Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 25, 2008)
"When the brake lights go on in the car in front of you, prepare to stop."
"When you are entering a road and the sign says 'Yield,' slow down and wait until you can enter the road safely. You don't have the right of way -- no matter what everyone else is doing. When the sign says 'Yield,' you yield."
"Keep a good two to three car lengths between you and the car in front of you."
"Stay in the right lane. Only pass when necessary."
"Maintain the speed limit. If the sign says 35, go 35, not 50."
"Use your rearview mirrors. Get in the habit of checking them frequently."
"Drive defensively. Be on the lookout for potential problems and try to think ahead about how to solve them if they happen."
For the past 11 months, I've been spewing snippets of automotive wisdom while my teenage son steers the family minivan along Central Florida's highways and byways. As our family's designated driving instructor, my job has always been teaching our four children the ins and outs of automotive navigation. For the most part, it has been a pretty smooth ride.
The oldest three passed their tests -- maybe not always on the first try, but eventually -- and went on to become competent, careful drivers. Each has proved his and her mettle on everything from clay roads to rain-slick -- and snow-slick -- highways. Our oldest son even spent a few years as a professional driver, earning money for his vehicular skills as he crisscrossed the country.
It didn't matter which of our children was behind the wheel during their training periods -- certain situations always evoked moments of lip-biting fear. The claustrophobic sensation of being sandwiched between two 18-wheelers comes to mind, as does that first trip off two-lane roads onto multilane highways with cars whizzing by at 80 MPH.
Along with the expected insecurity and trepidation we also have experienced many moments of surprising pride and elation. The day a child realizes you can actually release one hand from the steering wheel without losing control of the car always evokes smiles of pleasure and amazement.
I tried -- quite often successfully -- to stay calm during the first few months when whichever child I was teaching took curves too tightly or didn't brake as soon as I thought he or she should when we came to a traffic light. I did my share of armrest clutching and sympathy braking -- ramming my right foot down on the floorboards with the deluded notion that it would help us stop sooner. And, yes, I occasionally yelled.
Saying "Watch it!" or "What are you doing?" may not have helped my kids learn faster, but it enabled me to release pent up tension that is part of the process of teaching someone a new skill.
These days a new tension has worked its way into my subconscious. When my youngest child receives his drivers license, I realize he won't be the only one embarking on a new stage of life. With the passing of the car keys, the gift of freedom and independence also will be mine. Because my daily schedule no longer will be dictated by another person's needs, it will be up to me to chart my own course. After almost 30 years of driving others around, my chauffeur's cap will be removed once and for all when my teenage son takes the car for his first solo ride.
It may take some time to adjust to new patterns but, like driving itself, the upcoming transition is both exciting and daunting. Like I've told my children during many driving lessons, "When you're behind the wheel, you're in charge of where you go and how you get there. When to stop. When to start. To speed up or slow down. You alone make these decisions, so act wisely and stay focused."
Those are lessons my son and I will both be practicing in the weeks and months to come.
Simply Living(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 18, 2008)When we built our house 16 years ago, the spot we selected was on the slope of a steep hill.The soil was thick orange clay, and to create a road to the garage, we had to cut away some of the hill and terrace the land into a series of steps. The result was a stark clay wall about seven yards behind the house that leveled off about four feet before stepping up again for another short climb.To reach the upper area, Ralph cut a 13-step stairway into the hard soil and smoothed it over with concrete. My office looks directly at those stairs and the narrow path above them.Initially, the area we call "the clay wall" was raw and ugly, but after years of planting vines, shrubs and gingers at its base, the wall disappeared behind flower-studded greenery. Over time, the once-barren hillside became lush and verdant. Huge oaks now cover the sloping land, their long limbs reaching down to brush the leaf-littered ground.It was in this relatively untended spot that, on two separate but equally thrilling occasions, I recently saw first a coyote and then a bobcat walk along the pathway at the top of the clay wall before pausing at the head of the steps.When the coyote came, I was alone in my office working on the computer. Although my eyes were focused on the monitor, the animal's movement must have triggered an unconscious awareness, because I looked up just before the coyote reached the spot where the path meets the stairs.I'm embarrassed to admit it was my own loud calls to my husband and son that scared the critter away. Apparently, even if a person is inside a building a good 25 feet from where a wary coyote pauses to survey the landscape, cries of "There's a coyote at the top of the stairs!" can be heard by the animal's finely tuned ears.The tawny-toned hunter turned around in his tracks and scampered off into the woods -- but not until he looked directly at me with large, probing eyes as if to say, "What did you do that for?" How foolish I felt to have reacted in such a typically insensitive, loud human way.In retrospect, I wish I had reached for my camera and snapped a few pictures to share instead of trying to call my family into the office to see the animal themselves.Fortunately, when the bobcat came by a few days later, my 16-year-old son was already in the office with me. It was Toby, not me, who spotted the stubby-tailed predator. With a calm voice that wouldn't scare away a fly, Toby announced, "Look. A bobcat."Sure enough, standing right where the coyote stood a few days before was a beautiful spotted wildcat. Like the coyote, the bobcat paused when the level path it was taking met the top of the stairs. It too chose that spot to sniff the air and survey its surroundings. I wasn't screaming this time, so it wasn't scared away. Assured of its safety, the bobcat ambled along the narrow, grassy path.I wish I could say I snapped some wonderful photos of the animal as it stood at the head of the stairs surveying its surroundings. Unfortunately, I didn't.Cameras, even close-at-hand digital devices, take time to turn on and get ready, and in that time the bobcat moved out of view. But I wasn't ready to give up. Toby and I, now joined by my husband, quickly stepped outside to see where the bobcat was heading.It was heading directly toward us.Even though we were making a concerted effort to stand still and be quiet, the animal's sharp ears and acute sense of smell noted our human presence almost immediately.Like the coyote before him, the bobcat gave one long, final gaze at these pesky people before retreating rapidly into the dense wooded undercover.These two recent sightings got me thinking. I've seen bobcats and coyotes before on the property -- not often, but frequently enough to know the land we live on is part of the territory they also call home. I also know that, despite being predators, both critters are not above foraging through compost piles for edible tidbits.Putting two and two together, I decided to build a new compost pile at the top of the steps. Perhaps a depository of aromatic scraps would draw more animals to this spot of close observation.It has been about a week since the compost pile was completed. Although the only wildlife I've seen so far has been squirrels and birds, I remain hopeful that someday a bobcat, fox or coyote will stop by to check it out.My attitude about the clay wall has changed dramatically, especially since the coyote appeared. Sixteen years ago, what began as an eyesore has turned into an attractive -- if somewhat unkempt -- landscape feature. More recently, that same clay wall has become a focal point of both the yard and my imagination.It doesn't take much to change our perspectives. From ugly to lovely, unkempt to well tended, small steps can make a big difference in our everyday world.In my case, 13 small steps up a solid clay wall have made a big difference in my daily life. From an area once ignored to one much adored, my office view has become much amended.
Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 11, 2008)
The power at our house went out on three separate occasions recently. The first two outages were relatively brief, but the third lasted eight long hours. About 90 minutes into that final blackout I was struck by a shocking realization: I'm inordinately dependent on electricity.
Before the storm, I hadn't thought of myself as such a plugged-in person. More eclectic than electric, my self-image revolved around someone comfortable with basic needs and at ease with her surroundings.
I suppose that's still true, as long as those surroundings and needs include an on-the-grid house with working electricity and high-speed Internet access.
The lightning strike happened about 5:30 p.m. Although the electric company responded quickly, repairs weren't completed until 2 a.m. That meant from about 8 p.m. on we were literally left in the dark.
Fortunately, I wasn't caught completely unprepared. From years of summer storms, I have learned to secure a stash of emergency supplies. Candles and flashlights -- even one or two with batteries that work -- were on hand, together with plenty of food in the pantry. Our gas oven depends on an electric pilot, so it's useless during outages. Not so with the stovetop, however. The top burners flicker into action when lit by a match.
Water is essential. Because ours comes from a well powered by an electric pump, I keep at least a dozen bottles in a low cupboard with more in the freezer. Rather than buy bottled water, I use recycled 64-ounce juice containers filled from the tap. During outages, water is invaluable when one of us gets thirsty, needs to brush teeth or flush the toilet. Plus, the frozen bottles help keep food in the freezer from thawing.
Three of us live at home these days, and no one lacked essentials during this recent outage. The only things missing were the comforts and conveniences of modern-day life -- running water, air conditioning, lights, TV, microwave, computer and Internet access.
And yet, despite this less than severe situation, a strange languor set in after sunset when candlelight was our sole illumination. The house felt empty and eerily quiet. Without the refrigerator working, no electric hum filled the air with ambient noise. Absent also was the glow of LED lights emanating from the usual collection of electronic equipment.
Thinking back, I'm surprised by how inconvenienced, lost and impatient the outage made me feel. My comfortable patterns -- evening routines of making dinner and TV watching, cleaning up the kitchen, checking for e-mail and reading in bed before going to sleep -- were replaced by frustration and boredom. Many times that night I forgot the power was off and tried to turn on the faucet. Repeatedly I entered the kitchen intending to get something out of the fridge before remembering I shouldn't open it. How accustomed I'd become to living life a certain way.
I didn't enjoy this forced reduction of societal trappings. Although I'm a proponent of conservation and of living more harmoniously with nature, I have no desire to turn back the clock or rid myself of modern conveniences. Rather than seek fewer technological attachments, I wish we'd prioritize the development of efficient and affordable alternative energy systems. When power goes out -- as it does so often during summer storms -- homes should, at the very least, be backed up by alternative systems that maintain basic appliances.
We live in the Sunshine State after all. Why isn't more effort made to harness the sun? It seems crazy to me that we continue to pour billions of dollars into tapping environmentally harmful fossil fuels while the development of safe, clean sources of renewable energy idles by the wayside.
The three power outages we experienced last week might have blacked out the lights but they illuminated my thoughts. They made me realize how much I enjoy my comforts and appreciate my routines. More importantly, they reaffirmed my conviction that alternative energy systems are essential if we want to maintain the lifestyles most of us have come to depend upon. If more people take the time to tell our lawmakers to support the development of solar and wind power, perhaps the future will remain bright for everyone.
Side note: In last week's column, I mentioned that muscadine grapes are now ripe at local you-pick farms. Several readers wrote asking for more information on how to find the two farms mentioned in the article. Tommy Free's Lake Apshawa Farm & Nursery is at 18030 W. Apshawa Road, Clermont, 325-394-3313. Tracey and Fred Estok's Howey-in-the-Hills farm, Valley View Vineyard, is at 22370 County Road 455, 352-243-4032. Before going to any you-pick farm, always call ahead for hours of operation and fruit availability.
Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 4, 2008)
If I had to pick one plant -- one flowering plant -- to place in my yard, I'd choose Pentas lanceolata, also known as star flower or star cluster. It's available in lavender, white and multiple shades of pink, but my choice would be a red pentas -- full size, not dwarf -- and I'd be sure to position it right outside my window.
If I were limited to only one plant -- and I hope I never am -- I'd want that plant to have multiple assets.
Ideally, it should bloom profusely year-round, grow without needing much care, attract wildlife, work well as a cut flower and have a wonderful fragrance. The pentas fulfills all those preferences but the fragrance.
Planted in loamy, moderately moist soil, a small one-gallon potted plant will turn into a compact, bloom-covered shrub in a single summer. Although it has a tendency to get leggy, that trait can be turned into an advantage. Pruned blooms can be used in cut-flower arrangements -- they're long-lasting, upright and cheery -- and can be turned into starts.
To propagate pentas, all you have to do is trim the bloom and most of the leaves off a soft-stemmed shoot and dip the stem in rooting formula before pressing it into potting soil. When kept in a shady, moist location, the cutting will develop roots that will soon grow deep and strong enough to sustain the plant on its own.
I like adding pentas to bouquets, but what I like most about this perennial bloomer is its amazing ability to attract hummingbirds and butterflies.
How hummingbirds and butterflies know when a pentas has been added to the landscape is one of nature's great mysteries. All I know is that this inexpensive, common landscape plant acts like a magnet to fluttery fliers.
Pentas is the host plant for the Sphinx moth, a hummingbird look-alike that comes out at dusk to feed.
Pentas is also a nectar source for more than a dozen members of the lepidoptera family, including several varieties of swallowtails, the orange-barred sulphur, monarch and the Gulf fritillary.
But the pentas' most outstanding attribute is the way it attracts real hummingbirds -- the smallest birds in the world. I never tire of watching them flit about the yard in search of food.
Hummingbirds are feathered jewels that weigh about as much as a penny and hatch from eggs the size of jelly beans.
Although they can see a wider range of colors than people can, these small birds with large brains are partial to red, the color of most nectar-producing blooms. With wings that beat an average of 80 times a second and speeds up to 30 miles an hour, they seem to appear out of nowhere to hover above the star-like clusters of red pentas blooms.
Appearing simultaneously methodical and manic, a hummingbird zooms to a pentas shrub. With its long, needle-like bill and specially adapted tongue, it buzzes systematically from one blossom to another before zipping off.
The entire feeding process -- which may include stops at dozens of blooms -- is over in seconds, but to maintain their body weight, these agile fliers have to eat every 10 to 15 minutes during waking hours.
In volume, a single adult hummingbird consumes eight times its body weight daily.
The single red pentas outside my office window is a constant source of delight and entertainment. When I'm not enjoying the sight of a butterfly landing on the rounded flower heads, I'm anticipating the arrival of the fast-flying hummingbirds that have claimed my plant as their own.
If for no other reason than the opportunity it provides to watch some of nature's most fascinating creatures, adding a pentas to the landscape is a must.
Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 27, 2008)The end of July marks the beginning of grape season in Florida, and in case I forgot to circle the date on my calendar, I received a gentle reminder the other day from local grape grower Tommy Free."The grapes are going to be amazing this year," Tommy said. "We'll probably have twice as many fruit as last year, yet half as many places to sell them."Free is referring to the closing of Clermont's IGA grocery, one of the few markets willing to accept locally grown produce."The vines are just covered with grapes this year," Tommy lamented. "I just hope we get enough pickers."Farming is fraught with difficulties -- weather conditions, pest infestations, a shortage of workers, increasing land taxes. It's tough enough work without adding to the mix insufficient outlets for bumper crops.I love to pick grapes, especially Florida's large, flavorful muscadine and scuppernong grapes. Every year our family looks forward to visiting Free's Lake Apshawa Road farm and nursery in Clermont. But the amount of fruit we pick -- a few shopping bags filled with the luscious bronze- and black-skinned fruit -- hardly makes a dent in the potential harvest at Free's 8-acre vineyard."Are you calling other people?" I asked Free."I've got a long list of regulars," he said. "People like yourself who come every year. But still, this year we're going to have more grapes than usual."How fortunate we are to live in an area where locally grown produce is not only readily available, but owners of small farms and vineyards also still take the time to telephone regular customers and remind them when it's time to pick.My friend Jennifer Baehne just finished picking a few Concord and muscadine grapes at another farm, Valley View Vineyard on State Road 455 in Howey-in-the-Hills."I liked the Concords best," said Baehne, who spent part of an afternoon sampling the flavors of several different grapes at the hillside farm owned by Fred and Tracey Estok. Like Free, the Estoks open their farm to fruit lovers throughout most of August. In addition to grapes, Valley View Vineyard offers peaches, figs and persimmons in season.I've spent so many years harvesting locally grown fruit from vines, bushes and trees that I've come to think of it as a necessity instead of a luxury. It's hard to imagine having to live on a diet of grocery store produce without the addition of homegrown or locally raised fruit and berries.Even the freshest-looking fruit sold in supermarkets has had to travel miles to get there. Often it is picked when under-ripe and appears on store shelves in less than ideal condition. It may be waxed, gassed or treated with pesticides. If it comes from another country, it might have been fumigated before being allowed into the United States.When you frequent your local farm for in-season fruit, none of that is an issue. The very nature of a U-Pick operation is to allow the picker to select the ripest, freshest food available.If it's important to you to eat food free from pesticide residue, the farmer is usually on hand at a small-time U-Pick farm to tell you exactly how his produce is grown. Questions can be asked and answered directly.There are many good reasons to support neighborhood farmers. "Think globally -- buy locally" has become a mantra of the environmental and sustainable agriculture movements. I support efforts to find and eat the freshest food available, especially when those foods are grown close to home.But that's not why I plan to visit Tommy Free's U-Pick grape farm this week.I'm going because picking fresh fruit is a fun way to spend time. Scuppernong grapes -- which are only available for a few short weeks of the year -- have an incomparable flavor too good to miss. Not only that, but there's something unforgettable about eating fruit minutes after it has been picked, still warm from the sun.Whether you're a veteran picker like me or a U-Pick newbie, visit a local farm soon and fill up a basket with fresh Florida flavor.To find a farm near you, go to pickyourown.org.
Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 20, 2008)
In a little less than two hours, I saw a female wild turkey foraging for seeds, a blue heron with a large fish in its mouth, a slow-moving alligator drifting down a narrow canal, two deer grazing on grass and four wild hogs huddled snout to snout in a feeding frenzy.
You might think I was spending time at a nature preserve, public park or wilderness area.
I wasn't.
I was in my car cruising south along Florida's Turnpike in the area surrounding Yeehaw Junction.
If you've spent any time traversing Florida's 460-mile north-south toll road, you're familiar with the straight stretch of multilane macadam that shuttles drivers from Wildwood to Miami. Although I don't do much traveling out of state these days, I frequently make the four-hour trek to South Florida to visit my parents.
It's a long, monotonous drive made more so by the straight cut of the road through mile upon mile of flat, open prairie. It's a land where cattle are more common than people and an expansive skyline seldom is interrupted by signs of civilization.
To break the boredom, I usually turn on the radio or switch to the MP3 player soon after I'm south of St. Cloud. My favorite songs and the programs on NPR help make the hours pass pleasantly.
Music might satisfy my ears, but my eyes still long for excitement.
While staying attuned to passing cars and oncoming traffic, I shift into "animal alert," scanning the roadsides for signs of wildlife. I'm especially likely to enter "wildlife awareness" mode when I find myself behind the wheel during dawn or dusk. Those are the magical hours when nocturnal animals are most likely to be seen.
As much as I dislike the long drive south, I love the opportunity it provides to spot wildlife. No matter when I drive down that lonely stretch of pavement, some natural encounter is bound to occur.
Fascination with wildlife has been a lifelong preoccupation. As a young child, I remember driving with my parents in their tan Rambler station wagon from our home in southeastern Pennsylvania to the Catskill Mountains, where my mother's family lived.
From the back seat, I could look out the window and scan the horizon. It was the perfect perch from which to search the landscape for deer, raccoons and hawks. I spent most of my time on those three-hour treks doing just that -- staring out the window watching the countryside roll by while my mind drifted off into one daydream after another.
During my early parenting years, opportunities to glimpse seldom-seen animals arose whenever our family took a vacation. Back then we had a camper -- a Class C RV -- that we traveled in with the kids. On monthlong excursions across the country, I sat behind the wheel watching the roadside while my husband, who has always disliked driving, contentedly prepared food and helped the children.
"Bighorn sheep off to the left!" I'd call out as we ventured through the rugged peaks of Wyoming.
Or, "Quick!" I'd say as we traveled through the Kansas countryside. "Look at the prairie dogs standing by their mounds!"
It was fun back then to share my observations with Ralph and the children -- exciting to see them get excited by some unexpected spotting. I miss that during my solo runs to South Florida. As thrilling as it was recently to spot wild hogs huddling together over some tasty roadside tidbit, I wish someone had been in the car to see it too.
Someone was with me a few days later when, at 4 a.m., I once again found myself approaching the turnpike on-ramp. With a hot cup of caffeine-laced PG Tips tea in one hand and the steering wheel held firmly in the other, I and my youngest son were just beginning our 45-minute drive to the airport when a doglike animal ran onto the road.
"What's that?" I asked Toby as we simultaneously leaned forward and stared out the window. "Do you think it's a coyote?"
"Definitely," he said as we had a clear image of the critter hesitating for a moment before turning around and returning to the woods.
"Cool!" I replied as the SunPass buzzer beeped, registering our automatic payment.
"Not a bad price to pay for a coyote sighting," I thought to myself as I rounded the entry ramp and merged onto the toll road.
"Not bad at all."
Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 13, 2008)
The recent rains certainly have made plants happy. The green leaves on shrubs, flowers, trees and vines seem more brilliant than ever. Even browned, nearly dead-looking lawns that barely grew during the prolonged drought have responded to daily downpours by sprouting overnight into dense forests of swaying green blades.
The rumble of lawn mowers and the roar of weed-whackers trying to keep up with this flush of plenty has become an omnipresent sound in neighborhoods.
With so many people outdoors mowing and maintaining swaths of green, it's an ideal time to consider what to do with those grass clippings.
The homeowner has three options:
1. Mow the lawn and leave the grass clippings in place.
2. Mow the lawn and bag the grass clippings for trash pickup.
3. Mow the lawn and use the grass clippings for mulch around plants.
By far, the first two options are most frequently chosen.
Grass clippings left in place are good for the lawn, adding valuable nutrients to the soil as they decompose.
But many people don't like the look of cut blades drying in the sun on their otherwise green lawn. To combat the problem, they rake the clippings into piles, stuff them into trash bags and drag their heavy loads to the curb where the green blades will make their way into overloaded landfills.
Drive down any subdivision on a summertime yard trash pickup day and curbsides will be dotted with garbage bags stuffed with what I call "green gold." I'm always amazed how few people realize the value of the natural matter they toss away.
Grass clippings are filled with organic goodness. They are rich in nitrogen, phosphorus, potassium and lesser amounts of other essential plant nutrients. These thin blades of green are loaded with vital elements, and they have them in a ratio -- four parts nitrogen to one part phosphorus to three parts potassium (4-1-3) -- that's ideal for lawn health. That's the same proportion you'd be seeking if you went to buy a lawn fertilizing formula at your garden center.
I can't help but wonder why so many people waste their money on chemical compounds when the product they need is right there beneath their feet.
Not only are grass clippings chock-full of important nutrients, but those nutrients also decompose rapidly, releasing nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium into the soil with efficiency and ease.
I have been using grass clippings as mulch for as long as I've been gardening. Second only to eel grass -- a type of seaweed that washes up on Cape Cod beaches and that we used extensively when we lived there -- freshly mowed grass is my favorite mulching material. I use it around all sorts of plants because it is easy to handle and aromatic when freshly cut. Also, grass clippings can be fitted with ease into even the most delicate of spots, a characteristic that makes them ideal mulch for young seedlings and mature plants.
You don't have to look any further than your own garden for proof of how beneficial grass clippings can be when used as mulch. Ground that has been repeatedly layered with the byproduct of mowing will be teeming with worms.
Earthworms -- nature's best indicators of healthy ground -- are drawn to the nutrient-rich clippings. They digest the organic matter and then return it to the soil in a form readily accessible to the mulched plants. As natural tillers, earthworms work their way in and out of the decomposing clippings, causing the soil to become lighter and richer.
In our nursery, when people come to purchase bamboo, I'm constantly telling them to use the grass they cut as mulch around the bamboo and other landscape plants. Over and over, I repeat: Don't throw away grass clippings -- give them to the plants.
But while people nod and say with surprise, "Oh, I didn't realize you could do that," I can tell they are just being polite. The throwaway mentality is so ingrained in the American psyche that it's difficult for people to consider new behaviors.
But consider them we must.
It may be difficult, but we must learn to be better stewards of the land. Using our grass clippings is a small way to create a healthier environment. Instead of taking time and money, mulching with "green gold" saves a little bit of both.
Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 6, 2008)
I think I saw a whippoorwill the other day.
To avoid the heat, Ralph and I took our late afternoon walk on the high paths that crisscross a densely wooded part of the property where the tree canopy keeps the air a few degrees cooler. We were strolling along through pines, oaks and wild persimmon trees when, upon our approach, a large bird swept out of an oak into the branches of another nearby tree.
"What kind of bird do you think it is?" Ralph asked.
"Maybe an owl or a hawk," I ventured.
As we stepped closer to the tree into which it flew, the bird took off again to yet another nearby oak.
"I don't think it's a hawk," I said, suddenly convinced by its size, shape and flight pattern. "And I'm not sure it's an owl either. Maybe it's a nighthawk or a whippoorwill."
We watched the bird fly two more times, each flight just a short jaunt from one tree to another. I never got close enough to see it for long, but each time it flew by, I noticed more and more details. Its thick body was brown, its head large. It seemed to have the size and shape of a whippoorwill or, perhaps, its larger cousin the chuck-will's-widow.
Often heard but seldom seen, the song of this year-round resident is a ubiquitous nighttime sound in many Florida's rural regions. The chuck-will's-widow -- Caprimulgus carolinensis -- is a member of the nightjar family of birds. Its relatives include the whippoorwill, Common Poorwill and six other nocturnal nighthawks.
Because its song is so compelling, there have been many occasions when I've been drawn outdoors to search the night sky for this insect-eating bird. No delicate trill, the nightjar's three-part-whistle begins after dark in spring and early summer. For me, the similar sounds of the whippoorwill and the chuck-will's-widow have become symbols of summer itself. They remind me that chilly nights have ended and the warm weather has arrived. They also let me know that, while daylight is gone, a world of adventure is just beginning for certain avian species, bats and other mammals large and small.
Almost always, I'm surprised by how close the birds seem to be. Is the singer on the lawn right outside my porch? It sure sounds that way. Or maybe it's in the low branches of an oak or sitting atop a fence post nearby. I look out into the dark, listen hard, straining to locate the exact place from which the sound emanates. Unsuccessful again. Maybe that's why I was so excited to think I had finally chanced upon an unexpected daylight sighting.
Ralph and I stood in the woods for several minutes, waiting to see if the bird would fly by again. It didn't.
"Makes you appreciate nature photographers, doesn't it?" my husband asked, recalling some of the many amazing movies we've watched of birds, fish and wild animals.
"Those photographers must spend hours and hours just sitting and waiting for something to happen," he said, swatting away a hovering fly.
It was at that point, I suppose, we decided to move on. Our walk led us off into a different part of the woods where no other birds were flushed out of hiding by our noisy footsteps.
Later that night, I stepped outside just after dark. Sure enough, in the distance, coming from what sounded like the exact spot where Ralph and I had seen the large-winged brown bird flutter by a few hours before, was the compelling call of what was either a chuck-will's-widow or whippoorwill. Over and over, it repeated its three-toned message as if to say, "Find me now! Find me now! Find me now!"
Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 29, 2008)
I've always considered the occasional infestation of household ants to be Mother Nature's way of monitoring my housekeeping skills. When ants appear, I see it as a sign to step up my domestic duties. Counters must be wiped diligently. Dirty dishes can't sit unwashed, and jars, bags and boxes that contain sweet or oily foods have to be tightly sealed.
Unfortunately, in the past few days, our household has experienced an ant infestation so extreme that I can no longer attribute its appearance to a mere slacking off of housekeeping efforts.
Great gobs of swarming carpenter ants -- ugly winged creatures and their wingless counterparts -- emerge at dusk from the walls of my former office where large sections of trim never secured the space between the wooden wainscoting and the painted plasterboard.
One disadvantage of being an owner-builder is that we often overlook finishing details that never would be left incomplete if a house were being built by a contractor. That's what happened in my former office, a small room with 30-inch-high pine lower walls. A piece of trim is supposed to cover the opening between wood and drywall, merging the two wall sections into one unit. Our intention was always to trim out the room, but we never got around to it. In 1992, we were busy with work, young children and a building project that was taking longer than expected. Certain tasks were put on the back burner -- the far, far back burner.
Besides, we rationalized with convoluted logic, a few missing pieces of trim wouldn't prevent the room from functioning as a viable work space.
For years that was true. The room did provide me with a pleasant work space. After a while, I stopped complaining about the missing trim boards and learned to live with an inch-wide lateral gap around the wall halves.
Until the bugs appeared.
One reason I moved out of that room into my current home office was to get away from pesky insects.
I'm not sure when I first noticed them or how long they lasted, but as the years passed, more ants and antlike insects crawled out of the horizontal wall gap and flew or crawled around the room. They were drawn to the light of my computer, and that meant they were drawn to me.
Because I try to avoid chemical compounds whenever possible, my initial responses were to shoo away, swat and, when that didn't work, satisfyingly squish the annoying intruders. I also poured and sprayed nontoxic products such as boric acid, diatomaceous earth and pyrethrum into the wall crevices and along window edges. When none of those methods made a significant dent in the bug population, I turned to harsher chemicals. I sprayed the room's interior and the house's exterior perimeter with one of the home defense systems available at the garden center.
Still the bugs came.
Eventually, I admitted defeat. Getting into a Zen-like state and coexisting harmoniously with nature's minutia hadn't worked, nor had environmentally friendly nontoxic methods. Even big bad chemicals had been less than successful at conquering the enemy. There was nothing left to do but move into another room and pretend that what I couldn't see wouldn't hurt me.
Unfortunately, it would.
Ignoring the problem enabled the insects to multiply unhampered by human intervention. The other night when the house exploded in a frantic frenzy of flying ants, we realized that the source of the insidious scourge was the glaring gap in my old office wall.
"Unbelievable!" I muttered to my son and husband. "This is where they're all coming from!"
The two types of carpenter ants -- Camponotus floridanus and Camponotus tortuganus -- that live in Central Florida dwell in colonies. In my case, that colony is somewhere inside the office walls. A single queen fertilized by one short-lived male produces larvae that develop into worker ants. Those workers grow up to care for the queen and help her produce more and more worker ants.
After two to five years -- that accounts for why I saw a steady increase in insect intruders -- the colony needs to expand its territory. To do so, it sends out alates -- those are the long-legged, small winged ants I'd noticed. The job of these reproducers is to make more workers for a new colony near the original nest.
Although just thinking about carpenter ants conjures up images of crumbling walls, the good news is that the types of carpenter ants that live in Central Florida homes don't damage a house's structural integrity.
But they do bite people, and that alone puts them on my must-eliminate list.
I'm not sure exactly how to overcome this problem. No doubt we'll continue spraying the ants to limit their vitality. I'm also going to take advantage of the wall opening to pour more borax and diatomaceous earth into their living space. Regardless of what we do, this episode of people versus pests should be the motivator we need to finally -- 16 years after it was built -- finish trimming out the office walls.
Maybe that's what Mother Nature intended all along. Instead of merely monitoring my housekeeping skills, she has upped the ante -- admonishing me to "get off your butt and finish what you started!" If that's the case, I'm on it. I'll do anything to stop nature from bugging me.
Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 22, 2008)
Until my husband pointed it out to me yesterday, I didn't realize our carambola tree was fruiting again.
The carambola, or star fruit as it's more commonly called, is a small tree that provides big yields of juicy, sweet-tart, star-shaped fruit throughout most of the year. Originally from Southeast Asia, carambolas were introduced to the Florida landscape about 100 years ago and are now grown commercially in four South Florida counties as well as in Hawaii, Taiwan, Malaysia, Guyana, India, the Philippines, Australia and Israel.
Although our own tree is thriving in a protected corner between the shed and house, in the beginning I didn't think it would survive.
Sensitive to cold and strong winds, the young tree suffered a severe setback shortly after planting when a winter chill killed all the leaves and most of the branches. After waiting a few months to see if any new growth would appear -- it didn't -- Ralph took out his handsaw and hacked off the entire top half of the tree. The remaining stump, all 3 feet of it, was a pitiful reminder of promised fruit yet to come.
After the tree's encounter with the saw's sharp blade, I gave up on growing a ready supply of carambolas. But I was wrong to dismiss the tree's vitality so abruptly. When the weather warmed, a flush of new branches sprouted out of the carambola's stubby base. The new shoots grew, leafed out and flourished. Soon clusters of small whitish-pink flowers appeared on the thinnest of branches. The flowers gave way to fruit -- clumps of plump, yellow-orange bells dangled enticingly beneath a canopy of leaves.
From then on, a year hasn't gone by without the tree producing at least a few -- and many times, much more than a few -- star-shaped wonders. In the past couple of years, our harvest has been bountiful and the tree, now about 15 feet tall and equally as broad, produces fruit intermittently all year round.
Although star fruit is popular in many Asian countries, most Americans are unfamiliar with it. That's too bad, because fruit from the carambola tree is as versatile as it is beautiful. It can be juiced, dried or cut into pieces and added to stir-fries. You can make pies out of it, jellies or jams. Or you can do as I do -- pluck a ripe fruit from the tree and eat it as a table fruit. When cut crosswise, a single carambola turns into a series of five-point-star-shaped slices -- yummy as well as artistic.
Living in an immediate-gratification climate where plants grow quickly and fruit production begins within only a couple years after planting, I find it unfortunate how few people experiment with edible plants.
In addition to star fruit and a wide range of citrus, Central Floridians can grow their own papayas, mangoes, Surinam cherries, figs, bananas, mulberries, blueberries, strawberries, guavas, grapes, pears, pineapples, peaches, pomegranates, plums, persimmons, avocados, blackberries, lychees, loquats and sapotes. I'm sure I'm leaving some fruit out, but the point is there's a virtual cornucopia of choices for the backyard gardener wanting to spice up his or her diet with freshly grown produce.
Not only are most of these edibles easy to grow, but they are often also attractive plants that make a welcome addition to any landscape.
Although one carambola tree has been providing our family with as much fruit as we can use -- especially now that our three older children no longer live at home -- my husband recently purchased a second tree from a nursery in South Florida. It's a different variety from the one we already have.
"Why are you getting another," I asked, "when the tree we have produces more fruit than we can eat?"
His answer reflected the unbridled passion of a fruit-loving gardener.
"I thought it would be fun," he said, "to grow some more. Besides, we can always dry any extra fruit or give them away, or freeze them or juice them or . . ."
He kept on talking as I walked back to my office. Obviously, more is better in some people's book and maybe that's how it should be. When it comes to fresh fruit grown organically on your own backyard trees, there's no such thing as too much of a good thing.
Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 8, 2008)
After a busy day, the only thing better than a long, hot shower to wash away weariness is taking that shower in the open air.
I know because for the past 21 years I've rinsed away the day's grime beneath sunny -- or sometimes moonlit -- skies.
There's something special about showering outdoors. While indoor showers are predictable events -- one turn of the faucet and you know what you'll get -- outdoor showers are full of surprises. With so many variables -- weather, sounds, sights and smells -- each shower is an experience in and of itself.
Consider the air. One day it might be chilly, another day hot and humid. There might be a breeze, a strong wind or no breeze at all. The sun could be shining or the sky a mosaic of white, fluffy clouds. It could even be drizzling. Birds might be singing, butterflies flying or a hummingbird hovering overhead as the water pours down.
Then there are the fragrances. No matter what time of year, the air carries the sweet scent of flowers -- different aromas for each season. The only thing constant about an outdoor shower is the hum of insects -- an ever-present undertone harmonizing fluidly with the shower's percussive beat.
And consider the maintenance, or lack thereof. Outdoor showers are a cinch to clean. Without glass doors to accumulate soap scum, shower curtains to mildew or grouted tile floors to discolor, an outdoor shower is a housekeeping dream.
Occasional sweeping clears away leaves while larger debris can be sprayed off with a hose. No need for chemical cleansers or an arsenal of scrubbers. An outdoor shower practically cleans itself.
With so many pluses, you'd think showering outdoors would be all the rage. That's hardly the case. The very idea of stepping outdoors au naturel makes many people uncomfortable. Issues of privacy and modesty, feelings of vulnerability and concerns about safety surface at the mere suggestion of an outdoor bath.
By far, the most common worry is of being seen by others. Fortunately, that fear is easily overcome. Privacy is guaranteed with the simple construction of a three-sided trellis. A few pieces of lattice attached to pressure-treated wood or vinyl posts not only offers an inexpensive and effective screen, but it also is the perfect climbing spot for a sweet-smelling vine such as jasmine or honeysuckle.
My friend Michael, who lives in an older neighborhood in Delray Beach, has what I've always thought of as an ideal shower arrangement. The second bathroom in his two-bath house has an exterior door that leads directly into an enclosed outdoor shower. From inside, all an eager bather need do is open the door and step outside. Not only does a vine-covered lattice enclosure provide immediate privacy from nearby neighbors, it also offers an aromatically pleasing and pretty barrier between house and yard. Accouterments such as hooks for clothing or towels are plentiful, as are shelves on which to line bottles of shampoo, soap and conditioner. Our families don't have the opportunity to visit often, but when we do, I take advantage of his shower to soak in the South Florida sunshine as I'm washing my hair.
The shower at Michael's house is accessed through an exterior entrance, but homes without that option still can enjoy the beauty and pleasure of outdoor sudsing thanks to a wide range of products now on the market. There are canvas enclosures, portable cabanas and a wide range of "instant" shower units that connect effortlessly to an outside hose bibcock.
Long celebrated as a fashionable feature of upscale spas and resorts worldwide, the trend toward outdoor showering for the home has gained momentum during recent years. Although still more novelty than necessity, people are beginning to realize why open-air bathing is so popular in much of the world.
Trends and pop culture don't mean much to me, but if it takes commercialism to modify outdated cultural modes, I'm all for it. Outside showering in safe, secure places should be more accepted, because it's one of the most natural ways to be one with nature. Cleansed by the sun, cleansed by the water, cleansed by the breeze and the sweet-smelling air. Bottom line: It feels simply amazing to be naked outside.
Simply Living
Butterflies. So many butterflies.
My office overlooks an impromptu garden -- a thrown-together assortment of colorful blooms. Despite being totally disorganized and untended, the garden attracts quantities of winged creatures.
A solitary red penta and three scarlet milkweeds are butterfly magnets. During daylight hours, scores of Lepidoptera -- the insect order that includes butterflies and moths -- are continually drawn to the red pentas and orange-scarlet blooming milkweeds. I've looked out upon this garden for several months but only recently, as the days have gotten hotter, have butterflies gathered in such unprecedented numbers. That's because butterflies need warm weather in order to fly. They're unable to be airborne until their body temperature rises to at least 86 degrees.
As I write this, two zebra longwings -- Florida's state butterfly -- and one Gulf fritillary are fluttering erratically around the penta blooms. A few minutes ago, a large black swallowtail alighted upon a scarlet milkweed flower followed by what I think was a tiger swallowtail. It's difficult to identify some butterflies. With wings flapping between five and 20 beats a second, there's little time to note distinguishing features.
I've always enjoyed watching these colorful fliers, but my knowledge of the order Lepidoptera was limited until I began gardening in Florida 21 years ago. Anyone who plants a garden soon will be rewarded by the flutter of wings. As long as your garden is pesticide-free -- chemical sprays will kill butterflies as well as harmful insects -- you will be rewarded with an ethereal parade of winged creatures.
Butterflies are dependent on certain blooms for food and habitat. Flowers provide nectar sources for mature butterflies and can act as hosts when it's time to lay eggs. Tiny eggs deposited on the stems and undersides of leaves eventually develop into leaf-munching caterpillars that make short work of their generous hosts. Although these hungry nibblers can reduce the greenery to a bare skeleton of itself, most host plants rebound when the munching ends.
Because butterflies can see only red, green, yellow and colors in the ultraviolet range, plants like penta, scarlet sage, porterweed, scarlet milkweed, coreopsis and firespike are among the many blooms they find attractive. When a butterfly senses a nectar source, it uses its feet -- all butterflies have six -- to "taste" the goods. If it likes what it samples, it settles in for a drink, uncoiling its long tongue or proboscis to sip the flower's nectar. But sipping nectar takes only seconds. Before long, the butterfly is off to another cluster of colorful blooms to slurp more of a flower's sweet juice.
Observing butterflies is always enjoyable, but it also can be memorable. My most unforgettable butterfly experience happened last year when Ralph and I were taking an evening stroll through the woods.
It was summertime, and we were taking advantage of the cooler evening hours for our daily walk. As we passed through one particular section of pine woods, I noticed a preponderance of zebra longwings fluttering about. Intrigued, I paused to follow their irregular flight paths up, down and around a particular stand of pines. Until I got closer, I had no idea why so many of these black-and-white-striped fliers were in one spot. Only then did I realize they were gathered together to roost. One thin pine branch was being used as a communal bedroom upon which at least two dozen zebra longwings already had settled. The butterflies that were still flying about were looking for a spot where they, too, could bed down for the night.
Until that time, I had never thought about where butterflies sleep. I certainly had no idea that the zebra longwing is such a, well, social butterfly. While most butterflies prefer solitary slumber, zebra longwings gather in groups, preferring the company of others during their nightly repose. Every day at dusk, a group of about 30 butterflies returns to the same spot to sleep. In the butterfly world, age has benefits. The oldest flutterers are the first to land, thereby securing the choicest perches. They are also the first to rise in the morning, and they dutifully waken the others with a gentle touching of wings.
Part of the fun of taking a walk through the woods is the possibility of making an exciting discovery. After that first spotting of a zebra longwing roost, I've been on the lookout for others and have since found two other locations where these winged creatures gather nightly. Now through the end of summer is the perfect time to seek out a butterfly slumber party in your own neighborhood. As daylight dims, lace up your walking shoes and take a hike. If you see black-and-white-striped wings flutter by, try to follow them.
Any garden that attracts zebra longwings is not far from a butterfly roost. The challenge -- and the fun -- is to find it.
Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 25, 2008)
I'm constantly amazed by how quickly plants grow in Florida's sunny climate. Even during periods of extended dryness as we're experiencing now, established plants hang in there. Some even prosper.
When we settled into our homestead 16 years ago, there were only five trees of any consequence -- two oaks and three pines -- on the entire 50 acres. The land was so open and expansive that we were able to cut hay from it for several seasons. I remember field mice and rats scurrying for cover as the haying machine churned its way through the fields. Meadowlarks were plentiful, and the yellow flowers of evening primrose bloomed daily at dusk.
We made the most of the treeless landscape, but our intention was always to pepper the property with trees. Right away we began planting -- first, bamboo to create privacy screens, and then slash and sand pines to develop future woods. Gazing now upon our lush forests and swaying stands of clumping bamboo, it's hard to believe there was really a time when I looked out on a landscape that was treeless and bare.
Although only two of the original trees on the property were mature oaks, the land is now shaded by more than 100 of these sturdy hardwoods. Not one was intentionally planted -- birds and squirrels did all the work. Thanks to them, acorns sprouted and grew into towering trees that are at least 40 feet tall and equally as broad. To look at them you'd think they were at least 50 years old, but despite their girth and verdant canopy, these trees are still babies. I can only imagine what they'll look like when a half-century does roll around.
In addition to oaks, we have other volunteers. There are large stands of wild persimmons, laurel cherries, wax myrtles, river birches, elderberries and willows. Willow trees are impermanent. At the first hint of a large windstorm, they inevitably blow over, bend or break. They may be brittle, but the humble willow is also tenacious. Broken limbs or bent boughs re-root with ease, spawning fast-growing suckers that stretch upward for light.
In the 16 years since we've been here, we have watched the land recede into itself during droughts and swell during spells of rain-saturated soil. Throughout it all, plants have adapted. Most trees survived these extreme seasonal fluctuations, but the few that died didn't go to waste. Birds and bugs bored holes in their trunks in search of food or shelter. Branches that fell to the ground turned into thickets -- safe spots in which small animals could hide. And whatever remnants of limb or trunk remained eventually decomposed with the aid of ants, beetles and other insects of the undergrowth. Thanks to those trees that didn't make it, the soil grew rich enough to support new life.
The land has changed from field to woods, and with that shift has come an exchange of species. Meadowlarks and primroses have all but disappeared, replaced by other birds, mammals and flowers.
Watching the land evolve is like being involved in a Darwinian moment. Nature's effortless ability to adapt and rebound is awesome and inspiring. Even today, as fires rage across the region, destroying landscapes and devouring buildings, one thing is certain -- nature will rebound. New plants will emerge from among the ashes, and before long, black scars will be hidden beneath a flush of green.
I'm glad to be living in such a resilient climate. Plants respond brilliantly to Florida's primal elements. What better time to add greenery to the landscape than in a time of flames, drought and barrenness? Plant some trees now and 16 years later you, too, might be living in the forest of your dreams.
Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 18, 2008)
It has been a week since Mother's Day, and I'm still smiling. Instead of celebrating with dinner out, a bouquet of flowers or new earrings, I played in a Scrabble tournament. The tournament actually took place a day before Mother's Day, but the 24-hour discrepancy meant little to this word-game devotee.
In my mind, it was a Mother's Day present from "busy-me" to "have-some-fun-me." And it worked. I had a blast.
Sponsored by the Casselberry Scrabble Club and put on in Geneva at the Sanford Yacht Club, the gathering drew 30 participants. Esther Gluskin, 82, of Orlando was the oldest attendee, and at age 16, my son Toby was the youngest.
It was a pleasantly eclectic mix of people -- men and women, young and old -- all gathered together to share their passion for a game that has fascinated word lovers for more than 70 years.
Invented in 1931 by Albert Butts, an unemployed architect from Poughkeepsie, N.Y., the game that combined anagrams with crossword puzzles was initially named LEXIKO and then changed to CRISS CROSS WORDS.
But it didn't capture the attention of a broad audience until Butts joined forces with game entrepreneur James Brunot in the 1940s and coined the name Scrabble, a word meaning "to grope frantically." As a board game, Scrabble is now second only to Monopoly in popularity, with more than 2 million sets in 27 languages sold annually.
Its parent organization, the National Scrabble Association, sanctions more than 200 clubs in North America and sponsors tournaments like the one I attended. For those who can't attend a club or who just want to need to feed their addiction to all things wordy, Scrabble devotees can play online on a variety of Web sites devoted to this 100-tile word game.
Although I've signed up to play online, I have not played a game yet. There are technological hurdles to overcome that I haven't yet conquered -- small hurdles, no doubt, but nonetheless, things to do that I haven't taken the time to figure out.
Maybe that's why I was so excited when Brett Constantine sent me an e-mail about the Orlando-area tournament. Brett is my daughter Jenny's boyfriend. They live in Massachusetts, where Brett organized and runs a sanctioned Scrabble club and regularly attends tournaments.
He and I played one another a few months back during a weekend visit. I think we managed to fit in three games during their brief stay, one of which I even won.
As in any sport where you're striving to improve your game, playing against someone whose level of performance is a step up from your own is an important challenge. I didn't care how many games I lost to Brett -- the fun was in the opportunity to play against someone so good.
That's how I felt on the day of the Casselberry Scrabble Club tournament. It was my first tournament of any kind, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a little bit scared.
Throughout my entire first game, I exhibited many typical signs of anxiety -- racing heart, sweaty palms and difficulty concentrating. Needless to say, I lost that game, but I won the next and the one after that and two more as well.
For a tournament newbie, my performance wasn't too shabby. I ended up with four wins out of seven games played -- enough to earn $40, the sixth place prize for my division. My son, of course, did better, finishing third -- a payout of $65 -- in the same division.
Toby is a whiz when it comes to competitions. A rising star in the chess world, he has been playing in chess tournaments since he was in third grade. The shelf in his bedroom is lined with trophies, and though I'm not a chess player, I passed my passion for Scrabble on to him when he was young and receptive.
For many years, I won regularly. Ha! Those days are gone. His mental capacity for memorizing esoteric and unusual words far exceeds mine. His focus is solid, and his comfort level for competitive play is well honed from eight years of chess tournaments.
It was a multifaceted treat to play in the Scrabble tournament. I spent an entire day engaged in a mentally stimulating activity that was challenging and fun.
I left the event with prize money in my pocket and, more significant, I managed to successfully detach myself from the cell phone for a full nine hours -- that alone is worthy of celebration.
Add to all this the opportunity to spend quality time with my teenage son sharing an activity that we both enjoy, and I'd say you have a winning combination no matter how you spell it. If that's not what Mother's Day is all about, what is?
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.
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.
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?
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.
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
