the other day we watched a territorial dispute between two big birds.

Around here, birds of prey grow up glorious, and large, and well matched in size and maturity.  Several varieties of hawk and owl are plentiful and their territories often collide, but we rarely get to witness the exchange.

We were eating dinner when the Hubs saw it first - look! look! - and as I fumbled to focus on the flurry of activity, he ran for the camera and quietly eased out onto the porch.

A large hawk had chased something into the trees.  A beautiful, large barn owl hung upside down with talons clinging to a branch that clearly could not sustain its weight. Moments later, with a heavy thud, it hit the ground on its back. The owl flipped over and spread its wings wide, with an expression of surprise. (I'll bet!)

From the ground, the owl bowed its head and shook it back and forth, back and forth, and looked up and beyond the fence. It repeated this gesture several times from the ground, wings spread, without moving otherwise.  Evidently we were watching a situational struggle for domination without the fierce interchange of a fight.

We thought the owl was injured, but it wasn't: its' eyes were locked beyond our vantage point on the Hawk sitting nearby, staring intently back at the owl, wings folded, and leaning forward.  There was no ambiguity in the message: this is my turf and you need to move on. 

The hawk didn't move and the owl didn't move, and I'm sure the owl was wondering how it would be able to safely extract itself from the situation and save face. It was then the Hubs moved a little closer, and the owl took the opportunity to pivot around to face us, snap his wings in close and take off towards home.  The Hawk coolly watched with a satisfied win.

Later, we watched the hawk family fly from their nest at the top of the trees, teaching their young to ride the currents.

 

 

Tailgaters

I decided to work on the Friday before Memorial Day but I was still out of sorts with my decision when I hopped on I-5 headed south for the 40 minute commute.  The road was packed with vacationers, big rigs, boats and trailers and quads in trailers all behaving themselves in the slow lane, making an early getaway.

A minute or so into the commute I noticed a big rig driver in the fast lane. Hmmm, that's strange, I thought: I like truckers and they are usually awesome and courteous drivers to share the road.

This guy hung out in the fast lane like he owned the whole darn road. For over 10 miles as commuter cars stacked up behind him, he lumbered along.  He was nose to nose with the truck on the right - were they friends? playing a game? - for miles.  I was convinced he'd move over when he eventually passed, but he didn't. There was a truck a ways in front followed by a pick up pulling a boat, but there wasn't room for me to pull to the right and pass the truck before having to slow to 45 or so.

I was first behind the truck and everyone knows rules for the front car to try and dislodge the clog if possible.  I moved a little towards the center to catch his eye, flashed my lights, smiled and gestured for him to move over.  Hello?

So much for my A-Game ... so I got close, moved a little to the left so I could see him and laid on the horn a little.  HELLO?

A company name.  No. None of those 'To report my driving, please call ... numbers'. Not even a license plate. Hey...

By now the cars were 50 deep trailing tight like bumper cars on a rail. They wanted me to do something.

The Causeway was coming up, and the Veteran's Bridge, and I knew the truck had to slow to make it up and over, so I prayed he'd find someplace to squeeze over. And that is when I got a clear shot of the miles and miles of clear open road the trucker was hogging by being in the fast lane.

On the downslope, a guy in a Camaro had had enough. From midpoint in the pack he roared into the slow lane, swerved in and out inches from other cars and flew past me to create an opening in an almost-too-small-for-a-car space between the trucks. Truck right and truck left braked ... and for the first time I saw the driver glance in the mirror.

Several cars charged into the slow lane and raced forward to follow the Camaro, not realizing until it was too late the gap had closed and they were trapped in the slow lane watching us sadly trail by.

When we finally neared the 99 interchange where the road opens to 3 lanes, he turned on his blinker and began to move over.  But that was too late for me: I floored it with the windows down and fist raised in the air, and something else too, yelling some very unladylike things as I sped past.

I glanced in the mirror to see the commuter colony jettison past him with similar gestures and comments. Road rage. So that's what it's like.

I see 'em no see 'ums

Black gnats / no see ums. They are a blight to our idyllic life here in the country. They are as small as the head of a pin and not often noticed or felt until an impossibly itchy bite swells to an inch or more that lasts a couple of weeks.

What began as a general interest in repellents and organic alternatives quickly became a serious and urgent desire to do something about those damned bugs.

UC Davis and other reputable research organizations say there is no repellent on the market that gives relief from no see ums.  We did some research and checked it out for ourselves. We bought about 15 products and spot tested. Sure enough: Deet.  Picardin. Skin So Soft. - even the chemical, bad for you repellents didn't work.

The farmers and staff really suffer from the first week of May until the weather turns hot enough to kill them -- several days in a row over 100 degrees. With wide brimmed hats pulled low over their ears, the farm hands wear long sleeve shirts buttoned to the neck, long sleeves, gloves, jeans turned into boots, and Vaseline along the wrists and at the neckline. It is only moderate protection. For those of us not forced outside except by choice, it is almost unbearable.

We pray for a short hot spell in May.

This year we cornered ourselves by not getting the garden drips done before gnat season, so last weekend was a gnat fest as we hurried through that project. Epsom Salts help soothe the welts.

A couple of years ago, we made the first repellent formula from a recipe on the internet. We thought it would save the world and everyone would smell like vanilla and lemon zest. It works in a pinch, but is more of a party favor.

More serious versions followed, more oils with repellent properties, but the Hubs returned after a day on the tractor coated in oily mosquito repellent that had picked up layers of caked dust, bits of grass, and carcasses of gnats and mosquitos. He looked like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

The next version involved less oil and natural citric acid which the bugs didn't like, but were attracted to, if that makes any sense. They landed and walked around and we itched like crazy. We spent half the time brushing them away and in the process wiping off the repellent which gave them a spot to bite.

At some point a promising version was tested at UC Davis and we got some tips on staying on the track we were on and how to research further into the topic. He gave us access to UC Davis published papers and promising developments in the field. This lab tests most of the country's repellents and they said most repellents do not test their product before taking it to market.  (!!)

By now we are in an all out war with the gnats so we continually work with adding more essential oils, taking others away, adding more carrier oil and alcohol and then incrementally decreasing them, back and forth.  Each time, God love him, the willing Hubs sprays up and heads out into the world to see what will happen.

And I head to the kitchen to make something good for dinner so we can talk it over, write notes in our journal, and move on something else.

Mom's Brass Bell

Today's story is about a bell. A brass bell.  My mother carried it along with her for her life, and when I was old enough to be responsible for it, it was passed on.

I remember having my tonsils out as a little one and the bell being the means to notify the troops if I needed another popsicle or a sip of water. I remember having Mono and using it then to summon help. Colds, the flu. And when my mother had a Hysterectomy, she used it to summon me.

And in my 20's, I remember tossing it in a box and donating it to Goodwill.

Years passed, and so did my mom, and about 10 years ago I started missing the bell.  There is something about the physical connection of things between us and I wanted it back. (We do really get smarter as we age.)

The Hubs and I spend time nosing around antique shops and I started quietly looking at their bell collections. I'd find a lot of interesting bells, but never what I remember to be a Dutch girl with a wide skirt, wearing a Dutch hat and with a tinkle so melodious that it would call my mother from anywhere in the house.

Out of the blue a couple months back, we travelled to the neighboring small town of Dixon to spend some R&R at a small, folksy antique fair, and blow off steam. The Hubs and I walked through and found some great finds ~

... an old ammo box with great patina that we re-made into a first aid and mosquito repellent storage box;

twenty or so sterling silver spoons and serving pieces that will do well to stamp for garden planting markers;

an old watch and a couple of Edison Gold molded record discs for Grammaphones

and ... a little brass bell.


In the corner of a display cabinet facing away from me, I spied a little brass bell. I picked it up. It was the face of a little Dutch girl with a wide brimmed skirt. I tinkled it, and clutched it to my heart. How strange that memories of the past rise up so strong when you hear them. That was the sound.

The connection to my mother touched my heart. I want this for my children and their children, for them to know this sound. And the vendor who gave the bell to me after hearing the story touched my heart, as well. 

Hey, Mom.

Disguised

The winter came in strong and wild, and we are enjoying the glorious rain.  Grasses grow high and we pick and discard mushrooms sprouting up ahead of the dogs. 

The artichoke is the lone survivor from last summer's garden, and its offspring are flourishing under the olives.  Waiting, watching, hoping for the blossoms to come so we can till the garden and start again.

An interesting plan to fence in some of the land for a bigger, proper garden has brought to light the changes coming in the fields beyond.  Trees are being planned, almonds, and we sit in our lawn chairs and imagine. We have memorized the view to the Buttes and gaze at the farms across a stretch of sunflowers leaning into the sun.  What will become of our view?  I closed my eyes and visualized ... blossoms covering the little limbs as they grow, slowly transforming what is there to what will be. Another beautiful view...

A well was discovered under old weathered wood, with a pump and disconnected pipe coming up from the ground. It is in a lonesome part of the yard covered with mounds of old concrete and wire fencing, that we are clearing. Our neighbor who owns the land says wells are never abandoned, and I wonder if he means its usefulness is staged for a reprise.

A property we own was seriously damaged by an unreported leak that went on for months. In the aftermath of working, planning, rebuilding, back and forth with insurance and subcontractors, what has emerged is a mixed bag of emotions.

It is so easy to be angry over the situation and the tenant getting away scot free. It has been a disheartening insurance debacle. The white hot emotion burns with worry and recompense.  We want him to pay, to learn his lesson.

And yet. As we put our hands into the project, planned it out, ordered the cabinets, bought the tile, things started to settle into a new mindset. Putting our spin on what we envision it to be. A reprise.

Yes, we will always be disappointed with someone who was careless with something that wasn't theirs.  It has taken a lot of our time and effort and created more angst to set things right. The situation is not our fault and it's not fair.

Granted. But among the challenges here we have discovered an opportunity for joy.

Like the pride we feel watching our kids step up without complaint or hesitation to help. Like the thanksgiving of looking with amazement at our kid's friends who are offering to give up a weekend to help get the old gal back up and rented. Like discovering the shared vision of working on the project together, solving the problems one at a time, and learning how important teamwork can be. Like watching the transformation as the unit becomes even more beautiful than before.

In dark times, when things feel hopeless, they rarely are. I can't say how all of this will play out, but we've got more than our share of blessings.