Private land of enchantment can be only 13 steps away

Simply Living



(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 11, 2008)

I've been spending time every day in an exotic location, but I don't have to travel to get there.

The place I escape to is in the second story of our house. It's only 13 steps up from the main floor, but as I climb the stairs, it's as if I enter another continent.

The room is interspersed with bamboo accents. It's a sunny space with sloping ceilings and a dormer window. The walls are painted in soft earth tones. The ceiling is blue, the color of sky. Bright and clean and sparsely furnished, it's a quiet room that invites introspection.

When I open the door and step within, I'm struck by serenity soft as a feather. So many things in that room make me smile.

When Ralph and I built our house, we designed an attic that could one day be converted into living space. I've always had a special fondness for attic spaces. Slanting ceilings, short knee walls and dormer windows prompt recollections of my childhood bedroom on the second story of my parents' house in Yardley, Pa. It was a happy time, and I suppose it stayed with me. Youthful memories have a lock on our psyches. The bedroom of my youth became the mental prototype of my ideal room. I've always known that someday, as an adult, I'd create a space to embody the essence of that long-ago bedroom.

Dream merged with reality this past year, thanks to the carpentry efforts of our friend Robbie Taylor. Robbie skillfully transformed my vision into living space. But rather than replicate the past, I wanted the room to reflect the present. I wanted it filled with bamboo.

Robbie took smooth tan bamboo poles, split them in half lengthwise, then used them as baseboard, window trim and edging along the walls. Across from the bed -- a futon on the carpeted floor -- is an entire knee wall completely covered by thin reed fencing. Trimmed out with bamboo halves, the reed wall looks exotic, tropical and alluring. It's a visual invitation to relax, sit back, forget daily woes and concentrate on the moment.

I climb the steps to that room each day about noon. My anticipation of all things tranquil begins as soon as my hand touches the banister -- another bamboo cane -- that guides my passage. Once upstairs, the first thing I do is open the windows and enjoy the sounds. Birds high up in a giant oak sing from the branches. A melodious chorus, but who are the singers? I attempt to identify the bird songs as I lie back on the futon. Preparing to be lost -- lost in blue skies and clouds, birds and butterflies, bamboo canes bending in the breeze and oak leaves rustling.

Am I on the beach? In a cabin? Am I adrift on a boat? Wherever my mind wants to wander, the room is my journey. Ever ready to travel.

I had no idea I'd love it this much. I had no idea it would be so needed.

I live in a beautiful place. Our yard, the paths through the woods, the lake, our house -- it's all wonderful and amazing. It's an incredible place to be. But even here, in a paradise of our own creation, escape is essential. I'm busy with work. As a mother, a writer, a small-business owner, I wear many hats and often get boggled. The phone rings. I answer. An e-mail arrives. I respond. I chauffeur my son and shop for the groceries. Make meals. Clean up. Do laundry. Help customers. Discuss plans. Make decisions. Field questions and more questions.

Just a typical mom in this modern-day world.

Like all busy people, I need a time and a place to tune down mental chatter and turn up the dial on everyday magic.

First thing in the morning, that place is my rowboat -- a meditation to start the day. But by the time noon rolls around, my morning mellowness has faded. Like an aging battery in need of frequent recharges, I know it's time to find a charging station.

I find it upstairs. The room at the top of the stairs is the outlet that fills my drained self with energy.

I spend time every day in an exotic location. My husband joins me, and we drift off together.

Who says you have to travel to go places? Some journeys are best taken in the comfort of your own home.

Bad rap on exotic cherry is the pits

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 4, 2008)

I just picked the first fruits from my Surinam cherry bushes. If you've never heard of Surinam cherries, you're not alone. Unless you're from a West Indian or South American country, you're probably unfamiliar with the small red-to-black fruit that grows on this common hedge plant.

Also called Brazilian cherry, cayenne cherry or the more exotic moniker pitanga, Surinam cherry is more bush than tree. This evergreen shrub with glossy red-green leaves is being used in the Amazon for rain-forest reforestation because its fruit is an important food source for many species of birds.

While birds might be attracted to the slightly acidic marble-sized fruit, most people aren't. Even in my own fruit-loving family, my son Timmy, daughter Amber and I are the only ones who get excited about these sweet-'n'-sour cherries.

Always intrigued by the unusual, and particularly fond of cherries in general, I stumbled upon pitangas many years ago at a local nursery. Unfortunately, winter killed my first couple of plants. Although mature specimens are tolerant of cold weather, young plants are easily damaged when the thermometer takes a nose dive.

Five years ago, I tried again after visiting a friend whose established plants were covered with fruit. This time, thanks to a warmer series of winters, none died. They didn't bear fruit either. It was only after being transplanted to a spot with rich soil that they flourished. While none of my four plants are producing quantities of cherries, they provide enough to satisfy my taste for the exotic.

I am enjoying my Surinam cherries, but according to the Florida Exotic Pest Plant Council, I shouldn't be. My edible hedge plant is one of 67 exotic imports on the council's Category I "bad plant" list. If you go to the council's Web site, fleppc.org, you'll see pitanga along with 66 other plants labeled "invasive exotics that are altering native plant communities by displacing native species, changing community structures or ecological functions, or hybridizing with natives."

I certainly don't want to upset the ecological balance but I have a hard time understanding why Surinam cherries are considered so evil. My young plants were killed by cold, and the mature plants didn't produce fruit until they were transplanted to a spot with rich soil. Yes, the birds like them and probably spread the seeds to other habitats, but isn't that a good thing? I thought it was a positive step to add to the landscape low-maintenance, drought-tolerant plants that provide sources of food and shelter for wildlife.

Anyone who takes the time to explore the FLEPPC Web site will be surprised by how many well-loved plants are listed as harbingers of environmental havoc. That fragrant camphor tree shading your front yard -- it's on the list. So is the Japanese honeysuckle vine on your trellis and the nandina in your flowerbed. Two kinds of guavas are labeled no-nos, as well as two species of ligustrum. The popular ruellia, better known as Mexican petunia, is considered a Category I plant along with the much-favored lantana.

I have no doubt there are "bad guys" in the horticultural world. No one will question the invasiveness of hydrilla that clogs up lakes, rivers and streams or the climbing vine kudzu that covers and smothers trees. While those plants are on the FLEPPC list, other invasives aren't. Where I live, fox grapes are a menace. Their roots are unstoppable, their tentacles tenacious. They choke the life out of any trees they climb and are impossible to control. But because wild fox grape is a Florida native, the council gives it and other native plants a free pass.

What's wrong with this picture? I appreciate the efforts of the volunteer FLEPPC staff -- a dedicated group of plant management professionals -- but I don't think their decisions should be accepted unquestioningly. Some of the same qualities that label a plant invasive -- its need for little to no maintenance, ability to tolerate drought and prosper under adverse conditions -- are also qualities that make it attractive to the home gardener. And if it also attracts wildlife, provides food, fragrance, color and variety, so much the better.

If I have to fuss over a plant, I won't grow it. If it requires regular applications of herbicides or chemicals to stave off diseases, it's the wrong plant for my yard. And, in these environmentally sensitive times, it may also be the wrong plant for the planet at large.

If you stop to think about it, most of us who live in Florida are invasive exotics. We come here from out of state to live on land that was once wild. The space we take up with our homes and workplaces, shopping centers, highways and airports is land that once supported a wide range of plant and animal communities. But no one is putting Ohioans or New Yorkers on a Category I list of community-changing species or suggesting we eradicate these native-displacers from the landscape.

It might not be politically correct, but I'm glad I'm growing the Surinam cherry. It's a tasty, fuss-free plant that I feel safe adding to my landscape. If it shows signs of invasiveness, I may reconsider, but, for now, it's a keeper.

Living near 2 screech owls is a real hoot

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 27, 2008)

"Did you know the owl's sitting in the garage?" my son asked me the other afternoon while I was out in the nursery trimming bamboo. "What's he doing there?"

"Probably resting," I said, using the interruption to wipe a strand of hair out of my face. "Waiting for dark to hunt some mice."

The owl in question was the male half of a pair of Eastern screech owls that have taken up residence in an old letterbox mounted under our porch eaves. This is the third successive year screech owls have picked a nesting spot next to our house and the second year in a row that they've claimed the mailbox for their own.

The owls have moved into the empty letter holder completely "as is." No twigs, reeds, leaves or soft fur have been added to cushion the tinny enclosure. Mama owl has simply settled herself in the rear of the hollow space and hunkered down. Day and night, she sits in her metal abode, patiently focused on the task of parenting. Despite its lack of accouterments, the box is a safe, dry place to nest. With an expansive view of the lawn and lake, it's not too shabby from a real-estate point of view either.

Eastern screech owls are one of the most common owls, but until they nested near our house, I hardly knew they existed. I had no idea that these diminutive members of the Strigidae family -- a mature screech owl is only 6 to 10 inches tall -- mate for life and are as likely to be found in an urban setting as a rural or suburban one.

I had no idea that a screech owl makes a call eerily similar to a horse's whinny or that the female does most of the incubating assisted only intermittently by her male partner. I certainly had no idea that their diet included huge palmetto bugs as well as mice, small birds, frogs, lizards and worms.

I've learned much in the three years since the first pair made a home in an empty black plastic pot that my husband had attached to a tall bamboo pole.

That first nest was most unexpected. Ralph devised the pot-on-a-pole as a tool to pluck fruit from atop a leggy papaya tree. When not in use, his invention fit conveniently in a corner under the porch eaves. It was there -- in that protected resting spot -- that a pair of screech owls found it and proceeded to chip a circular hole into the pot's side to serve as a door. Needless to say, once we realized that the papaya gatherer had been re-engineered into an owl home, we abandoned all aims to secure ripe fruit with the tool. Instead, it remained propped against the porch wall where, although we had no way of seeing inside, we could easily hear every movement and vocalization the female owl made.

I was amazed that the owls succeeded in nesting in the papaya picker at all. Although we tried to make it more secure, the nesting pot remained precariously propped in a corner with nothing to stop a strong wind from knocking it over.

When nesting season ended, I was quick to take it away and put up the mailboxes. Unlike the propped-up picking pole, the mailboxes were intentionally set in place and far more solidly fastened. I didn't know if the owls would choose them for a home, but I hoped that some birds would.

Sure enough, one of the mailboxes must have met the screech owl seal of approval, because last year they moved in.

It's very special having owls living in such close proximity to human habitats. It's a rare chance to study a wild animal up close and become familiar with another creature's daily habits. When Toby came out to tell me the owl was in the garage I couldn't wait to see it for myself. Fortunately, by the time I finished up my chores and got home, the bird was still there, calmly perched by the garage door window. He seemed unfazed by the flash of my camera and surprisingly unperturbed by my presence. He remained in the garage until dark, changing perches twice before flying off in search of food.

I've read that screech owls return to a successful nest site year after year and that owls in the wild have been known to live for up to 13 years. That's good news in my ongoing quest for natural ways to control pests. By erecting a few potential bird-nesting stations, we not only gained the ability to observe wildlife at close range, but we also found a way to use beneficial critters to defeat problem ones. Our yard and house are freer from mice, cockroaches and mosquitoes thanks to spiders, bats and now screech owls, all of whom are hunters.

With our planet's health at such a perilous point, it's more essential than ever to decrease our dependency on pesticides and poisonous chemicals.

And if a byproduct of those efforts includes having a family of screech owls to listen to, watch and appreciate -- so much the better. If that's not something to hoot about, what is?

Bill Staines to bring heartwarming songs to Orlando area

Simply Living



(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 20, 2008)

If you're anything like me, you have a collection of favorite songs by a variety of musicians. Browse through your library of CDs, old cassette tapes or dusty LPs and you'll likely find only two or three songs on each recording that you absolutely adore. That's pretty much the norm. It's what we've come to expect from most musicians.

But not from Bill Staines.

During his 40-plus-year career, this New England-based songsmith has managed to fill 26 albums with must-hear-again tunes. Of all the musicians I know and love, none compares with Bill Staines in the ability to produce so much consistently beautiful music with meaningful, engaging lyrics. Staines' songs ignite my imagination like no other artist's works can. His gentle melodies and insightful stories flow through my mind long after the music has ended.

I first heard Bill Staines perform on Cape Cod in Massachusetts in the early 1970s. In those days, Ralph and I were among the regulars attending weekly concerts at First Encounter Coffeehouse in Eastham. The venue was a small Unitarian church called Chapel in the Pines -- an intimate and acoustically idyllic setting to listen to the strummed chords and rich harmonies of some of the nation's best talent. During the 17 years we lived on the Cape, we enjoyed performances by local musicians as well as by folk-scene icons such as John Sebastian, Tom Paxton, Kate Wolf and Dave Mallett. But it was the Bill Staines concerts we most anticipated. An evening spent listening to Bill's entertaining stories, mood-inducing songs and upside-down-left-handed guitar picking was guaranteed to put a smile on our faces. We always left wanting more.

I've been thinking a lot about Bill Staines lately as the dates of his Central Florida tour approach. Every few years this traveling troubadour takes a Southern loop through the Sunshine State. While some people who attend his concerts may be hearing his songs for the first time, most, like Ralph and me, are longtime fans. We come because through his music -- so lovingly conceived and prolifically offered -- he has come to feel like family.

You know how some songs trigger memories? That often happens with Staines' music. I remember the first time Ralph and I heard Staines sing "Roseville Fair," a touching story of a couple who met at a county fair and fell in love. We were in the audience at the Eastham coffeehouse. When the song ended, Ralph and I turned to each other with a knowing look -- "this one is a keeper." And it was. We bought the cassette -- CDs had not yet been invented -- and no matter how many times we played that song, it always triggered a sweet and soothing stirring of the heartstrings.

That's how it is with all Bill Staines' songs. He breathes life into the characters he is singing about whether it's a weathered drifter named Rye Whiskey Joe, the ragged philosopher Ol' Pen or, my favorite, the small-town dancing girl Annie Drew.

Although he is New England born and raised, you wouldn't know it from tunes such as "Coyote," "Song for Tingmissartoq" or "My Sweet Wyoming Home." Staines has a way of capturing the essence of a place he is visiting or a time period he finds intriguing.

But his songs of love and family have always meant the most to me. As much poet as songsmith, he writes lyrics that touch upon everyday subjects and ring true in their insightful simplicity. From "Child of Mine" to "Bridges" to "I Must Be Going Home," there's something special in the way Staines captures emotions and wraps them in poignantly melodic packages. There's a universal appeal to this man's work.

This year's concert should be especially exciting because in 2007 Staines released a new album, Old Dogs, three years after his previous album, The Second Million Miles. For longtime fans, this chance to hear new songs by one of our favorite artists is a rare treat.

But you don't have to be an old fan to enjoy his music. Anyone who takes the time to listen can't help but be inspired and impressed by his poetic heart and gentle grace. If you're among those to whom Bill Staines' name is unfamiliar, take advantage of this week's concerts to get to know a truly timeless musician.

Bill Staines will perform at 7:30 p.m. Friday at The Craftsman House, 2955 Central Ave., St. Petersburg. For details, call 727-323-ARTS. On Saturday, he will be in Ormond Beach. Details are available at floridafolkmusic.org or by calling 386-437-0185. On Sunday, a 2:30 p.m. concert at Leu Gardens, 1920 N. Forest Ave., Orlando, will be sponsored by the Friends of Florida Folk. Information is available at cffolk.org or by calling 407-679-6426. And Sunday evening, he will appear in Mount Dora. Details are available by calling 352-735-4907.

Will cell survive dip in loo?

Simply Living



(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 13, 2008)

If you have a cell phone and who doesn't these days? -- you've probably come to depend upon it. I know I have.

My personal dependency was recently tested when our 3-year-old Motorola flip phone had an unfortunate encounter with the working end of a toilet.

Suffice it to say that technological wonders of communication and mechanical objects of waste removal are not meant to converge. It might also be worth mentioning that the back pocket of tight jeans is not the most secure spot to stuff a phone when said jeans are about to be lowered in front of a porcelain bowl of water.

In case you're not aware, close encounters of a wet kind render cell phones inoperative. In less time than it takes to say, "Can you hear me now?" a submerged phone will become eerily mute. No dial tone. No time display. No sign of life at all.

That was my experience.

For one brief panicky moment, I stared at my de-pocketed communication device, chastising myself for my foolish behavior. Then I pushed aside all thoughts of regret or propriety and stuck my hand down the hopper. I fished out the phone, took it apart and proceeded to dry out its individual parts.

Inside a cell phone are two major components: the battery and the Sim card. Think of the tiny Sim card -- smaller than a postage stamp -- as the cell phone's brain. In it is stored all the information you've ever entered -- phone numbers, call logs, voice messages, etc. If the Sim card is the phone's brain, the battery is its heart and, like a human heart, it pumps less efficiently over time. Eventually, it shuts down completely and the cell phone dies.

My phone's battery had been showing signs of age for months. It wouldn't hold a charge, and calls often cut off before I had a chance to answer them. Because of these problems, Ralph and I had been considering alternatives.

A few days before the commode experience, I had asked a sales representative how much it would cost to replace the phone's battery. What I learned was: A) new batteries for old phones are not readily available, and B) if you are lucky enough to find one, it will cost more than three times the price of the least expensive new cell phone.

Because of the economic implications, we resigned ourselves to the inevitability of getting a new phone. And although there is an element of excitement in the idea of buying a fancy new gadget with cool features and sleek, smooth looks, there is also trepidation.

Past experience has proved that no matter how "easy to use" technological wonders claim to be, a steep learning curve -- one that is occasionally insurmountable -- will be involved.

Unfortunately, that's exactly what happened.

Thanks to our diligent drying efforts, the Motorola was resurrected, but we remained apprehensive about its long-term survival. Since we knew we would eventually have to buy a new phone, we decided to follow our phone's lead and take the plunge.

After being promised by the youthful employee at the local T-Mobile store that the Samsung Beat was the "best choice" among all the "free" phones (add on the $18 upgrade fee), we signed the papers and headed home, new gadget in hand. It was only after we got back and began to fiddle with it that we realized what a mistake we had made.

The Samsung Beat is a pretty phone. Compact and attractive, it has a built-in music player and camera and can even take movies. What it also has is a speakerphone that is barely audible and an external time display that goes blank after three seconds.

I spent just under four hours reading the manual, pressing buttons and fiddling with settings only to discover I couldn't care less about its built-in music player, camera and camcorder. What I really want is a loud speakerphone and an external time display that stays constantly lighted.

So I'm taking it back. I'll probably have to deal with a different youthful salesperson who will try to convince me that another sleek and fancy phone would be "a much better choice." But I doubt if it will.

Right now, I'm leaning toward buying that expensive battery and staying with my old phone for as long as possible. It's hard to match what you're used to. My Motorola -- ancient though it is in techno terms -- does what I want it to do, and I've come to realize how dependent I am on familiar patterns.

A cat may have nine lives but as of now, my cell phone has two. If a dip in the loo couldn't kill it, who am I to bury it in a drawer?

Long live all things familiar. I'm willing my old phone to last a little bit longer

Mulberries are ripe, but where are the cedar waxwings?

Simply Living

(First appeared in the Orlando Sentinel April 6, 2008)

Bountiful. That's how our mulberry crop is this year.

The dozen or so mulberry trees on our property are heavy with fruit. So many berries cling to the branches that the boughs bend with their weight. It's remarkable.

What's also remarkable is that the birds aren't eating them. By this time in previous years, flocks of cedar waxwings would have descended to devour the fruit. Waxwings are voracious feeders who send scouts out early in the season to secure feasting spots for the birds back home. With an uncanny ability to predict precisely when fruit is edible, migrating flocks of birds arrive just in time to wipe out whatever mulberries are ready to pick.

That has been their pattern for the past six or seven years. I don't like it, but I accept it as part of nature's cycle.

Not this year, though. This year things are different.

I'm thrilled with the abundant harvest, but I'm also concerned. A radio story I heard March 21 keeps running through my mind. In the broadcast, National Public Radio reporter Noah Adams interviewed Kirsten de Beurs, one of several scientists who have studied satellite images of foliage changes from 1982 to 2006. Their studies have shown that spring is occurring an average of eight hours earlier each year.

While an eight-hour difference might seem inconsequential, the accumulation of hours during the course of many years is anything but. In 26 years, those eight hours translate into 208 hours, or just under nine full days.

What does that mean? It means birds such as the cedar waxwings that usually eat our mulberries have to continually reset their internal time clocks to mesh with unanticipated seasonal fluctuations.

"We see the vegetation start to occur earlier, and the animals have to adjust their timing as well, and that's not always easy to do," de Beurs told Adams.

"They cannot necessarily adjust at the same speed that the vegetation is occurring."

A lack of precision timing can have reverberating effects. If birds miscalculate when food sources are available, they might not be able to adequately provide for their offspring. Nesting time might be delayed, causing an entire generation to suffer.

Although I'm neither a fatalist nor a pessimist, I have only to look toward our abundant mulberry trees to know something is amiss. The possibility that climate change has had an impact on the patterns of migrating birds is right outside our front door. Why else are our fruit trees so untouched by avian beaks? Would the birds really decide to cross us off their annual fly-by route on a year when our harvest is amazing? I don't think so.

But maybe I'm wrong. Perhaps our mulberries are the exception rather than the rule. Maybe waxwings are eating their fill of other fruiting plants instead.

To find out, I contacted a professional. Karen Brothers has been managing a 36-acre commercial blueberry operation in Tavares with her husband, Jerry, for 22 years. Blueberries ripen about the same time as mulberries, and farmers such as the Brotherses wage an annual war against avian intruders that descend en masse to devour their crops. I reached Karen Brothers by phone.

"This is the first year they've skipped us," Brothers reported. "We've spoken to other blueberry growers too, and although some cedar waxwings have been spotted, they don't seem to be arriving in droves like they have in the past."

Brothers also reported that, like our mulberries, the blueberry crop this year is exceptional. "We've never had a year like it," she said.

Is that because the birds haven't come to eat their share of the fruit or simply because conditions were right this year for a robust harvest? I don't know.

What I do know is that the lack of winged creatures makes me anxious. Their presence -- or in this case, the lack thereof -- is one of the more obvious signs that something is amiss in our oh-so-precariously balanced web of life.

You might think I'm talking nonsense. So what if a few birds don't arrive to eat some berries? Who cares about birds and mulberries anyway?

I do, and I hope others do too.

Although we human residents of Planet Earth prize independence, the reality is none of us acts alone. As scientists such as de Beurs discovered, climate changes are already affecting vegetative growth, which in turn, affects insect and animal patterns. Farmers might be relieved to have one less pest to contend with in any given year, but this season's change in bird migration patterns provides an eerie peek into the future.

What kind of world do we want to live in?

I, for one, would like it to be one populated by as many different kinds of creatures as possible. Do I want our mulberries devoured by droves of waxwings? No. But neither do I want birds to disappear.

Nature's bounty is meant to be shared. Not only that, we all must care and do our part -- however small or seemingly inconsequential -- to decrease our carbon footprint. The future of all life lies in human hands.

I treasure this year's bountiful harvest, but I treasure more a planet that can produce sustainable harvests for countless years to come.

Broccoli's yellow flowers work well in bouquets

Simply Living



(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 30, 2008)

My daughter, who lives a couple of towns away, popped in to visit the other day. I knew she was coming, but even if I hadn't, I would have known she'd been here. When I walked into the kitchen, a freshly picked bouquet of flowers caught my eye. That's Amber's calling card, a physical expression of her personality and priorities.

It's interesting to watch your children grow up and display some of the same traits as adults that they had as children. Amber has always been a picker. When she was a toddler, I kept a large box filled with broken crayons just for her to play with. Though she drew with them, too, that wasn't their main purpose. What Amber liked best was to meticulously pick away at each crayon's paper wrapper. If I needed a break, I knew I could get it by placing the crayon box in front of my daughter. While Amber contentedly denuded a rainbow of colors, I could prepare a meal, talk on the phone or just sit and rest without interruption.

Outside, she displayed the same kind of single-minded intensity. Whether directed toward the search for four-leaf clovers (she found many) or the careful construction of dandelion crowns and daisy chains, her interactions with nature always resulted in personalized creations.

There was a period during her 'tweens when special attention was given to the gathering and weaving of plant fibers. By then, we'd moved from Cape Cod to Florida and Amber had discovered how easily palmetto fronds and cattail leaves could be woven into place mats, coasters and hats. A few days ago, I uncovered one of those coasters in the back of a kitchen drawer. Although at least 18 years old, the square mat of dried reed was just as beautiful and functional as when it was woven together by Amber's small but nimble 10-year-old hands. Rather than place it back in the drawer, I kept the coaster out on the counter.

Daisy chains, four-leaf clovers and woven fibers were passing fancies of Amber's youth, but bouquets have never grown out of favor. From childhood to adulthood, my daughter's affinity for all things floral has led her to seek out the unusual as well as typical for flower arrangements. The pretty posy she picked the other day is a perfect example. It included an assortment of wildflowers, weeds and vegetables gone to seed.

If you've ever grown broccoli, you've probably noticed how unpicked florets turn into yellow flower heads before developing seedpods. Skip a few days during prime growth time and a whole row of garden goodness will burst into a spray of golden blooms. While too late for the dinner plate, these past-prime veggies are not yet ready for the compost pile. Broccoli flower heads make fine additions to informal flower arrangements. That's what Amber did. She incorporated the yellow blooms into a gathering of wildflowers that included light purple fleabane, orange lantana and the fragrant blue blossoms of an unidentified thin-stemmed wildflower that pops up on fertile areas every spring. When put together, this unusual assortment forms a perfect blend of softness, shape, scent and color.

Leave it to Amber to add broccoli blooms to a bouquet. I've come to expect beautiful garlands from my artistically creative daughter, but this time she outdid herself. Not only did her selections form an attractive arrangement, but this particular grouping also has lasted much longer than most. Close to a week later, all the flowers still look freshly picked.

No matter how long they last, a vase on a windowsill filled with cut flowers adds more to a room than fragrance and color. It's an invitation to relax and appreciate what bountiful gifts nature provides.

Like Amber, I enjoy strolling around the property snipping flowers and forming arrangements. It's a soothing process, peaceful and calming. But as my daughter recently proved, it also can be an opportunity to rethink old perspectives and learn new lessons. At first glance, an overlooked head of broccoli seems like a thing of waste, an opportunity passed by. But in Amber's eye, it was an object of beauty -- another item to round out an arrangement.

Lucky me to have such an excellent teacher.

March beauties measure time in color trio of 'yesterday-today-and-tomorrow' brunfelsia plant

Simply Living



(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 23, 2008)

My brunfelsia plant is in full splendor. Better known as "yesterday-today-and-tomorrow" -- isn't that an enchanting name? -- brunfelsia is an unusual, decorative and, sadly, underused addition to the landscape. It is also one of the most appropriately nicknamed plants out there.

The pansy-like blooms on this evergreen bush emerge purple but don't stay that color for long. In a day or two, they change from deep purple to soft lavender to their final phase, bright white. With flowers opening constantly, the result is a cheery three-tone display of color -- yesterday, today and tomorrow -- set against a leafy green backdrop.

I first encountered brunfelsia several years ago during a visit to Smith Nursery in Mascotte. This two-generation, family-run business on the western edge of Lake County is a fun place to visit any time but especially during early spring when yesterday-today-and-tomorrow is covered with blooms. The nursery surrounds the residence of founder Albert "Smithy" Smith and his wife, Margie, who long ago planted several garden areas where well-established brunfelsia bushes still thrive. It was in one of those gardens that a huge purple-to-white-studded plant first caught my eye. About 10 feet tall, the brunfelsia at Smith's Nursery is one of those once-you-see-it-you-must-have-it plants. That's why I bought mine and, according to Smith's daughter, Jenni Ball, I was neither the first nor the last customer to be bewitched by the eye-catching beauty of the mid-sized shrub.

"Many people buy brunfelsia after they see the ones we have growing here, especially if they come in March when the plant is in full bloom," Ball said.

While a few other nurseries stock brunfelsia, most don't, and I have no idea why not. It's a fast-growing plant with few pest problems that propagates easily from tip cuttings, seed or pup divisions. Native to Brazil, brunfelsia flourishes in Florida's warm climate, especially when planted in rich soil in slightly sunny or dappled locations. As if being a low-maintenance plant with three different color blossoms were not enough to make this an all-time winner, yesterday-today-and-tomorrow also smells lovely -- yet another advantage of these little-known beauties.

When I stroll around our property, plants like brunfelsia act as leafy reminders of people I've met or places I've visited. Not far from my yesterday-today-and-tomorrow bush is a Dutchman's pipe vine. Although it covers a lattice arbor, the vine started from a tiny snip clipped from an expansive stand in South Florida.

Another vine that triggers memories is the honeysuckle clinging tenaciously to the clay wall across from my office. Whenever I look at those butterscotch-colored climbers, I'm reminded of Cape Cod, not because they came from there, but because when I lived on the Cape, honeysuckle grew ubiquitously along many undeveloped stretches of road.

I expect that has changed in the past 25 years as people have claimed and tamed most of the available wild land. But no amount of development can keep me from remembering how fragrant the air used to be as I pedaled my old Peugot bicycle from Skaket Beach to Rock Harbor.

The yesterday-today-and-tomorrow plant doesn't bloom continually. In a few weeks, its blossoming period will have passed. Fortunately, memories are not restricted by such time limitations. In our mental inventory of past events, yesterdays, todays and dreams of tomorrow meld together in seamless symmetry. Fading though they do from one day to the next, the images we carry in our minds provide a muted catalog to page through whenever we want or feel the need for remembrances.

Brunfelsia is blooming in my garden, and I delight in its splendor not just today but tomorrow and for all the yesterdays gone by. Its purple, lavender and white flowers will remain as sweet reminders of my March garden long after the last blossom has faded.

Someday . . . a recumbent bike for me

Simply Living


X-country cyclist Lucinda Chandler, aka Pink Panther.

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 16, 2008)

On a recent Saturday morning, I was heading home along State Road 50 when I noticed a large gathering of recumbent bicyclists assembled at County Line Station, one of several parking areas and amenity outposts spaced along the 19-mile West Orange Trail bike trail.

I've always been fascinated by recumbent bikes. Many years ago, a friend had a bright yellow basic three-wheeled model. One ride was all it took to hook me on these comfortable and sensibly designed "armchair" cycles. Rather than sitting up on a small hard seat and bending over the handlebars of a traditional bike, recumbent riders propel themselves forward from a relaxed lounge position. As the body reclines in stress-less comfort -- no wrist strain or sore bottom from these bikes -- the legs stretch out to pedal away the miles.

Since I've always harbored a secret fantasy of someday owning a recumbent, the sight of so many in one spot was too tempting to ignore.

"What the heck," I thought, mentally revising my schedule. "I have time for a short detour."

I turned off the four-lane and headed back to the trail park. What I found when I got there were dozens of people preparing to set off on the fourth annual Catrike Rally.

Although familiar with recumbents in general, I have very little knowledge of individual brands. Turns out that not only is Catrike, a product of Big Cat HPV, a locally manufactured three-wheel type of recumbent bicycle, but the Winter Garden-based company is also the largest manufacturer of recumbent trikes in the world. The March 1 rally was a chance for Catrike owners from around the country to meet and share their passion for these extraordinary machines.

After asking around and talking to several riders, a helpful park employee introduced me to Big Cat founder Paulo Camasmie, the man behind the Catrike design. Camasmie, a mechanical engineer and Brazilian native, moved to the United States in 2000. His dream was to create a three-wheeled recumbent that would combine comfort with speed, stability and elegance. The U.S. market was ripe for new ideas, and Camasmie's company grew rapidly. From meager beginnings working out of a small garage, Big Cat now produces more than 100 Catrikes each month in its west Orange factory.

But Catrikes, like most high-tech multispeed recumbents, are pricey. Who buys these grown-up tricycles that start at $1,750? All sorts of people do.

If the assemblage at the Catrike rally was any indication, you don't have to be young and in shape to pedal off into the sunset. People of many different sizes, shapes and ages traveled to Orange County for the rally.

One rider drew much attention. Cameras were flashing left and right as Lucinda Chandler posed for pictures. A mother of seven and a cancer survivor, Chandler was the first person to ride a Catrike across the United States. During 58 days in 2007, Chandler pedaled her bright pink Catrike, aptly nicknamed 'Pink Panther,' on a one-woman trip from California to Florida.

"I brought along all sorts of spare parts, including two extra wheels," said Chandler, a resident of Martha's Vineyard who now leads Catrike guided tours. "But I didn't need to use any. The trike performed wonderfully with no breakdowns along the way."

Seeing all the riders so comfortably settled in their brightly colored lounge chairs with wheels was inspiring, and talking to Chandler only added further fuel to my fervor to someday be a recumbent owner myself.

But not today.

Living where I do at the end of a long unpaved road, I wouldn't be able to ride my trike around the property. I'd have to transport it elsewhere, and that's more work and planning than I want to do. Maybe when the clay roads nearby get paved -- as someday they inevitably will -- owning a pedal pusher that costs more than the used truck we recently bought will make more sense.

I'll consider it a lesson in patience. I've lived with my secret fantasy and fascination with all things recumbent for more than 20 years. In the big picture, what's wrong with nurturing a dream for a few years longer?

Coyotes chase but cannot catch a rabbit

Simply Living



(First appeared in Orlando SentinelMarch 9, 2008)

Encounters with wild animals are always exciting, especially if the critters being watched don't realize they're being observed. That's what happened the other day when I watched two coyotes chase a rabbit.

I was sitting at the table in the kitchen when I happened to glance out the window toward the lake. Ralph was talking to me -- I have no idea what about -- because my attention was drawn to a tawny blur dashing along the path along the water's edge. I got up -- Ralph was still talking -- grabbed the binoculars and went out to the porch.

There it was again. Definitely some sort of large animal.

My first thought was, "Maybe it's the bobcat." The last time I saw a bobcat on the property was several weeks ago by the compost pile. Ever since, I've been anticipating its return.

But no, this animal's stride was decidedly un-catlike.

"It's probably just a big dog," I muttered to myself feeling slightly embarrassed to have gotten so excited by something as ordinary as Lassie-gone-astray.

But just as I was about to return to the kitchen, I saw it again. Another movement -- rather doglike, but not exactly. Too big for a fox.

"My gosh!" a light flashed on in my mind. "It's a coyote! And what's it doing? Chasing a rabbit!"

"Ralph! Come quick!" I shouted. "There's a coyote across the lake chasing a rabbit!"

I was so glad he was there to confirm my sighting. On so many occasions, I've been the only one around when a wild animal appears. Although my family seems to believe my excited reports, I often wonder if there's a layer of suppressed suspicion in their nodding responses.

"Wow," they might say following one of my breathy accounts when what they're really thinking is, "Sure, Sherry, you think you saw a (fill in the blank: deer, wild pig, fox, etc.). It was probably just a dog."

Well, not this time. This time I had a witness to not one but two coyotes attempting to run down one panicky but agile little rabbit.

Ralph and I stood together in the porch before moving out to the front lawn for a better view. We watched as the pair of predators sniffed the ground, doubled back and gave chase to their prey. Although it was two against one, small and nimble reigned supreme. The rabbit managed to elude its hunters by slipping into a dense tangle of bamboo.

The whole episode lasted less than 15 minutes, but it was as thrilling a spectacle as any I've encountered. The only other times I've seen coyotes nearby have been while driving, and three of those four times, the animals were dead. Twice I saw animals that had been hit by cars, and one coyote was shot. I know it had been shot because I got out of my car to observe it up close. While my knowledge of weapons is practically nonexistent, there's no mistaking a bullet hole through the head.

I was disturbed for days after seeing the murdered animal and tried to understand why someone would kill it. Perhaps they were worried the coyote would attack their livestock -- it lay slain on the outside edge of a fence enclosing goats and horses.

Or maybe they felt threatened for their personal safety. If that were the case, they acted under false assumptions. While coyotes that travel in packs may take down a cow or goat, a solitary hunter is more likely to prey upon rodents, birds, small animals or carrion than a calf or goat. Then again, the coyote I saw could just as easily have been killed for sport -- something many people feel they have an inherent right to do.

Whatever the reason, a dead female animal was the end result. Hungry young cubs waiting for a parent's return might also have perished because of one bullet through their mother's head.

The other day as Ralph and I watched the two coyotes try unsuccessfully to capture a cottontail, I was reminded how difficult the life of a wild animal is. The coyotes spent so much energy on a meal that got away. If they were dogs, they would be fed out of a can and be considered man's best friend, but as wild animals, they must fend for themselves. They're on their own to not only find food, provide shelter and raise their young but also to avoid dangerous situations that put them in contact with people.

It isn't every day you get to see nature at work. My previous sightings of the dead and live coyotes moved me emotionally, but this recent spotting elicited a response beyond all expectations. I can only hope that as development continues to reduce wild areas, more and more animals will find refuge in places like our property where bullets will never be fired and wildlife encounters are moments to treasure instead of events to fear.

The loquat tree is an under-appreciated addition to many Florida landscapes

Simply Living




(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 2, 2008)

The long dirt driveway that leads to our home is lined with loquat trees. The loquat is an edible fruit tree with large leathery evergreen leaves. The fruit ripens from late February through the end of March. They are mildly sweet and even though they are also know as Japanese plums, we think they taste a little bit like apricots, a fruit my husband loves.

Our family discovered loquats shortly after moving to Florida and ever since, we've made a seasonal ritual out of picking and eating this under-appreciated fruit. Our enjoyment of these early-season edibles is partly why we chose to line our driveway with loquat trees. I also expected them to form a leafy entry tunnel to our house.

Unfortunately, that never happened.

Although the trees have been in the ground for 16 years, they are irregularly shaped and vary widely in size, productivity and taste of the fruit. None of the trees grew big or broad enough to form the leafy tunnel I'd envisioned, and although the fruit of some is sugary sweet, fruit from other trees is fairly bland.

Much of their failure is our own fault.

Ralph and I might have been young and energetic when we first bought our property, but we weren't particularly knowledgeable about proper planting techniques. We knew enough to grow loquat seeds into handsome saplings but not enough to plant the baby trees in enriched soil.

Like much of Central Florida, our land is mainly sand, but thanks to a peat mining operation here before our ownership, the ground is spotted with patches of rich peat. It is also dotted with just as many not-so-rich underground veins of red clay and kaolin, a type of very dense white clay.

Too inexperienced at the time to know the difference, we planted the trees in whatever soil was beneath our shovels -- sand, clay and peat alike. Not surprisingly, the trees in the peat patches grew much larger than those in the sandy soil and far better than the unfortunate few planted in clay.

We've learned much since those early horticultural ventures, including how important it is when planting to replace nutrient-poor dirt with soil rich in organic matter such as manure and compost.

Recently we've been rethinking the lines of trees bordering our driveway. In hopes of still creating a leafy tunnel, we've decided to remove most of the loquats and replace them with some of our favorite clumping bamboo. As owners of a bamboo nursery, we know that within just a couple of years, the bamboos will form the type of arching canopy I had hoped the loquat trees would provide. Although the bamboos won't bear fruit, they will be beautiful to look at, listen to and watch as they sway in the wind.

That brings me back to our existing plantings. In trying to decide which loquat trees to keep and which to remove, we've been paying particularly close attention to this year's crop. After daily taste tests -- it's a tough job but someone has to do it -- we've pretty much got it down to four keepers; two trees that produce particularly sweet white-fleshed fruit, one early variety that is a heavy bearer and one tree covered with unusually small-seeded flavorful orange-fleshed fruit.

Thanks to my husband and his trusty tractor -- equipment we didn't have when we first bought the property and planted the loquats -- some of the trees planned for removal will be transplanted into enriched soil somewhere else on the property. The remaining will be fortified with a top dressing of fertilizer. The clumping bamboo will be set in well-composted soil rich in peat and manure with wood chips added for drainage.

It's too bad we didn't know more about proper planting techniques and the appropriate trees to place on the property when we first moved here -- we could have saved a lot of time, energy and money.

Before settling to Florida, we lived on Cape Cod in a small hand-built house in the woods. During the 17 years we lived there, our family grew and so did the structure that surrounded us, expanding from a 20-by-24-foot space to more than double the size. The constant renovation projects prompted us to nickname the house "Afterthought Master-Plan." It was an appropriate moniker for a building that reflected our constantly changing needs and knowledge.

I suppose the same nickname could be applied to the land around our Florida homestead. We have planted and moved countless shrubs, flowers, trees and vines during the 16 years we've lived here. And soon we'll be adding loquat trees to that list.

An old adage says, "The only thing constant is change," and from personal experience I know it to be true. But another saying also applies: "Some things never change." And my love for a fresh-picked fruit is one of those things.

If you have never tasted a loquat, now is the perfect time to give one a try. You won't find loquats in the grocery, but there's probably a tree growing in your neighborhood. Pick the most orange-colored fruit. They can be peeled and pitted or eaten whole except for the seeds. It's a taste too pleasant to ignore.

Congratulations to mom and dad

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel February 24, 2008)

In 1939, a tall dark-haired man named Harold Levy worked as a haberdashery salesman in New York City. Like many other unmarried 27-year-old men of his era, Levy and his siblings lived in their parents' Brooklyn apartment.

A couple of hundred miles to the north, a petite brown-haired woman named Goldie Boxer, 21, lived with her family too. Boxer's home was a picturesque country farm deep in the Catskill Mountains. After the death of her father, her mother converted the farm into a small family-run hotel that catered primarily to a clientele of Jewish guests from the city.

Life wasn't easy for either the man or the woman. Every day she went into town to work as a secretary and, after work, returned to the hotel to assist her mother and siblings.

For him, there were customers to serve, shelves to stock and a trade to learn in an industry that was rapidly expanding.

Although their lives were decidedly different and they resided miles apart, a connection linked the two together.

The wife of Levy's boss was Boxer's aunt, and in the debonair young salesman, the aunt saw a good match for her niece. She tried continually to arrange a meeting between the two, but Levy always refused.

"Who wants to meet their boss's niece?" he said to himself, rejecting her repeated offers.

But fate intervened.

A minor operation sent the city boy to the country for some needed rest and recuperation. As it turned out, the hotel at which Levy sought his country cure was the inn owned by the young woman's family. The rest, as they say, is history.

"It was love at first sight," Levy recalled. "We were married less than six months later."

Now, that couple are celebrating their 68th anniversary -- a noteworthy occasion by any accounts but especially important to me, because my very existence depended on the fortuitous meeting of these two special people. Harold and Goldie Levy are my parents, and every year on Feb. 25, they celebrate the anniversary of their marriage.

It's rare these days for a marriage to last six years, much less 68 years.

Marrying as they did just before the United States entered World War II, my mother faced the difficulties of raising their first child, my brother, alone while her husband was stationed far away in the Philippines. After the war she took care of her dying mother and, before my birth, endured several miscarriages.

In later years, there were the usual assortment of child-centered medical emergencies -- I was quite the accident-prone kid.

My father had a heart attack in the 1970s. After that, although he gave up smoking and took up walking for exercise, he eventually had two more surgeries for heart-related problems. Later in life, my mother also underwent heart surgery, and health-related situations have been an unfortunate focus of many of their recent years.

Despite these trying times, Harold and Goldie Levy stayed true to the commitment they made before a small assemblage of family and friends on that cold February day in 1940. At ages 95 and 89, their lives are indelibly interwoven. They still live together in the same South Florida condo they bought more than 20 years ago.

Why is it that some marriages last while other unions falter? Is there a magic formula for the perfect match? To find answers, I turned to the experts, my own parents.

"Love your wife and listen to her," my father advised. "If she wants something, you give in, even if you don't really agree."

Not surprisingly, my mother agreed.

"We don't really argue about things that are important," she said. "Of course we disagree about little things, like this morning when I said one building was where we were supposed to go and he said it wasn't, but about big things we don't disagree. We just never argue."

This "no arguing" philosophy might sound simplistic, but if it's one couple's formula for long-term marriage, who knows, it might work for others.

All I know is that I'm lucky to have parents who love each other and who have had the good fortune of sharing so many years of their lives together.

"We get along splendidly all the time," is how my father summed up his 68-year marriage to my mother.

If that's not a cause for celebration, what is?

Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad.

Spring cuts winter short in Florida

Simply Living



(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel February 17, 2008)

It's February and, while snow and icy rain may be covering much of the country, in Central Florida spring has sprung.

If seasons can be judged by the way plants respond to weather conditions, then winter is officially over in my neck of the woods.

Just look at mulberry, willow and maple trees to confirm the obvious: The bare tips of their branches swell with the promise of summer. The chokecherry, which must be among the least patient of trees, has been cloaked in a flush of young leaves for weeks. Its verdant garb presents welcome dabs of color to the still-somber winter landscape.

Three of the traditional seasons -- winter, spring and fall -- are condensed in the Sunshine State. Summer, of course, takes up the slack, stretching languidly across most of the year.

Around the end of December, deciduous trees begin their seasonal transformation. Pockets of color light up the landscape with autumnal displays of brown, auburn, orange and scarlet. But a Florida fall is short-lived. Most autumn leaves land on the ground by mid-January and winter -- what little winter we have -- is more likely to be counted by days than by weeks or months. Nighttime temperatures intermittently dip into the 30s or even the 20s but bounce back to the mid-60s and 70s during daylight hours.

I suppose that's why I was confused as I rode along Florida's Turnpike the other day. It seems like only yesterday I was driving along the same stretch of road admiring the autumn foliage.

"Are those red leaves I'm looking at autumn leaves or spring buds?" I wondered.

It didn't take too many miles before I answered my own question. They were new leaves. The warming days of early February must have sent maple trees into unfurl-the-leaf mode.

The young leaves of maples are a welcome sight. Bright crimson -- perhaps even more cheerful than their autumn counterparts -- they provide a leafy headdress for the branches and trunk.

There's something hopeful about spring leaves. With their uniform shapes and soft but vibrant hues, they give an impression of both confidence and innocence. There's expectancy inherent in each unfurled bud. Innocence lies in their relative purity. New leaves begin their lives untouched by bug or beetle. Caterpillars haven't chewed holes in them yet or built their tented hotels. Even birds' nests are a rarity until later in the season when the leaves have grown broad enough to provide protection and cover.

Gazing upon a springtime woods spotted with deciduous trees is like watching a room full of babies. As breezes ruffle their tender leaves, the trees shiver with excitement. Shimmering in the sun, their joy and anticipation of days to come is almost palpable.

Driving along the turnpike, looking out at a sea of trees, I find my thoughts drifting back in time to rides taken with my oldest daughter when she was just a child. Of my four children, it's my daughter who comes to mind when I look at spring trees. So many times we drove these same roads, and Amber, who is especially fond of the soft green color of young chokecherry leaves, would comment on the landscape view. Maybe it's the artist in her. Now a grown woman and accomplished muralist, Amber captures on canvas the magic that lasts so briefly in nature.

It won't be long before spring will be over. New seasons will emerge, not just the regular ones -- summer, winter or fall -- but a multitude of mini-seasons that highlight particular fruits, fragrances and flowering plants. Each period of time will have a special meaning, unique in its individuality and in the memories it triggers.

Time passes, as it should, and everything -- children and trees alike -- goes through a growth cycle, forming new leaves, shivering in the breeze and, ultimately, developing maturity.

No matter what month it is -- February in Florida with springtime beckoning or an August crush of summer heat -- how fortunate we are to be along for the drive, enjoying the view, savoring the moment.

Readers share their ways of making world better

Simply Living



(First appeared in the Orlando Sentinel February 10, 2008)

Have you paid your "daily dues" today?

That's a question I asked readers just before the start of 2008.

In that column I wrote, "Each of us has the power to make the world a better place. We can do it in tiny ways -- one kind word or good deed at a time -- or by methods that are more magnanimous. It doesn't matter how we go about contributing to world betterment; the important thing is to do something. That's where daily dues come in.

"Imagine if, in exchange for our existence, we had to pay a daily fee. But the payment couldn't be made with money -- it had to be paid with actions. We had to do something every day to make the world a better place. Daily dues -- daily do's."

I asked readers for suggestions -- what things have you done to make the world a better place? The response was enthusiastic.

Joanne Wolverton wrote:

"I use my own canvas bags at the grocery store instead of all the plastic bags they normally use to pack your groceries. I wish other people would do this. Even if they took their own plastic bags to the store for loading the groceries, it would save on using the new ones.

"I also save all the larger bags I get shopping elsewhere to line wastebaskets. And of course, I return all other plastic bags to the store for recycling. Also, of course, all newspapers and cans and bottles are recycled."

Barbara Hansen offered several suggestions, but her hottest tips concerned the thermostat:

"Turn your thermostat up or down at night, or better yet, install a programmable one. No need to keep the living area and kitchen cool at night when no one is using them. Probably the biggest change to our finances was seen with the turn down of the thermostat -- also the biggest adjustment as our kids like it cold. Also, we hope to install at least 2 water barrels this year to capture our seemingly scant rain."

Many readers shared a suggestion made by Robert H. Moody of Fruitland Park:

"One way my wife and I have paid our daily dues is in the laundry. We have been married for nearly 44 years and always hang our laundry on our clothesline to dry in the sun. We have an electric dryer but only use it in inclement weather. The sun-dried clothes always have such a fresh, clean smell. I wonder how much money we have saved in 44 years of hanging our clothes in the sun to dry?"

Robert, I did some calculating using today's rates. Assuming you used a 5-kilowatt electric clothes dryer three hours each week at 10 cents per kilowatt hour, you would have spent around $1.50 per week, $78 per year or approximately $3,432 over the course of the past 44 years. Not only has your willingness to use the sun's power to dry your clothes conserved energy, but it also saved you a pretty penny in the process.

Joe and Kathy Lepley of Mount Dora tapped another source of energy savings by focusing their efforts on conserving water:

"We decided to see if we couldn't save some of the water we had been letting go down the drain and get double duty from it. Examples of water we now recover and reuse:

"We catch the water we run into the shower waiting for the hot water to arrive from the hot water tank using a small plastic waste can that holds 2-3 gallons of water. We then use this water to flush the toilet or I use it to hand-water plants.

"We catch the rinse water in a plastic dishpan when we hand-wash dishes, pour it into a five-gallon bucket we keep outside the back door and use it to hand-water plants.

"We also catch the water we use in the bathroom sink to wash/rinse our hands using a shallow plastic basin that fits in the sink. We then add it to the water saved from the tub or put in the bucket for hand-watering.

"The cost to do this was minimal -- two plastic wastebaskets (one for each tub), two plastic basins that fit the bathroom sinks, a plastic dishwashing pan. We have been surprised at the amount of water we save for reuse each day! I would estimate that it is easily five gallons per day. That may not sound like much, but that's just for the two of us. A family of 3-4 would obviously save much more."

I finally learned to have a peaceful and solitary lunch

Simply Living



(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel February 3, 2008)

My husband and son are well trained. Come lunchtime, they know better than to interrupt my dining with idle chatter, business talk or rhetorical questions.

When I sit down at the table -- a clean, pretty table free of distracting clutter -- I want my focus to be on eating and eating alone.

A slow, quiet, mindful meal is my objective.

After decades spent eating on the run, having meals cut short by phone calls, work demands or a child's needs, I find myself insisting on calmness at suppertime. I've finally reached a stage in life where meals have earned their own time slot. The kids -- no longer babies -- are independent enough to fix their own food.

Work no longer dictates that I be in the car during lunchtime, and the ever-present tugs of family life have subsided sufficiently to permit the occasional breather. A lovingly prepared repast has regained its status as an event in and of itself.

This period was a long time coming and now that it has arrived, I'm fiercely protective of its presence.

These days, lunch is about experiencing the flavor, texture and taste of each morsel being devoured. It is a chance to push the pause button on life and savor the moment.

I didn't arrive at this Zen-like state of food awareness without effort. Several layers of life-in-the-new-millennium had to be shed before the first "in-the-moment" meal could be consumed.

And in the beginning, there was the phone. . . . It had to be turned off.

But turning off a phone is a surprisingly difficult thing to do. The very thought of doing so invokes a slew of "what ifs."

What if someone important is calling? What if it's a business call or a question that needs to be answered right away? What if it's a customer who will go elsewhere if they get a message instead of a real person? What if it's an emergency -- one of the children in trouble or an elderly parent who needs help?

Well, it could be any of those things. But the reality is, they all can wait. After all, a meal -- even a slowly savored, calmly eaten one -- takes an unexpectedly short time. How short? From the time I sit down at the table, to the time I wash my dishes in the sink, less than a half hour has usually passed. Surely, whoever is calling can wait 20 to 30 minutes.

Once the phone is on silent mode, a welcome freedom settles in. Just knowing that no calls will disrupt the dining experience encourages relaxation. And a meal eaten without stress or anxiety is a meal that will be better digested.

Author and certified nutritional consultant Lori Lipinski agrees. In her online article "Seven Tips to Enhance Digestion . . . And Get the Most Out of the Foods You Eat," Lipinski said, "Eating when under stress or in a hurry inhibits the production of hydrochloric acid and enzymes that are necessary for proper digestion."

Lipinski may be right, but it doesn't take an expert to explain the obvious.

Food eaten slowly when you can concentrate on it is less likely to produce that all too familiar feeling of internal discomfort. I know it does for me. Plus, a peacefully consumed meal makes me feel grounded and more in the moment -- qualities too often lacking in our on-the-go, must-get-everything-done-right-now world.

So, when midday comes around and my stomach is sending out hunger signals, I look forward to my lunchtime routine. I go into the kitchen, clear away any leftover morning mess and set about preparing my food. It's a good feeling to know ahead of time what I'm going to eat and the fashion in which it is going to be consumed. I eat variations on the same basic meal each day -- a bun-less garden burger with melted cheese and avocado, sweet potato, tabbouleh and half a baked potato accompanied by a glass of water. A cloth napkin and place mat add to the pleasant atmosphere.

With my husband and son trained to respect my need for peace and quiet, all that's left to do is enjoy my meal. There'll be plenty of time for talk and phone calls during the rest of the day. But for now, for at least a few precious minutes -- I can disconnect with the rest of the world and concentrate on the task at hand. Let the feast begin!

Readers show support for sandhill cranes

Simply Living



First appeared in Orlando Sentinel January 27, 2008)

If the response from Simply Living readers is any indication, sandhill cranes have a strong support base in Central Florida.

After an early December column on these magnificent birds, my in-box filled with e-mails from sandhill-crane admirers. Even now, almost two months later, letters and calls from crane enthusiasts continue to flutter in.

Many readers wrote to tell of their fond regard for these red-crowned beauties, whose grazing habits often bring them into close proximity with suburban neighborhoods.

"They routinely roost at one of the many lakes here in Heathrow and walk around our community as if they own it," e-mailed Ed and Ann Evans. "The Sandhill Cranes are a daily part of life here in our section of Lake Mary."

The column prompted some people, such as Frank Dressler of Leesburg, to present their personal birding insights.

"An observation that I have made is that these cranes seem to be mostly in areas where they feel the safest. Every senior community has them around constantly. We have several families in Highland Lakes where I live. You don't see them around schools and playgrounds where there are children. It seems they don't feel threatened in our community."

While many readers generously shared specific locations where hundreds of sandhill cranes gather at night for communal repose, others offered up words of caution.

"We too are 'passionate observers' and would love to see such a spot," wrote Leesburg resident Dennis Clayton, referring to my request for information about sandhill crane roosting sites. "But, publicizing their locations could easily lead to hordes of well-intended folks invading the birds' private spaces and adversely affecting their environment. We would urge you to keep anything you learn confidential so these wonderful creatures can enjoy whatever unspoiled places they may have left."

Not to worry, Dennis. My intention has always been to share observations rather than particulars of private roosting sites that are not already open to the public.

Several readers, however, did suggest places where -- thanks to park ranger supervision -- sandhill-crane assemblages can be observed without jeopardizing the birds' safety or damaging the environment.

Michael and Cindi Kay of Apopka were among many who suggested an early evening visit to Paynes Prairie Preserve State Park, where sandhill cranes gather by the hundreds at dusk.

"If you have the time, we recommend a trip to Paynes Prairie in Gainesville," the Kays wrote. "It is just south of downtown and is accessible via Paynes Prairie State Park, on the south side, and trails on the north side. The park will have this information. This time of year there will be hundreds, if not thousands of them."

Unable to travel to Gainesville? How about a visit to nearby Moss Park in southeast Orange County? According to Jeffrey Tillison and other readers, 1,500-acre Moss Park is an excellent place to observe clusters of these highly social birds.

"We were treated to seeing hundreds of the sandhill cranes and other wildlife," wrote Tillison of a recent weekend spent camping at Moss Park with 200 Scouts and their families. "They were so inured to human contact that we could stand within a few feet of these creatures. We enjoyed watching them play and dance around during low light morning and evening times."

My own quest to see where the sandhill cranes settle for their evening slumber led me to a site suggested by Minneola resident David James. James accompanied me to a private lake that does double-time in the evening as an avian landing strip. We stood on the soggy shoreline for about an hour as one group of cranes after another flew in, circled, released their landing gear and dropped down onto a grassy pad surrounded by shallow water. In place of a control tower, cranes that had already arrived called out what I imagined to be landing instructions to each incoming flock.

"Ground Control to southwest V of incoming cranes," they seemed to announce in their prehistoric-sounding croaky voices. "You are cleared for landing. Come in, cranes."

Swift came the reply, "We read you, Ground Control. Landing gear has been lowered. Prepare for touchdown."

What a thrill it was to finally see a sandhill roosting site and to watch the grassy island in the middle of a quiet lake quickly fill up with birds -- hundreds of birds -- as the daylight slipped away.

While I hope all sandhill-crane enthusiasts might someday witness such a sight, I know not everyone will be able to. Perhaps those who cannot will enjoy the next best thing -- sharing the experiences of others.

Many readers suggested a wonderful Web site posted by Robert Grover, a dentist and amateur photographer from Suntree. Although Grover's unparalleled pictures do not focus on sandhill crane roosting sites, they do provide with amazing clarity a close-up view of sandhill family life from nest to fledgling stage. You can view them at groverphoto.phan fare.com.

More information about sandhill cranes can also be found at the Web site of the International Crane Foundation -- savingcranes.org. Or, as Villages resident Anne McDonald suggested, in author Steve Grooms' "wonderful and informative" book, The Cry of the Sandhill Crane (Camp & Cottage Birding Collection, 3).

Blooms are the reward for patience

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel January 20, 2008)

Sweet! That's how the narcissus growing on my porch smell.

Whenever I pass through the screened room, a whiff of scented air catches me by surprise. It's the springtime of my past -- Cape Cod Aprils and Mays where cheery daffodils and colorful crocuses blossom in lawns still spotted with snow. The fragrant blooms trigger fond memories of people and places long unseen.

Growing bulbs indoors is like that. It's a way to bridge the difference between yesterday and tomorrow.

As horticultural endeavors go, forcing bulbs is straightforward, but it does take time. It's a practice of delayed gratification that involves planning and forethought. Bulbs must be ordered or purchased by early autumn and stored in a cool spot for several weeks before blooming can commence. That alone has always dampened my enthusiasm. I'm an immediate gratification person -- the type store managers hope will impulsively place a pot of blooming bulbs in the shopping cart alongside groceries.

But not this year. This year I made it happen by default.

In November, when my oldest son returned from a trip to see his grandmother in Seattle, he brought back a small bag of assorted bulbs.

My husband's mother is an amazing gardener. At age 90, she still lives on her own in a home surrounded by gorgeous gardens. In the summer, under her attentive care, flowerbeds overflowing with roses, gladioluses, dahlias, fuchsias, sweet white alyssum and beautiful blue lobelias burst into bloom. Not one to be content with summer-only gardening, in the winter Mary fills the inside of her house with flowers too. An assortment of forced bulbs sit on her windowsills as a sweet reminder that springtime is just around the corner.

As much as I love and admire my mother-in-law, when Timmy came home with Grandma's gift for me, I wasn't exactly filled with excitement. My immediate thought was one of regret.

"Now how am I supposed to do this?" I wondered. I always feel inadequate with gardening methods that involve detailed preparations.

But this time, instead of fretting or procrastinating -- OK, I did procrastinate for about a week -- I set about doing what needed to be done. I unwrapped the package and placed the bulbs in several flowerpots filled with small stones and pieces of sea glass.

Although bulbs are usually refrigerated for a couple weeks after being potted up, I decided to forgo that step and place them on the porch where the air is somewhat cooler than the house.

My decision to skip the chilling phase was inspired by a pot of daffodil bulbs that I never got around to removing after they bloomed last winter. The daffodils were another gift -- this time from my Massachusetts-based daughter, Jenny, who gave them to me early last autumn during one of her visits home. Jenny's bulbs flourished in our Florida winter, but when winter was over, I neglected to de-pot the spent blooms.

No matter, they sprouted again anyway.

A few weeks ago, I noticed a mass of green stems easing their way out of last year's bulbs. And, while none have yet flowered, they've been the perfect excuse to be lazy about refrigerating my new crop of narcissus-to-be's.

I guess it worked because, as of today, two of the narcissus have produced multiple white flowers, and several other buds are swelling with the potential of fragrance to come.

While not proud of my laziness when it comes to gardening, I admit to having limitations. How lovely it is, then, to discover that sometimes limitations can be lifted. The blooms that fill my porch with a memory-triggering sweetness prove that force is not the only means of achieving positive results. Rules are to question, and discoveries sometimes result from the most haphazard methods.

I doubt if this experience is going to make me an overnight advocate of multi-step gardening -- my needs for immediate gratification are too deeply ingrained for that. But my recent success with spring bulbs has been encouraging.

The sweet scent of long-ago Aprils and Mays is ample reward for the minimal effort involved in growing this year's crop of cheery flowers. With this experiment under my belt, I look forward to less laborious garden adventures for many seasons to come.

Among winter pleasures: Vermont folk musicians

Simply Living



(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel January 13, 2008)

There are many things to look forward to during a Florida winter. There's the fresh taste of red navel oranges and the juicy flavor of a just-picked strawberry. There's finally having a reason to don long-sleeve shirts and the opportunity to go for midday walks now that the sun's heat has been somewhat subdued.

Something else I anticipate during wintertime is the return to Florida of some of my favorite Northern musicians. As predictable as a pair of songbirds flying south from their snow-covered homes, Bennington, Vt., residents Steve Gillette and Cindy Mangsen make up a folk music duo that has been flocking to the Florida winter music scene for the past nine years.

"We've been coming to Florida each January and have built up an audience over time," said Gillette. "We were invited to the South Florida Folk Festival in 1998, and in May of 2000 we played at the Gamble Rogers Memorial Folk Festival in St. Augustine."

While I'm not sure if I attended their concerts every year, I've been in the audience enough to know how much I look forward to their annual concerts. With Gillette on guitar and Mangsen on concertina, their show never fails to entertain, enlighten and amuse.

Perhaps Florida singer-songwriter Jack Williams said it best when he posted these comments on a Florida folk music listserv about the couple's 2008 tour, "The coming of two of my favorite people/musicians to Florida prompts me to write and suggest that no one miss a concert by Steve Gillette and Cindy Mangsen! Whether you like your folk contemporary or traditional, you'll get it all with these two most comfortable of writer/performers. These two friends always remind me that folk music can still be gentle, friendly, old and new -- all at once. Hold on to your hearts for Steve's song about Gamble Rogers. They're the best."

I'm not sure which of the Gillette-Mangsen songs I like best. Out of the four compact discs they have produced together -- individually they've each also produced four others -- their most recent album, Being There, might be my favorite.

That album includes the lyrical "Road Through the Wood" that Mangsen adapted from a Rudyard Kipling poem, as well as two irreverent ditties -- "Homelessness" and "Odd One Out" -- written by their friends, fellow performers and comedic cohorts Lou and Peter Berryman. Also on the Being There album is the thought-provoking tune, "The Kid with the Comic Book" written by Canadian songwriter Trevor Mills, which Gillette-Mangsen call a "quirky, sweet vision of the cosmos."

This year the husband-wife team, whose performing history dates back to the 1960s, will be providing music lovers with several choices of listening venues. Their first Florida stop will be in The Villages for a one-hour free concert at the Church on the Square at 6 p.m. Wednesday. For information, call 352-750-5411.

They leave The Villages for Tampa, where they'll do an on-air show at 88.5 FM (WMNF) and then a live concert at the Cultural Center in Tarpon Springs before returning for a . show at 7 p.m. Saturday at Lake Eustis Folk Center. For information, call 352-253-6448.

After a quick trip to Sarasota for a house concert, they return to Orlando at 2:30 p.m. Jan. 27 for a performance at beautiful Harry P. Leu Gardens, sponsored by Central Florida Folk. The Leu Gardens show costs $12 at the door. Those who arrive early can enjoy a pre-show ramble around the ever-verdant botanical gardens. For information, call 407-679-6426.

I haven't decided yet which of the three local gigs I'll go to this year, but whichever I select, it's sure to be time well spent. If you're in the mood for music that will soothe as much as amuse, check out these mavens of the melodic folk scene.

Snippets of their songs are available at compassrosemusic.com.

Flights of sandhill cranes inspire questions for an expert wildlife biologist

Simply Living



(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel January 6, 2008)

There is a mystery surrounding sandhill cranes that has intrigued me for years. It concerns their evening pattern of flying in great V's toward some unknown location. If you've been outside about 5:30 p.m. and happened to look upward, you might have seen them too. Maybe, like me, you've also wondered, "Where are they going? And why are they going there?"

My curiosity has peaked in recent weeks as I began noticing their distinctive flight patterns just before sunset. Looking up, I see the sky dotted with cranes flying overhead in flocks of 14, 16, two dozen or more at a time.

They take to the sky with uncanny regularity, as if an internal buzzer has signaled them to stop feeding and go aloft before dusk. Coming from all directions, these majestic fliers with the gray feathers and red crowns flap their wings in unison and point northeast.

Their evening flight takes them directly over our property, causing me to stop whatever I'm doing to ponder their patterns. Is there some great roosting spot where hundreds of cranes gather at night for communal repose? If so, where is it?

To find answers, I contacted Florida's pre-eminent crane researcher Steven Nesbitt at his home in Gainesville. According to Nesbitt, a communal resting place is exactly where they're going.

"Cranes are social birds," explained the retired wildlife biologist formerly with the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission. "Sometimes hundreds or, in some places, even thousands, will roost together in one spot."

They gather for protection as much as socialization. With predators in Florida such as alligators, bobcats and coyotes, sandhill cranes seek safe roosting spots free from surprise attacks.

"Typically, they want open marsh or shallow open water," said Nesbitt. "Since cranes cannot perch, they are obligated to spend their time on the ground or standing up in water that's two to three inches deep. They look for a lake bottom that is solid or firm, not one that's mucky or with a whole lot of vegetation. They also roost on islands in lakes and shallow water."

Nesbitt postulates that the many of the cranes I've noticed are "northern migratory cranes that have come to Florida for the winter from the Great Lakes, eastern Minnesota, Wisconsin and southwest Ontario."

There are six subspecies of sandhill cranes worldwide with a total population of about 400,000. Florida's year-round residents are called Florida sandhill cranes (Grus canadensis pratensis) while the migratory birds that winter in Central Florida are greater sandhill cranes (Grus candensis tabida).

Migratory cranes start arriving in Florida in late October and peak between Thanksgiving and Christmas. They remain in the Sunshine State through mid-February before leaving for the long flight back North.

Despite belonging to different subspecies, the native and visiting birds intermingle freely, occasionally feeding, flying and roosting together. That explains why large V's of birds appear in wintertime when the area's total crane population swells.

"The last time it was recorded," Nesbitt said, "the Florida sandhill crane population was in the 4,000-to-6,000 range. The population of greater sandhill cranes is approximately 40,000, and most of them migrate to Florida in the winter."

Sandhill cranes usually roost within about a mile of their feeding range area of 500 to 1,200 acres.

"They're as much an upland bird as a wetland bird," he said. "They do a lot of their feeding in pastures and grassy uplands."

Maybe that's why I seldom see more than an occasional pair here on our property -- with an ever-expanding number of bamboos, pine and oak trees, our land no longer contains large enough open pastureland to satisfy a large flock's needs.

Of the many wondrous birds in Florida, sandhill cranes are among my favorites. Their great size is part of what makes them special. About 4 feet tall with a wingspan of almost 7 feet, these beautiful birds are just slightly smaller than North America's largest bird, their endangered cousin the whooping crane.

Their mating habits are also endearing. Like geese and swans, cranes are monogamous. Not only do they choose lifelong partners -- and live an average of 25 years -- but both sexes also share in parenting chores, with the male birds helping to incubate the eggs and raise the babies.

With a tendency to return to the same habitat annually and an easy comfort with their human counterparts, sandhill cranes become familiar sights in many a Central Florida neighborhood.

Finally, it's their distinctive call that draws me to them with wonder and admiration. A sandhill crane's croaky vocalization is like a beacon back to prehistoric days. Fossilized remains of birds with bodies almost identical to modern sandhill cranes are estimated to be at least 10 million years old.

Although Nesbitt helped clarify much of the sandhill crane mystique, I'm still curious about those expansive marshy areas where hundreds of cranes roost at night. Someday, I'd like to see one in person. If any readers know of such a spot and are willing to show it to a passionate observer, I'm up for the task. Anything I find out will be shared in a future column.