Apples of My Eye

‘Tis the season.  No, not the holiday season.  Apple season!  Red Delicious, Golden Delicious, Jonagold, Gala, Jazz, Cortland, Honeycrisp, Granny Smith, and, my personal favorite, Ginger Gold.  Actually, the season itself is pretty well over, but the memories linger on.  Plus, at the times the harvest was ready, I was busy picking, peeling, pie-ing.  (Is that even a word?)

One of the best parts is going out to the orchard in my Wellies to tromp around in the wet early-morning grass with a big bucket to snag those big red globes.  Ginger Gold is a fairly recent favorite, so many orchards have minimal trees of that variety.  That means getting out early.  But I’m not really that picky.  Apple pies of mixed varieties are the best anyway.

Come along with your bucket and picture the scene.  Early morning, so early that the sun is just beginning to draw the moisture out of the earth.   Step into the mist rising along the grass paths, and disappear.  Out of sight of the barn, the parked cars, the other harvesters.  Once we get to the trees, the branches reach out to us, practically begging to be relieved of their luscious burden.  Many of the branches are low enough to pick without using a ladder.  The trees are so heavy with fruit that we can fill our bucket from only one or two trees.  But keeping in mind that the best pies need flavors from more than one type, we move along from tree to tree.

I’m lucky enough to have two old trees in our backyard, one with small apples that we leave for the deer, and one with larger, sweeter apples.  The deer get those too, unless we keep an eye open for fallen apples.  The fruit is too high on the tree for both deer and human to reach.  It’s always a race to see who can snatch up the best ones.  If only the deer would choose one apple and eat the entire thing.  Instead, they sample.  A bite here, a bite there, never the entire thing.

My favorite apple tree is down at the end of our road, on the corner of a utility property.  I took the time to ask permission to harvest the apples, which they readily gave, considering they never even knew the tree was there.  Those apples, like any wild apples, have also been sampled by insects.  Most of the time, the insects are no longer in the apples, though tiny tracks remain in the flesh.  As long as no bugs remain, it’s safe to cook with them.  Sounds too primitive for you?  Good!  More apples for me to use!  And for the deer to eat.  I haven’t picked for myself for several years now, because someone else reaps the benefits.  Well, not someone.  Something.  Two draft horses live across the street, and I pick up clean apples as a treat for them.  They know me, and the minute I come across the street, they amble over to the pasture fence and wait.  As much a treat for me as for them.

Finally, apple pies.  Yum!  Too many recipes to mention, of course.  Everyone has a favorite.  But here’s the secret:  Bake fruit pies for ninety minutes—yes, ninety—at 350 degrees.  Then don’t eat until the next day.  That’s the hardest part.  But it’s the key to having a pie that doesn’t leak all over the plate.  So…  Excuse me…there’s a pie in the kitchen calling my name.

Background Noise

Is anyone else annoyed by background noise?  I don’t mean the Muzak in the elevator, although that fits too.  I refer to the more subtle stuff.  Watching a TV drama the other day, I became aware of a single low tone in the background.  Violins, I think.  Yes, music can enhance the mood of the action and many times really ups the ante on tension or terror.  But this was simply intrusive, like tinnitus, that pervasive ringing in the ears from Lord only knows where.  That low tone behind the TV action suddenly jumped to the fore, a spot certainly not intended by the scriptwriters.  At least, I hope it wasn’t intentional.  Pretty soon, I heard The Hum behind far too many dramas.  Supposedly, it would make me clutch my armchair more tightly, bite my lip or hold my breath in response to the heightened tension.  Instead, The Hum started me shaking my head, like a dog trying to rid itself of a misplaced party hat.  That escalated to turning the volume down or changing the channel.  Neither was satisfactory, especially if the show was one I really wanted to see.  However, the only solution was to retreat and turn it off.  Sigh.

By that time, I was finely tuned, rather than habituated, to background noise.  The stuff appeared everywhere.  Elevators go without saying.  But how often am I in an elevator?  I’m a stair lady, so that avoids any problem.  But my health club ran a loop of music on the workout floor as well as in the locker rooms.  Not a problem, for the most part.  But when I heard “Piano Man” three times in a short workout, my annoyance meter notched up rapidly.  All right, I exaggerate.  But I did hear two employees discussing the pool they were running, to keep count of how many times a particular song came up in one day.  Time for a new music tape.

I’ve finally trained myself to filter out background drones on TV, in gyms and malls, around air conditioners and fans.  As long as boring conversations don’t run at those frequencies, I think I’m safe.

Lace Tablecloths and Silver Candleholders

American Players Theater is one of my favorite spots to be to experience a play.  Close, only about an hour and a half away, Spring Green, Wisconsin is home to two national gems: Taliesen, Frank Lloyd Wright’s studio and home, and APT, founded by a small set of dreamers determined to bring plays to the woods.  For years, APT had only an outdoor theater tucked into a hillside and open to the elements.  That meant the most wonderful things happened.  Midsummer Night’s Dream after dark, when the stars shared space with whippoorwills and lightning bugs.  The twinkly lights in the trees surrounding the top of the bowl were a lovely adjunct to Mother Nature’s offerings.  Those included swooping bats.  They did their part to keep the mosquito population at bay.  Two students went with me for APT’s 10th anniversary, and 1000thperformance, celebration, where the company served up a selection of scenes from various Shakespeare plays.  The balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet capped the set.  Romeo professes his love to Juliet and sealed his promise on the moon.  Juliet, leaning over the balcony, rapt in love, is dismayed.  “Swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, who changes…”  She turns and gestures at the full moon, the real full moon hanging just above the trees.  Such magic!  I wasn’t there, but a friend went to see King Lear, which contains a scene where the distraught king rails, calling out for storms and rains to pour down.  At just that moment, a real thunderstorm broke overhead, thunder, lightning, rain, the whole thing.  Who needs technical special effects when Mother Nature provides the real thing?

Going to APT is an Occasion.  I bring an old lace tablecloth and my silver candlesticks, along with a bottle of wine, and the best picnic I can muster up.  I’ve recruited a number of friends to partake in the fun with me.  No caviar yet, but salads or sandwiches of the best variety.  Desserts that would give the queen’s pastry chefs a run for their money.  It turns out I’m not the only crazy one.  Some bring champagne, many have nice tablecloths for the rustic picnic tables, a few have candles or flower arrangements.  This too is outdoors, so we all pray for decent weather.  Lunch over, we traipse up the hill, through the woods, to the theater, now fitted with comfortable seats and sometimes a sunshade for the actors.  One learns very quickly never to order tickets on the right side of the bowl.  It’s beastly hot in the sun all afternoon.  Easy to spot the returning patrons.  We’re all clustered over there, on the left, sporting sunhats that won’t get in anybody’s way and brandishing sunscreen for those parts of the body still unprotected, like knees and thighs.  Once the performance is over, and the magic sifting away, we all head back down the hill to our cars.  We pack everything away, and vow to return.  Can’t wait until we can do that again.  Sigh.

One Bowl, One Spoon

Roy Nelson had the perfect system.  When his wife was gone for the day, he fixed his own meals.  But that wasn’t the perfect system.  The perfect system was his scheme for minimizing cleanup.  One bowl, one spoon, for the entire day. Breakfast: bowl of cereal with milk, and spoon.  Cereal consumed, rinse out the bowl and use it for coffee.  Rinse and set aside.  Lunch: soup.  Oh yes, that includes the spoon too.  Repeat the rinse and set aside.  Dinner: Chili?  Tuna casserole?  No problem.  Repeat the rinse, and get ready for dessert, ice cream and cookies.  Finish off the day with a thorough washup of the two utensils, and relax.

I found myself doing the same thing the other night.  Make a white sauce and dump over the cooking veggies.  Wash the pot.  Saute the chicken chunks and add to veggies.  Wash the pot.  Boil some noodles.  Wash the pot, and…  Nope, that was it.   Isn’t that sometimes the best way?  It’s kind of like the stuff we learn as kids.  Keep it simple.  Use only what you need to use.  Clean up after yourself.  Basic stuff like that.

That’s not to say a gourmet meal or an elaborate dessert, or even an over-the-top thank you letter shouldn’t happen.  Go ahead, indulge.  That cheesecake that takes seventeen steps.  The love letter to your beloved.  Things like that are fun to create, and even more fun to share.  But sometimes we need to recede, sit back, take stock.  That’s when it’s fine to simplify.  Shed all the extras and take it down to the bare bones.  Make a peanut butter sandwich.  Email or twitter a greeting that takes up only one line.  Stay in your pajamas.  Simples pleasures are what can stabilize us when life gets overwhelming. 

Take a moment to thank Roy Nelson, for showing us how to keep life simple.

Rivers? rivers and Rivers!

When I moved to Waukesha, Wisconsin, people noted with pride that it was situated on the Fox River.  Where I came from, water, in the forms of lakes and rivers, was a given.  As a kid, the summer social season didn’t swing into action until we could barrel down the sand hill and run right into the lake.  That meant June, usually, after the water warmed up. From then on, it was swimming in one of the two lakes or canoeing on the river.  Now, that was a River!  Wisconsin Rapids ain’t called Wisconsin Rapids for nothin’.  The rapids below the paper mill’s dam in town were packed with boulders and non-navigable.  But the areas above the dams were dandy for water skiing or canoeing.  Bike seven miles Up River to a friend’s cottage and rush to plunge off the end of the dock to slough off the summer sweat.  The Wisconsin River works hard as it roars along from its headwaters on the border of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula clear down the entire length of Wisconsin to the river’s marriage with the Mississippi.  This is no wimpy river.  This is a big-shouldered River!

I spent four years in Oshkosh attending college, and was introduced to another River, the Fox.  The Wisconsin Fox River meanders around a whole chunk of the south and east part of the state, coming within hollering distance of the Wisconsin River at Portage where enterprising voyageurs and Native Americans could haul goods and canoes across a…portage, what else?  The best way from Lake Michigan at Green Bay all the way over to the Mississippi.  From there, you could go anywhere, as long as your paddle arms didn’t give out.  The River! was a great highway too for giant log rafts as they made their way down to become lumber or paper.  The Fox is another brawny working River!

By the time I packed up and took off for Waukesha, I was primed for another River!  After all, it was the Fox River.  But it wasn’t The Fox River.  This one piddles along, heading south into Illinois, growing as it goes.  But the part in Waukesha doesn’t measure up to my other two Rivers!  It’s simply a river, and that’s generous.  In most spots, I can toss a pebble across and have it land well beyond the far bank.  Not possible at my other two Rivers!  Not that Waukesha’s Fox doesn’t have its charms.  A very nice paved path for bikers and pedestrians circumnavigates a widened portion in town.  Lots of places to sit and mull over the meaning of life as the water bumbles along, sometimes talking a bit louder where the channel narrows.  This river takes time to acknowledge anyone on its banks.  My other two Rivers! barely take notice of companions, being far too busy and self-centered.

What began as a bit of arrogance and disdain for the little Fox River has, over the years, turned into appreciation of it charms.  Come to think of it, my rivers and I have run in tandem for a long time.  I’ve gone from “I’m coming through, fair warning!” to “Slow down and enjoy the scenery, lady.”  Quite fitting.  I’ve gone from a River! to a river.  No exclamation point needed.  It feels good.

Giving vs. The Gift

One of my favorite books used to be Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree.  It was the go-to gift for graduations, birthdays, all sorts of occasions.  No more.  I do have to keep in mind that it was written in 1964, long before the issues cropping up in it became problematic.  We simply didn’t see them as problems.

Many of you are probably familiar with the story of the little boy who approaches a tree and asks for her apples.  Later, he wants money, so she gives him her apples to sell.  He grows up and wants a house, so she gives him her branches, then later, her trunk so he can build a boat.  Nothing is left but a stump.  Soon, the boy is an old man and only wants a place to rest, so she gives him her stump to rest on.  The story ends by saying the tree is happy.  See the pattern here?  In 1964, neither the author nor the readers gave a second thought to the fact that the tree is portrayed as female, and the boy takes and takes and takes.  The tree gives and gives and gives, and gets nothing in return.  In 1964, her making the boy happy was accepted as enough.  Now, the idea of anyone giving everything to someone else has become objectionable, whether it’s a woman giving it all, or a man in the same situation.  I no longer give The Giving Tree to anyone.

It took a while, but I finally found a worthy substitute.   In Patrick McConnell’s book The Gift of Nothing, Mooch, the cat from his comic strip, is trying to come up with a birthday gift for his best friend, Mutts, the dog.  But Mutts already has everything he could possibly need.  After searching and searching, Mooch decides he doesn’t have to give Mutts some-thing.  He wraps an empty box and gives him no-thing.  It ends with the two of them sitting together, and sharing the no-thing that is their love and friendship.  Like Mutts and Mooch, we don’t need things to tell the people we love how valued they are.  We only need no-thing but the time to enjoy the stars, a meal, each other’s company.

Now’s the time to reach out to the people we love, the friends we value, the people we’ve reconnected with from our pasts.  It’s a good time to send them The Gift of Nothing.  And get a copy for yourself too.

There’s a difference between Giving and Gifting.


In these days of continued quarantine, serendipity seems to occur often.  I think of an older friend who lives alone.  Has she been walking or biking?  What’s she reading?  I go to the phone and, as my hand picks up my cell, it rings.  Guess who’s on the line?  The friend of my thoughts.  We joke about being able to communicate without the phone company. Merely thinking of the other is enough to bring on a phone call.  With so many people reaching out to one another, it’s almost inevitable that such serendipity happens more and more.  Delightful.  Serendipity.

Serendipity crops up all the time.  Probably the most dramatic surfaced when I ran into the pope.  Well, not literally, but close enough.  Heading into St. Peter’s basilica in Vatican City years ago, I was accosted by a Swiss Guard.  No entry with bare shoulders.  We left in a rather un-Christian huff, but returned the next day attired as the dress code defined.  Voila!  A packed church.  The pope’s last public audience before he left for his summer villa.  Not only that, but here he came, carried aloft on his big red chair, not ten feet from where I stood.  If I’d been dressed appropriately the day before—no Pope sighting.  Serendipity.

When the weather turns a certain way, it’s criminal not to take advantage of any sunny day without wind.  At first call, I pack up and move outside to read.  On one of those days, Mark Adams’ Turn Right at Machu Picchu—which is a really good read, by the way—had me squirming in sympathy as he tried to sleep through a barnyard symphony of moos, clucks and an especially loud rooster.   The book apparently came with sound effects.  Into my fantasy world, the neighbor’s resident rooster added a nice layer of realism.  Serendipity.

Serendipity.  A dear friend in Indiana pops into my mind, because…  Oops!  Gotta run.  The phone’s ringing.

Hair Today, More Hair Tomorrow

Lately, it’s taking forever to dry my hair.  Must be because I can’t get in to get my hair cut, due to the lockdown from coronavirus.  Probably won’t get in for another…well, who knows?  Nothing is open that brings people together.  Okay, essential stuff is open, like doctor offices—but not dentists; grocery stores—but not restaurants; pharmacies—but not libraries.  That last one is a real killer.

But I diverge.  My hair.  I suppose I could go back to cutting it myself, considering that it’s short and ragged at the best of times.  It wasn’t always that way.  In college I had hair down to my shoulder blades.  I also had my very own personal hair trimmer: my roommate.  Fresh out of the shower, I could comb my hair flat onto my back and Pam could trim off a nice even line.  I did the same for her, but it was even easier, considering her hair, when plastered down wet, almost reached her waist.  Easy-peasy.

Before I flew off to spend a college summer in Europe, I chopped off my hair into a pageboy.  One nice length, no frills.  But then I got to Paris.  Paris!  Where I could get a Real French Friseur to cut—no, no—to Style my hair.  The French family I stayed with set me up, and I floated off to get a Real French Haircut.  Only one disturbing fact.  The stylist (note the lack of capital letter) spent several years working in New York City and spoke flawless English.  If I wanted an English-speaking stylist from New York City, even if he was French, I would go to New York City.  But to make a long story short, he did a more than satisfactory job.  I ended up with a very short pixie-cut.  I loved it, I really did.  All was forgiven.

I still have short hair, with a relapse of a year or two in between.  Now, once again, I’m headed toward Gloria Steinem hair.  Who remembers Gloria Steinem anyway?  Or her hair?  Just think long, straight, like a plunging waterfall.  That’s going to be me pretty soon.  My hair is white and I love it that way, but somehow I don’t think long, straight whitewaterfall is going to do it.  Years ago, when it started to turn, I had silver streaks above my ears, similar to a man’s sideburns turning white.  Then the streaks migrated, growing like comet tails, right on up to cover everything.  Fun to watch, and I liked every stage.

I wonder how long it will take before I can’t tolerate the long shaggy neckline that’s developing.  Or the bangs that are invading over my forehead, threatening to obscure eyesight.  The next time you see me, I may look like Cousin It from the Addam’s Family—all hair.  All white hair.

Virus Life

“Weave, weave, weave me the sunshine, out of the falling rain.“Weave me the hope of a new tomorrow, and fill my cup again.”

The old Peter, Paul and Mary song says it all nowadays.  There’s more than enough falling rain to go around, what with the Covid-19 virus, massive unemployment, fractured stock market, and a shortage of personal protective equipment for those who are protecting the rest of us.  One wonders how many other dominoes will fall.

Still, plenty of people are out there weaving the strands of falling rain into baskets and bowls of hope.  We have always risen to the causes on a national scale.  Companies ramp up production of hospital masks and gowns.  Volunteers appear out of the woodwork to help fill the need in food banks.  And on and on.

Sometimes it’s easier to look at the small gifts closer to home, so as not to get overwhelmed by the sheer size of the problems, and the helpless feelings that can generate, especially during a global pandemic when we are on virtual lockdown to prevent spread of the virus.  If you can’t go out, how can you possibly do anything to help?

Small gifts.  Going on a Bear Hunt had neighbors putting teddy bears and other stuffed animals in windows so kids can find them all.  Creating a scavenger hunt in a neighborhood, looking for all sorts of things from a devised list, although “fire hydrant” was on one list for a neighborhood in the country where there were none!  A daughter and her family purchasing two identical cakes, so they could have a birthday celebration for grandma, together on Facetime.  The cake had to wait two days in the garage to make sure no infection would be possible, but the party went on via social networking on the right day.  Neighborhood walkers aplenty, still laughing about something, even across the six feet of necessary social distancing.  

Even in a concrete jungle, tiny flowers manage to squeeze through the cracks and blossom.  So, continue to weave yourself some sunshine.  Hope for tomorrow. 

Working with Words

Working with words is in my genes.  My grandmother never wrote a simple note; it was always in verse.  In response to a request from her son for a loan, she scratched on an envelope, “You have been to me kind and true / So I’ll fork over a five to you.”  A generation down the line, my mother kept meticulous trip records.  Apparently, it really is hereditary as my daughter graduated with Screenwriting and English majors.   As for me, I remember beginning my first short story on a family trip when I was eight or nine.  It was one of those Bulwer-Lytton prize-winning gems, starting off something like, “The midnight clock struck in the village. Bong!  Bong!  B—“  You get the picture.  I know I didn’t get past the fourth or fifth “Bong!”.  So much for the Pulitzer Prize in literature.

From there I worked my way into high school poetry, filled with angst and word choice so purple as to be almost fluorescent.  Some of it I have since reworked, and, like Kafka, I hope the old stuff is burned.  Eventually, experiences I observed or experienced began a persistent knocking on the inside of my brain, and I had to get them down on paper. Writing essays taught me that I could slash and burn; editing didn’t leave scars.

Over the 25 years I spent in the trenches with beginning writers, teaching middle school and high school English, I complained about not having enough time to do “outside” things, such as reading.  Finally, I simply made time to read.  Similarly, I wanted to write more, but didn’t have the time.  However, a few years ago, that persistent, albeit infrequent, knocking from inside my head to write something down became poundings and hollerings.  Fortuitously, on an airplane from Los Angeles to Milwaukee, I had packed a yellow legal pad and a pen in my carry-on, and finally gave in to those demands.  By the time we landed, I had sixteen pages of frantic scrawlings as I transcribed the voices of the women talking inside my head.  It had begun with an offhand reminiscence by my mother: “I learned to golf so I could smoke.”  From that, lives began to emerge, and I simply had to write it all down.

At the moment, my own story, my writing life, continues to evolve, and that is the one story over which I have very little control.  That doesn’t bother me.  I am having far too much fun watching where all this is taking me.  I thought I’d somehow “dry up,” but writing seems to be a lot like reading; once you start, the first just makes you thirsty for another, and then another.  I continue to write because I am compelled to.