Aptly named beautyberry thrives

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel October 19, 2009)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Autumn comes home to roost

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel October 12, 2009)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel October 5, 2009)

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

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

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

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

He responded with a single word: "Huge!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ubiquitous weed is a devil to get rid of

Butterflies might like Biden alba but I sure don't!

SIMPLY LIVING

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

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

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

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

Flowers and seeds

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

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

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

Nasty barbed Biden seeds stick to anything they touch

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

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

A basket filled with freshly picked Spanish needle leaves gathered for its antibacterial properties 

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

Common Buckeye Butterfly on Bidens alba bloom (above) and Gulf fritillary (below)

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

I tried to like it. I really did.

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

Life lessons not taught at college

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel September 21, 2009)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The floor got really wet," he explained.

What a surprise!

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

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

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

"What's the problem?" Ralph asked.

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

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

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

How about that! It worked.

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

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

The feeling is mutual.

Snake's alive — somewhere in the office

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel September 14, 2009)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have fun learning, and feed millions

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel September 7, 2009)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turtles have good reason to be nervous

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 31, 2009)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taking baby on walk down memory lane

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 24, 2009)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, where did I put my sunchokes?

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 17, 2009)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Got anyplace in mind?" he asked.

I said I did.

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

"That might work," he replied.

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

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

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

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

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 10, 2009)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grandson's birth marvel to behold

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 3, 2009)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Discover if you have the grape de-seeding gene

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 27, 2009)


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parallel-less lives...

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 20, 2009)

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

It was pouring.

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

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

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

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

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

I was incredulous.

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

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

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

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

He's right. I didn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our family's fascinating bears fruit

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 13, 2009)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breathe in...breathe out

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 6, 3009)

Breathe in ... breathe out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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