Music can fill your soul, lead to soul mate

Jenny and Brett listen to Bill Staines perform their pre-wedding concert.

Simply Living

(first appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 25, 2009)

During the early 1980s, most children grew up on songs from Sesame Street and Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. That wasn't the case in our family. Our three oldest children — all born between 1979 and 1983 — were more likely to have memorized the words to "Abiyoyo" and "The Marvelous Toy" than "Won't You Be My Neighbor?"

Tofu, brown rice and freshly picked veggies may have nourished our children's bodies, but folk music fed their imaginations. We listened to the recordings of dozens of artists, but one musician stood out from the rest — Bill Staines. We discovered this New England singer-songwriter at a Boston coffeehouse shortly after his career took off in the '70s, and it was like chancing upon a kindred spirit. His sensitive lyrics, soothing melodies and gentle presence resonated with our homegrown, country lifestyle. By the time Ralph and I were ready to start a family, Staines had already produced several albums, all of which we owned and loved.

If you had visited our much-lived-in Cape Cod home during those early years of our marriage, one of Bill Staines' recordings would probably have been playing. His music was a trellis on which our daily routine was twined. Songs such as "Bridges," "Roseville Fair," "Annie Drew" and "So Sang the River" filled the air and wound their way through our subconscious. We sang along while fixing meals, folding diapers or weeding the garden. Ralph tape-recorded the songs each child favored and, at night, they fell asleep listening to a continuous loop of their favorite tunes.

Given such a background, I was not surprised when my second-oldest child called from her home in Northampton, Mass., about six months ago to make an announcement. Jenny and her fiancé had booked Bill Staines for a private concert the night before their wedding.

"He's available," she said excitedly. "We're thinking of having the concert in a little chapel across the street from Brett's parents' house."

Brett's family lives in the village of Leyden, Mass., just south of the Vermont border, a few hours away from Staines' hometown of Dover, N.H. It turns out that Jenny and her siblings weren't the only children weaned on a diet of folksy tunes. Brett and his brother were, too.

"One of my friends knows the words to all of Bill Staines' songs just like I do," Jenny mentioned a few years ago during a phone conversation. "He grew up listening to Bill's music just like we did. Bill's performing in town this weekend, so Brett and I are going to go together to see him."

That was one of the first times Jenny mentioned Brett, but it wasn't the last. After the concert, the two friends continued to spend time together. A few months later, they finally realized that folk music was just one of many common interests. Friendship grew into love, and a wedding date was set.

Now that two of our four children have entered married life, I often think about what makes a marriage work. Marrying your best friend certainly helps, as does being kind, respectful and patient with each other. It's important to laugh and play frequently and agree on values and priorities. And don't underplay the importance of music. Music is a combination of poetry, philosophy and adventure. Songs tell us stories that transport us to places and times we could never experience otherwise. You can disappear into music — lose yourself and return, gaining energy and insight in the process.

I'm delighted to know that my daughter found a life partner who grew up appreciating the same folk artists she did. Music provides such strength and support. The simple framework of a three-minute tune can steady values, encourage dreams, broaden views and stabilize character. Having Bill Staines perform at my daughter's pre-wedding concert was a gentle way to begin a marriage — with harmony, sweet rhythms, melodic interpretations and lyrical inspiration.

Songs for today that will last a lifetime — they're the beginning steps up a ladder of love.

Watermelons minus water equal tasty treat

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 18, 2009)

"I just ate the most delicious watermelon," my daughter told me last week. "I asked the guy at the produce stand to pick out a good one, and he really knew what he was doing."

Despite my best efforts, I never know what I'm doing when choosing watermelons. A ripe melon should sound hollow when tapped, but my aging ears must lack acuity. To me, one thumped melon sounds like another.

Another much-touted technique is to select a melon with a flat yellow patch on its underside. A yellow or cream-colored spot purportedly indicates ripeness, while a white patch means the melon is still green. My success rate with that method is about 50-50.

I've tried pressing my thumb into the indentation left by the stem. If the impression gives, the melon is supposedly ripe. Sometimes that works; sometimes it doesn't. My less-than-stellar record at judging ripeness has affected my desire to buy watermelon. Why waste money on an oversized edible that takes up valuable fridge space without yielding a reliably flavorful reward?

My attitude changed when I discovered drying.

Have you ever tasted dried watermelon? Unless you have a home dehydrator – an inexpensive kitchen gadget readily available in stores — the answer is probably no. You won't find dried watermelon lining the shelves of your local market alongside apricots, pineapples or any of the other more common dehydrated delicacies. That's unfortunate because dried watermelon is manna for the mouth! Evaporate the liquid — watermelons are 93 percent water — and what remains is the sweet flavor of summer fun.

My son Timmy was the first person in our family to try dehydrating slices of the pink flesh. Before Timmy's experiment, we used to juice unwanted melons, but juicing is a messy process. Although the liquefied drink is tasty and refreshing, the work involved is hardly worth the effort.

But dried melons, now that's a different story.

"Oh, my gosh!" I moaned after my first bite. "This is unbelievable!"

After three to six hours of drying, a chunk of watermelon about an inch thick and a few inches long turns into a flat red slab. Although seedless melons are obviously better suited to dehydration, fruits with seeds also can be used if the seeds are first removed. The dried product can be refrigerated or frozen for later use, but in our house, that rarely happens.

"It's so good, I can't stop eating it," I told my husband this morning after finishing off one full rack and beginning another.

I hadn't planned to dry that melon. We purchased it for a family outing, and although nine of us attended the picnic at Rainbow Springs in Dunnellon, most of the melon went untouched.

"Not a very good one, is it?" Ralph asked after slicing off a sliver and giving it a taste.

For the following three days, the bottom shelf in the fridge grew stickier as the volleyball-sized orb took up valuable space. My annoyance grew each time I opened the door.

"Why do I keep buying these things?" I muttered to myself. Then I remembered the dehydrator.

It took my husband about 15 minutes to cut the melon's flesh into bright-colored chunks and layer them on five of the dehydrator's plastic racks. He switched the power on and a stream of warm air immediately flowed through the cylindrical container. The dehydrator ran for about three hours before Ralph turned it off for the night. In the morning, he switched it back on.

I shuffled toward the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from my eyes, when my senses grew excited. My ears picked up the hum of the motor while I inhaled the aroma of summers past. I lifted the dehydrator lid to uncover a rack filled to perfection with nature's own candy.

I ate the dried equivalent of about half a watermelon that day. I'm a sucker for sweets, especially the make-them-yourself, all-natural variety.

Watermelon season is just beginning, and although we try to pick the ripest fruit, it's easy to misjudge. It's also easy to correct our mistakes. When concentrated, even the blandest melon is sugar-sweet. Seek the essence and discover excellence. Now's a great time to give drying a try.

Mother's Day for feathered friends, too

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 11, 2009)

This year, Mother's Day was for the birds — and I mean that in the nicest way.

The two sandhill cranes that live on our lake have finally become parents. Although it was their second attempt this spring to create a family, the days leading up to Mother's Day found the devoted couple attentively tending to their offspring.

In March, the same cranes laid eggs and took turns incubating them, but a predator managed to slip in and steal the clutch before the babies hatched. I thought that was the end of this year's parenting attempts. Fortunately, I was wrong. Three weeks after the first eggs disappeared, the birds resumed nesting — same nest, two new eggs, one more chance to make baby cranes.

By the beginning of May, just in time for Mother's Day, the cranes' desire for a family was realized. Mama Crane began strutting her stuff with two fluffy-feathered babies by her side. How exciting!

I've been watching the sandhill cranes for months. In February, I managed to capture on video their mating dance, the male bird's short but provocative demonstration of his strength and virility. In March, I followed their nest-building activities and listened to their bellowing cries as they made it clear to other sandhill cranes that our lake was their territory and theirs alone.

Strong instincts?
I waited hopefully as two large eggs sat in the birds' roughly constructed nest and sighed disappointedly when I looked through my binoculars one day and discovered that the eggs were missing. By the time April rolled around, I didn't know what to expect. Everything I had read suggested that cranes do not reproduce twice in one season. Apparently, the cranes must have missed that memo. Either that or their parental instincts were exceptionally strong.

Maybe I identify with the sandhill cranes more than most because my own childbearing experiences did not go as expected. My first attempt to create life also ended prematurely. Despite the sadness of our long-ago miscarriage, Ralph and I never abandoned our dream of a family. Within a year, I was pregnant again and gave birth to the first of our four children. Twenty-nine years later, my oldest child is married and about to become a mother herself.

Common thread
The circle of life is an awe-inspiring phenomenon. It doesn't matter if the subject of that cycle is people, plants, birds, mammals, insects or tiny one-celled creatures. Regardless of our differences, the desire to reproduce and nurture new life is one thing we all have in common.

As I watch the sandhill cranes go about their daily routine with their babies by their sides, I feel a special connection to not just the birds but to mothers everywhere. Despite our physical diversity and biological differences, mothers share a universal need to impart knowledge, overcome struggles and avoid danger. Bottom line: We want the best for our children.

Being a mom is no small task. It might just be the greatest work a female of any species will ever do. Sandhill cranes go about the business of parenting free from Hallmark reminders of a job well done. They do it because that's what nature intended. That's what nature demands. Their reward comes not from receiving gifts but from giving life. Isn't that what being a mom is all about?

Pulling weeds yields crunchy culinary gems

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 4, 2009)

I go a little crazy over freshly picked food.

Consider betony, Stachys floridana.

Betony is a low-growing, square-stemmed plant in the mint family. That's the same lineage, Lamiaceae, shared by basil, mint, rosemary, sage, savory, thyme, lavender and coleus. In our yard, betony grows with abandon around irrigation spigots and in the enriched soil surrounding our fig trees.

Above ground, this Florida native forms a verdant carpet topped with small, rather nondescript clusters of pink blooms. Below ground, masses of white tubers stretch in every direction. The bulbous, peanut-sized nuggets attach to greenery by a series of stringy roots. A tenacious plant, betony is not at all shy about invading garden spaces. Its aggressive growth pattern is reason enough to label it a weed.

But it's such a tasty weed.

Although all parts of this versatile herb are edible, I'm partial to the tubers. Mild-flavored and slightly sweet, with a water chestnut-like consistency, the bite-sized rhizomes produce a satisfying crunch when munched raw. Ralph recently weeded around the fig trees and returned with an overflowing bowl of betony.

"Yum!" I said in anticipation and turned on the tap to fill the sink. Because they grow underground, the tubers require a good pre-eating soak and scrub. It's a pleasant enough process, and I usually nibble my way through the task.

As anyone who gardens knows, there is nothing as flavorful as fresh-picked fruits or vegetables. Any food eaten minutes after being plucked, picked or — in the case of Stachys floridana — dug from the earth, is sweeter, crunchier, and more energy-rich than produce that had to endure transportation and storage. Betony is no exception.

That first batch disappeared quickly.

"Where's the betony?" my husband asked a few hours later as he stood before the open fridge.

"They're gone," I embarrassedly admitted.

"You ate them all? You didn't save any for me?" Fortunately, he sounded more astonished than annoyed.

"They were so good I couldn't help myself," I explained before realizing how little that justification helped my case.

A few days later, my husband brought in another batch. This time I dutifully set aside plenty for him to enjoy later. Rather than devour a whole bowlful in one sitting as an unnamed glutton might do, Ralph is a prudent eater. He nibbles on one or two tubers with a meal or as a snack.

However consumed, betony is a welcome addition to the pre-summer diet. The tubers are ready to eat in April and continue producing quantities of below-ground growth for months. That's part of the problem — it's so prolific. Although it's not listed as an invasive plant by the Florida Exotic Pest Plant Council, many people understandably label it noxious. I empathize. If I didn't enjoy eating the tubers so much, I'd consider it a pest plant too. Sometimes I do. When it appears in unwanted spots, we attack the bed with shovel and rake and hope for the best. Inevitably, we miss a few roots, and from them a new crop develops.

Betony exemplifies the confusion over good plant vs. bad plant. Do a plant's many assets outweigh its disadvantages? What makes a wildflower a weed?

On its plus side, betony's medicinal properties have a rich history. "This is a precious herb well worth keeping in your house," wrote Culpeper in the 17th century. In ancient Rome, the chief physician to Emperor Augustus wrote a treatise that proclaimed betony a cure for 47 diseases. Today, over-the-counter betony supplements are purported to strengthen the nervous and cardiovascular systems, relieve headaches and aid digestion.

On its negative side, betony is difficult to get rid of without resorting to potent herbicides.

I asked Linda Roberts, executive director of the Florida Wildflower Foundation, to weigh in on the wildflower-vs.-weed question.

"It's just a matter of knowledge, tolerance and taste," she responded. "People like me who enjoy natural beauty will see these as wildflowers. However, those going for the manicured-lawn look will see them as weeds. We have so many beautiful wildflowers in our midst. People need only to learn to appreciate them for what they are."

If you already have betony in your garden or lawn — and it's likely you do — rather than struggle to eradicate the pest with poisonous chemicals, consider readjusting your perception. Betony is undeniably a weed. But it's a weed that provides free food for the taking. Dig up some tubers and try them. You might find yourself going a little crazy over freshly picked food too.

Even adults should make a little time to play

Simply Living

Every day I play — sometimes for a little while, sometimes longer. I make a point to make time each day for a bit of lighthearted, joyful expression.

Children play constantly, as we assume they should. When my now-adult son was young, his daily shower was less about washing than it was about wishing. He'd stand under the steamy downpour with small plastic animals that magically transformed into talking adventurers involved in complicated quests. Ralph and I would listen from our nearby bedroom and smile wistfully, knowing how fleeting such moments can be. Soon our child would grow up, too big for fanciful dialogues with imaginary playmates, and playtime would be over.

For most of us, playtime ends when adulthood begins. Why should it? Being grown-up doesn't preclude the need for moments of fancy. It might mean that we need them more.

Stress-inducing situations constantly besiege the adult population. In the past week alone, my husband and I have grappled with the increasing rates of our family's health insurance, our pregnant daughter and son-in-law's struggle to secure a desired home from an online auction site before their baby is born, the breakdown of our refrigerator and numerous other less major, but still stress-provoking, problems. We've dealt with each of these issues in addition to our normal workload — just another typical week in the life of modern American adults.

Fortunately, amid all the mental clutter, we also took time to play. I doubt if I could handle the stresses of everyday life as successfully as I do without a daily break (or two or three) to reshuffle my mind set.

A 2003 study in the New England Journal of Medicine found that adults who regularly played cards or board games, did puzzles, read, wrote, danced or played musical instruments reduced their chances of developing dementia by up to 63 percent. What a simple way to maintain mental health! Although play is cheaper and safer than medicine, we routinely shrug it off as an insignificant, unnecessary indulgence.

Society tells us that play is for children, not for adults. I don't agree.

Reading is one of my favorite ways to unwind, but it's by no means my sole method of addressing stress. I play Scrabble and do Sudokus and crossword puzzles. I garden, watch the birds, jump on the trampoline, walk around the lake and go for quiet rows across still water. I also spend intimate time with my husband. It's a type of play often overlooked as a component of adult health. That's unfortunate because for adults, the physical element of a loving relationship provides such amazing benefits. It reduces stress, strengthens the immune system, improves cardiovascular health, reduces pain, acts as an effective sleep aid and increases self-esteem. It's also a great way to burn calories. But that hardly matters to a society that's too embarrassed to discuss the topic seriously.

I look back on my childhood and the young years of my own children with great fondness. Memories galore spring to mind of my own playtimes and, more recently, of the playful adventures of my now grown-up children. As I watch the people I love mature, I can only hope they manage to maintain many of the whimsical ways of their youth. It doesn’t matter if those ways manifest themselves on some athletic playing field, within the pages of a novel, through music, online activities, tactile explorations or through any of the many other avenues we grownups use to diffuse the everyday stresses of normal life.

The important thing is to make play a priority.

We are never too old, too sick or too weary to take a break from the serious work of being an adult. Play is too important to disregard, disdain or dismiss as ridiculous. Just the opposite — it might be the most serious and important form of self-help we can choose.

Lakeside living brings back childhood memories Living by water brings calm to adult routine

Reflections of the clouds and trees are among the many pleasures of lakeside life.

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 20, 2009)

For 34 of my 57 years, I've lived next to lakes. On countless mornings, I've watched a steamy mist rise over still water. In the evenings, I've enjoyed the play of color in a lake's glassy surface as the sun sinks toward the horizon. I've listened to the rhythm of raindrops intruding upon a lake's flat surface and admired the reflection of clouds on its ripples. I've seen ospreys soar overhead, ducks swim by and herons stalk fish along the shoreline. My sense of self is interwoven with the ways of water.

I grew up in Yardley, Pa., by Silver Lake, although "Brown Lake" would have been a more appropriate moniker. The 10-acre mud-bottom pond was about 25 feet in front of the house my parents bought when I was an infant. I have no idea why my parents chose that particular place to live. My father couldn't swim, and neither of them ever expressed an interest in water activities. I, however, was enthralled from the start by Silver Lake's many charms.

Every day for my first 17 years, I ate my morning meal in the kitchen next to picture windows overlooking the water. How my mind wandered as I crunched spoonfuls of raisin bran and avoided drinking my milk. I watched the wind blow across the lake's surface and imagined myself being swept away to other places, other times.

Silver Lake gave me freedom. In winter, I skated across its bumpy ice. In summer, I swam in its muddy waters. I waded in its shallows and waited patiently for sunfish to swim into my cupped hands. They always did, and after holding them close for the briefest of moments I always let them go. Their urge to live was too strong to ignore.

On my 13th birthday, my parents gave me a small aluminum rowboat, and after that I proceeded to spend as much time as possible in that boat on the lake. Most of the time I rowed, but sometimes I put the oars down and simply let the wind carry me along from one end of the lake to the other. I drifted along both mentally and physically. My perspective changed when I was on water. Instead of being a child inside my parents' house, I was an adventurer on a quest — far enough away to feel separate and whole, yet close enough still to go home for supper.

I moved away from Yardley when I went to college and, although my parents remained there for several more years, I met my husband while still an undergraduate, and we rarely returned. It wasn't until Ralph and I moved to our current property 17 years ago that I realized how much a part of me those memories of Silver Lake had become.

Our home now is also by a small lake, about the same size as the one in Yardley. Both homes are close to the water with ever-changing, expansive views. In Yardley, I watched Canada geese fly overhead. In Florida, I see sandhill cranes, ibises, wood storks and herons silhouetted against the sky. In my Lake County pond, sunfish don't dot the shallows, but plenty of bass do. I sit in the kitchen eating my own home-cooked meals — no longer accompanied by the dreaded glass of milk — watching with delight as birds fill their stomachs with tasty treats plucked from the water.

I'll never tire of living by water. No matter how many times I gaze over a lake's shimmering surface, there's always something different to see.

For my first 17 years, wave after wave of gentle persistence shaped me into the person I eventually became. It took a while, but for the past 17 years, I've returned to a place very similar to my childhood home. There's a symmetry in how things worked out. They say you can never return to your youth, but in a way, I have. Thanks to lakeside living, I've gone back in time. Water — that most basic of elements — is mine for the taking, and I take it in gratefully every chance I get.

Screech owls return to old nest in mailbox

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 13, 2009)

In bird hierarchy, screech owls trump wrens. At least that's my conclusion after watching the nest-building activities of both species.

It began with wrens.

A pair of Carolina wrens — cheery, chatty little biddies with an upbeat attitude and a do-what-it-takes work ethic — constructed a leafy home inside an old mailbox we mounted a few years back under the front porch eaves. Working industriously for an entire day, both male and female wren converted the metal letter receptacle into a soft-sided cavern of plant fibers, grass and leaf litter. Unfortunately, their ambitious efforts were in vain. Shortly after the nest was completed, an Eastern screech owl swooped in and commandeered the space, sweeping away most of the wrens' work in the process.

I had a feeling that would happen. Screech owls are repeat nesters. When a nesting site proves successful, the couple — screech owls tend toward monogamy — return to it annually.

For the past two years, a pair of these diminutive owls with tufted ears have claimed that mailbox for their own brood-raising activities. Although small for owls, screech owls are much larger than the tiny wrens. Displacing them probably wasn't an issue.

As disappointed as I was to see the wrens' work destroyed, I was pleased to have the owls back. Their presence has become a reliable indicator of spring's arrival. When the weather warms, I find myself listening in the evening for the owl's plaintive wail, a series of quavering whistles descending in pitch.

"WhheeeeEEeeeeeee ..." the screech owl sings to the darkening night. "WhheeeeEEeeeeeee ..."

Vocalization is the Eastern screech owl's calling card. If you are outside at dusk and hear what sounds like a small, weak pony whinnying mournfully, you're probably standing quite close to an adult screech owl.

Although the cry is a haunting sound that conjures images of creaky stairways and cobweb-cloaked halls, it is actually a means to mark territory or attract a mate. In the case of the birds living in our converted mailbox, the twilight whinnying probably tells others, "This area is taken. Stay away."

The wrens got the message and went off in search of a new nest site. What's odd is that the same thing happened a year ago. Last spring, Carolina wrens — also lifetime-maters that return annually to previous nesting sites — built an elaborate structure in the same mailbox as they did this year, only to have the entire nest — eggs and all — flushed out when the screech owls appeared.

How could birds smart enough to return to the same nesting spot annually neglect to remember that large predator birds had previously commandeered their space? Nature is full of mystery and contradiction. I suppose innate abilities go only so far.

Watching the nest-building developments of the two species has been interesting and thought-provoking. Despite their similarities — mating for life, returning to previous nesting sites, a fancy for old metal mailboxes — wrens and screech owls have decidedly different ideas of how a nest should look. The little songbirds like a tightly woven, tidy nest that will provide their offspring with a safe, soft and cozy spot to develop, while screech owls couldn't care less about such amenities.

Their idea of home is a hollow hole, period. End of discussion. After sweeping out most of the wrens' nest — the lazy birds didn't even bother to get rid of it all — the owls proceeded to lay eggs directly on the floor of the metal mailbox. Because they are hunters, maybe they don't feel a need to create a protective space. Perhaps they figure their talons, keen hearing and sharp eyes will provide the protection necessary to raise their young.

Whatever their reasoning, I'm looking forward to watching the development of a brood. It takes 28 days for screech owl eggs to hatch and another 32 days before the owlets fly off on their own. That means I have about two months ahead of exciting bird watching. Last year, I never managed to see the hatchlings. Maybe this year I will.

Broken stuff gets schooled in hard knocks

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 6, 2009)

The other day, our computer connection wasn't working, so I did what I usually do when something around the house breaks or is not functioning properly: I called my husband.

"Ralph," I yelled from my office to his. "The stupid computer is not letting me get online."

I have an admittedly fickle relationship with the computer. When it works, I love it. When it stops doing what it's supposed to do, my love turns sour. By the time I called down the hall for my husband's assistance, I had already entered loathing mode.

"I don't know what's wrong," I complained to my ever-patient and capable partner. "I tried rebooting, defragging and emptying the temp files. Still, I can't seem to get online. Do you think you can fix it?"

He said he would try.

I went about my work doing tasks that didn't require an Internet connection and eventually abandoned the computer completely to do errands in town. I was gone for three hours, and while I was away, my husband labored over the computer problem. Most of that time, he was on the phone seeking help from the phone company's technical-support crew.

A lower-level employee told him to type in a series of unintelligible letters and numbers in order to ascertain the speed at which the computer was communicating with the telephone company through the DSL line. About an hour after following various commands, none of which worked, she transferred my husband to a higher-level technician.

The new tech-support person suggested going to speedtest.net to determine the Internet connection. Of course, Ralph couldn't do that because the problem he was trying to resolve was our inability to get an Internet connection.

The technician then tried to determine how strong — or nonexistent — our connection was by putting Ralph through another series of exercises typing the word ping followed by various number and letter combinations. When he finished following these cryptic instructions, the technician concluded that from his end, our connection was fine.

"Unplug the router and plug the computer directly into the modem," the tech guy directed.

Bingo! It worked!

"There's your problem," the responder said. "Your router must be bad. Buy a new router."

I happened to be at Walmart when Ralph called to give me the news.

"Good, you're at Walmart," he said. "Go to the electronics section."

Following his directions, I found the correct router and put it in the shopping cart.

"It costs $49.95," I told him. "Should I get it?"

His response was, "Wait a minute."

In the background, I heard a muffled banging sound.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Just a little percussive maintenance," he replied.

"Ah," I mused, "percussive maintenance, my husband's response to most electronic problems."

About 30 seconds later, Ralph's voice filled the phone.

"The router's working," he said. "I shook it a bit and gave it a few taps, plugged it back in and we're good to go. You can put the router back on the shelf. We just saved 50 bucks."

"It's working?" I asked with surprise. "You fixed it with a few taps and a shake?"

I don't know why I was so astonished. My husband may be the gentlest man around, but he has no compunction about punching components if that's what it takes to make them function again. He has been applying what he calls "percussive maintenance" to stubborn electronic problems for years.

Radio not working? DVD on the fritz? Toaster stuck? Computer acting up? Ralph's answer to them all: A good whack will put them back on track.

I hate to admit it — it goes against my sense of propriety — but his method is effective more times than not.

"Maybe there's dust in there, and a light pounding moves it around," he explains. "Or it could be loose wires or a poor connection, and the shaking puts things back in place."

His explanations seem lacking, but I can't deny the effectiveness of his hard-handed approach.

There's a $50 bill in my wallet thanks to my husband's ability to think outside the box. On the subject of percussive maintenance, label me pro-pounding.

Time travel in the age of Facebook

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 30, 2009)

Thanks to the social-networking site Facebook, I've been traveling back in time to my teenage years.

This year marks the 40th anniversary of my high-school graduation, a fact undetected by my mental radar until a cadre of long-forgotten classmates "friended" me on Facebook. As I began receiving e-mail from people I hadn't heard from in decades, my mind drifted back to my Pennsylvanian roots.

High school was an emotional time. As with so many of my peers, my days were a swirl of feelings in constant collision with a maze of social, political and philosophical discoveries. Love, frustration, elation, disappointment — during my teenage years, I felt them all in varying shades and degrees of intensity.

I struggled with fitting in or — more accurately — with not fitting in with any of the many cliques that so acutely define the high-school experience. I wasn't a geek, a complete freak or a brain. Although I was on the field hockey team for a while, I was hardly a jock. Nor was I a member of the band, chorus or any other defining section of the high-school community. I was involved with plays — always behind the scenes and in minor parts — and contributed regularly to the literary magazine.

A thinker and dreamer, I found myself on the outskirts of several groups, never meshing for long with any one faction. Although I had spent my first 18 years in the same town, none of my personal connections managed to last for long once high school ended and I moved away.

Maybe that's why it feels strange to be suddenly awash in a sea of semi-familiar names and faces. As I struggle to remember the people now contacting me, I find my memory surprisingly foggy. Why is that? How can such incredibly important years be so difficult to recall?

For assistance, I've brushed the dust off my yearbook and scanned the pages in search of triggers. Unfortunately, that immortal tome of hormonal expression hasn't been much help. The 40-year-old images of girls with pageboy haircuts and boys with tucked in button-down shirts only remind me of how uninvolved I was with school activities.

There were about 1,000 graduates in my class. Like most of my classmates, I was aware of the ever-popular football players, cheerleading squad and student council, but my yearbook documents the existence of so much more. Apparently, my high school had a swim team and although I went there for four years, I can't recall ever seeing a pool. How is that possible? The depth of my obliviousness is astounding.

Thanks to Facebook I am reminded of how much I've forgotten. Far beyond names and faces, events that once seemed immensely important now barely elicit a memory blip. I guess time has a way of sorting through the mass of information that floods our minds and filing it all away in a manageable fashion. High school may have seemed all-encompassing at the time, but in reality it barely took up 4 percent of my 57 years. So much has happened since 12th grade ended and the rest of my life began.

Traveling back in time can be fun. It can be interesting learning about people in our past, especially when we chance upon that rare someone with whom a true connection can be made. But maybe the best part of this whole return-to-high-school-revisit-my-roots experience is how much it makes me appreciate the present.

There's no comparison between now and then. Now is so much better. I'm still a thinker, a dreamer and not a member of any special clique, but I'm very much a part of a family. That's something I wouldn't trade for all the high-school homecoming dances in the worl

Loss of cranes' eggs brings grief, awareness of life cycles

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 23, 2009)

The sandhill-crane eggs are gone. I don't know how it happened or exactly when, but the day after I watched the nesting pair scare away two other sandhill cranes, a misguided turtle and a murder of crows, I realized their eggs were missing.

What I actually noticed was an unattended nest. Until then, one or another of the cranes dutifully sat on the eggs day and night. Male and female cranes share incubation responsibilities, so I could never be sure which bird was keeping the two eggs warm. Except when they flew off in tandem to chase away other birds, one crane was always there.

The morning I realized the eggs were missing I also saw the season's first alligator glide through the shallow water. Our family regularly uses the lake for swimming. Monitoring the alligator population is an activity I take seriously.

Every year about this time, one or two of the toothy reptiles discovers our 12-acre watering hole. This year's visitor was relatively small — maybe 4 feet long — and too little to pose a serious human threat but large enough to devour sandhill-crane eggs.

Then again, the egg robber just as easily could have been a fox, raccoon, crow, owl, bobcat, coyote or even the osprey that regularly roosts on the lake-top platform my husband built. We have no shortage of predators willing to fight for a mouthful of crane eggs or hatchlings.

If that's what happened, it must have been quite a battle. When under attack, sandhill cranes command an arsenal of weapons. Their large stature and 6-foot-wide wingspan can be imposing. Add to that a pointed beak for poking, strong legs for kicking and a bellowing voice that doesn't let up, and you have the means to stop most enemies in their tracks. Unfortunately, even the best weapons don't always work.

A study of 1,096 sandhill-crane clutches at the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge in Oregon from 1966 to 1989 showed coyotes destroyed 20percent of the eggs, ravens killed 15percent and raccoons destroyed 9percent. I know all three predators frequent our property, but ravens or perhaps crows have been most visible. The Oregon study noted the obvious: Well-concealed nests resisted the most predation.

The cranes in my lake must not have read that report, because their nest was as exposed as could be. Stuck on the end of a barren sand spit in the shallow water a mere 20feet from shore, the roughly composed structure was visible to any potential egg-eaters and easily accessible.

I'm not surprised the two eggs vanished, but I am sad. Unlike birds that may lay multiple clutches yearly, sandhill cranes nest only once. When eggs disappear, chances of another clutch by the same birds in the same year are nil.

Meanwhile, the male and female cranes continue to roost on the same sandbar by their empty nest. During the days, they wander about together, foraging for food, preening their feathers and raising their voices to bellow to any other sandhills that chance to fly overhead.

Is their vocalization a warning to others to stay away, or a message of mourning to announce their loss?

It is anthropomorphic to attribute human feelings to animal behavior, but when something like this happens, it's hard to avoid such speculation. That's especially true with animals such as sandhill cranes that forge strong parent-child bonds. Although immature cranes can fly only 10weeks after hatching, they usually remain with the parents for a full year, staying together until the elders are ready to lay another clutch of eggs. Only then will the young colts — immature cranes — venture off on their own.

My nesting couple won't raise babies this year, but that doesn't mean their child-rearing days are over. Sandhill cranes can live in the wild for more than 20years. They tend to return to previous nesting sites year after year, so it's likely we'll have several more chances to observe the life cycle of these fascinating birds.

With so many future chances, it's quite likely their next egg-laying experience will be a success. I certainly hope so. A pair of Carolina wrens is building a nest under the eaves of our house. Watching them scurry back and forth with building materials has helped ease my feelings of loss.

It's hard to keep things in perspective when emotions get in the way. Losing the eggs is a disappointment, but it's not without an upside. Those eggs nourished some animal that also may be raising young. Life is full of ups and downs. One critter's loss is another animal's gain.

As for me, I'm in awe of the cycle. Life goes on no matter what, for birds as well as people.

Nesting cranes bluster, but no blood is shed

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 16, 2009)

The sandhill-crane saga continues.

One recent Saturday, I heard the sandhill cranes on our property making their warning calls, so I grabbed the binoculars and rushed outside to see what was going on.

On the long, narrow sand spit where the cranes nest, the female had stood up, leaving her two eggs exposed. About 20feet away, the male crane walked toward her with long-legged determination. Between them was a large turtle. The turtle, probably figuring the narrow sand spit was a good place to catch some rays, made an unfortunate pick. His sunning spot — about 7 feet from the nest — was too close for comfort.

The female crane raised her voice in protest, her warning cry joined by the male, who was rapidly approaching. The vocalizing continued until the female felt sure her partner was close enough to deal with the problem alone. Secure at last, she returned to her egg-warming responsibility. Meanwhile, the male used his pointy beak to approach the unwitting turtle and drive home the message that it was time to leave.

"Go!" Nudge, nudge. "Get away!" He poked. "Find somewhere else to sun, away from our eggs."

Turtles are reputed to be slow on land, but if my observations are any indication, they're fast on the uptake. The hard-shelled critter wasted no time retreating into the water and paddling off to friendlier shores. With the threat abated, calm returned. Mama crane continued nesting, papa crane resumed foraging for food and the unwelcome turtle disappeared underwater.

A few minutes passed. I returned to my desk, and the cranes resumed foraging for food and incubating eggs.

You would think one such adrenaline-pumping experience would be enough for the birds to deal with in a day. It wasn't. Less than 15 minutes later, I again heard sandhill-crane sounds of alarm. I ran outside again, binoculars in hand. This time a turtle didn't trigger their cries; another pair of sandhill cranes did.

This was the second time I've witnessed the territorial proclamations of sandhill cranes. A few days before, a pair of the long-legged birds had flown overhead before settling down on the shoreline at the opposite end of the lake from the nesting couple. In typical crane fashion, a great deal of vocalizing transpired in the air and on the ground.

"This is our lake," the nesting pair seemed to bellow from below.

"Don't get your feathers all ruffled," the newcomers seemed to reply. "We're not going to bother you. We're landing on the other end, far away from your island."

I suppose their exchange succeeded in placating the nesting pair because the new birds landed and did stay far away, at least initially. Several hours later, that wasn't the case. The nonresident birds slowly meandered their way around the shoreline until they were a mere 40feet or so away from the other cranes' nest. At that point, new bellowing began, accompanied by a sudden explosion of wings as both mama and papa crane took off and landed next to the newcomers. All at once, four sets of croaky voices filled the air.

"You said you were not going to bother us and now look where you are," the nesting couple seemed to scold.

"All right already, don't get so upset. We're out of here," the newcomers seemed to say.

Their wings spread and away they flew.

As soon as the intruders were in the air, the nesting couple returned to the sand spit and the two exposed eggs.

This time, I expected to see a similar confrontation. But that wasn't the case. Instead of the new birds coming close to the nest, the visitors were far away at the opposite shore. The nesting pair reacted immediately. They flew off together and landed right next to the newcomers.

"Leave!" They seemed to say. "Right now! Fly away!"

And they did. The visitors took off and our resident birds flew back to their island home. The female went back to the nest, but the male stopped by a nearby shoreline to chase away a murder of crows. After the crane-chasing incident, some adrenaline must still have been pumping through his system that he needed to release.

I suppose we all have territorial limits. When it happens to people, fights ensue. When it happens to countries, we have war. When it happens to sandhill cranes, there's a lot of bluster, feather ruffling and vocalizing, but, eventually, one bird or the other gets the message and flies away. End of story. No bloody encounters or bombing of homelands, just loud cries of complaint followed by acquiescence.

Too bad people can't act the same way

Nesting sandhill cranes ready to raise young

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 9, 2009)

I recently wrote about watching a male sandhill crane court a female with elaborate displays of wing flapping, feather fluffing, stomping on the ground and jumping up and down.

The lady to whom this dance was directed appeared to be completely uninterested in his performance.

While her partner pounced upon a gangly weed to demonstrate how forcefully he could destroy an enemy, the female sandhill crane walked away, pecked at seeds and generally ignored her suitor's dramatic show of virility.

Although she may have looked and acted indifferent, some of those masculine attempts to impress must have penetrated her feathery feminine psyche.

Today, a mere three weeks after the mating dance, the female sandhill crane is contentedly incubating a clutch of eggs on an exposed spit of sand at the north end of our lake.

I'm excited!

This will be the second time our family will have an up-close opportunity to follow the life cycle of sandhill cranes.

I'm not alone in enjoying such a spectacle. After my column appeared, many readers wrote to tell me how thrilled they also are to be following the development of sandhill crane families.

Leesburg resident Joe Schlegel's letter began, "Are you ready for some GOOD NEWS? I sure hope so, 'cause the sandhill cranes from last year are still here and nesting in the same place, and she laid TWO eggs this year, same as last year, but this year ONE hatched and we have the most BEAUTIFUL baby sandhill crane walking around with the proud parents.

"WOW!! What a sight!" he added. "The papa stands guard and the mama has been teaching the baby how to pick bugs out of the ground."

It is typical of sandhill cranes to return to a nest site for many years.

Although there is no way to know for sure, I suspect that the cranes now nesting near our lake are either the same cranes or the descendants of the cranes that nested here eight years ago. The water level now is similar to what it was then — very low — with many exposed sand or peat islands, ideal for nest sites.

Gertrude de Jong is another Leesburg resident fortunate enough to follow a crane family's antics.

"We live on a pond, too, in a retirement community in Leesburg and for the last month and a half we have been watching two of them prepare their nest to receive two big beautiful eggs," writes de Jong.

"We watched them protect them, hover over them, taking turns to keep them warm, and about 10 days ago a beautiful little chick came into being," de Jong continued. "Only one of the eggs hatched. Now each day we see them protect the little chick with their nearness and at the same time teaching it to feed. What a beautiful sight. At the first indication of a predator in the area, both birds make the most awful noise and scare the osprey away."

I have not yet discovered how many eggs our sandhill crane is sitting on, but the last time we watched a nesting pair raise young, two eggs hatched. Unfortunately, only one of those colts survived.

Baby sandhill cranes are called colts because of their long, strong, well-developed legs. A day after hatching, colts are already able to run after their parents.

Although two eggs are usually laid, more often than not only one bird survives. The eggs — about twice the size of the largest chicken eggs — incubate for approximately 30 days, and during that time both parents take turns sitting on the eggs.

The nest, which typically sits only inches above the water in marshy areas, is a casually built affair made from marshy vegetation.

From my vantage point on the shoreline about 40 feet away, I can't even see the cranes' nest. The mama crane's body — or is it the papa's? — completely covers whatever reeds, cattails or tall grasses the birds have haphazardly woven together into a shallow bowl.

What I do know is that ever since I first observed the birds nesting, one parent or another has stayed glued to the nest site, leaving the remaining partner alone to forage the shorelines and fields for food.

Assuming that the cranes can successfully fend off predators — as the male so ably demonstrated in his mating dance — we soon should be observing the young colts' arrival.

It only takes 10 weeks after the baby birds are born before they are able to fly, so much should happen in a relatively short time.

I'll be sure to share with you as many stages of the happy events that I can record.

Lowly sorrel a surprising, edible treat

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 1, 2009)

Remember fields? They are those expansive stretches of landscape uninterrupted by trees, shopping centers, tract homes, condos or parking lots.

If you've passed by one lately, that is, if you are fortunate enough to live in an area where acres of open space still exist — you might have noticed a reddish tint to the grasses waving in the breeze. The cause of this botanical blush is the seed stalks of the Rumex acetosella plant, better known as sheep sorrel, sour sorrel, common sorrel or the visually descriptive moniker, red sorrel.

As its blush suggests, Rumex acetosella is a modest plant, unassuming but pervasive. A perennial herb with edible stem and leaves, sorrel's lowly stature and ubiquitous nature cause many to consider it a weed. It pops up in gardens and lawns alike, in open fields and meadows, in sandy or gravelly soil. Wherever there are sunny expanses — even in disturbed, nutritionally poor soil — sorrel plants are apt to take root.

When we first moved to our south Lake County homestead 17years ago, sorrel-covered meadows were so widespread, we named one of our roads after the omnipresent herb. We'd munch on the lemony leaves when taking walks, and at dinnertime we would send the kids out to collect a handful of the plant's arrow-shaped leaves to mix with lettuce for a tasty salad. Sorrel leaves are slightly juicy and mildly astringent. They add a satisfying crunch to tossed salads and a pleasing tang to sandwiches and stir-fries.

So many sorrel plants grew in our "lawn" that the kids didn't have far to go to gather what was needed.

Our three oldest children have long since grown up and moved away, but their fondness for sorrel has remained intact. Unfortunately, fields of the red-stalked plants diminished as we added more trees and bamboo to the landscape. Sorrel still exists but instead of covering acres, it forms a patchwork of individual plants.

This past week, our older children rediscovered some of those patches during a trip home to celebrate our youngest son's birthday. In addition to time spent talking and making meals, we juggled clubs in the backyard, played board games and took walks around the lake. It was on one of those walks that Timmy, our oldest son, noticed the sorrel. He plucked a few leaves off a plant and nibbled them as he walked.

Seeing Timmy munch on the tangy greens reminded me of the special connection people can have with specific plants. As a child in Pennsylvania, I used to pick wild blackberries when I walked along the old railroad track. Now, 50-some years later, every time I pick a blackberry, I flash back on my youthful home.

During the years Ralph and I lived on Cape Cod, wintergreen berries were among my favorite wild edibles. Whenever I strolled through the woods during autumn, my eyes would seek out the small red berries hidden beneath the low growing ground cover. I miss the minty taste of those berries — they don't grow in Florida — but I still remember how much I enjoyed them and how exciting it was to fill up my pockets with enough of the tiny round fruits to last for the entire walk.

It doesn't take much to trigger a memory. Songs do it. Smells do it. Plants do it too. Fields of sorrel may no longer be a large part of our Florida landscape, but the memories they trigger are not about to disappear. Rumex acetosella is undeniably a common, lowly plant that some people consider a weed, but to our family it's special: It's the flavor of home, of family and time spent together.

He puffs and stomps, she ignores it - sound familiar?

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel February 23, 2009)

'You've got to see this," Ralph said as he rushed back to the house from the nursery. "The sandhill cranes are out here and one of them is bobbing up and down."

"Ooh!" I exclaimed. "I bet it's doing a mating dance. I'll grab my camera and be right there."

Two minutes later, I'm outside. My bare feet carefully avoid red-ant hills as I squat down in a grassy spot about 50 feet from the birds. The cranes -- perhaps the same pair that roosts nightly on a small exposed sandbar in the lake -- are along the water's edge slowly trolling the shallows for food. Every few minutes one or another stops feeding to survey its surroundings.

Squatting is uncomfortable so I eventually settle into a sitting position and play with the zoom until I have the birds tightly framed in the viewfinder. Within minutes, I'm enjoying a front-row seat at a show of avian amour.

The male bird, slightly larger than his female counterpart, leaves the shoreline to walk toward a mounded earthen berm. With his mate following, the large birds hop up the hillock and settle onto the flat weedy surface.

After a quick peek over his shoulder at his partner, the male fluffs out his tail feathers and extends his impressively broad wings. Turning so his rear end faces his mate, the crane proceeds to jump up and down, flapping his wings in the process.

After four leaps, he switches tactics.

A slender blade of grass is now the subject of his attention. As if the blade were a snake intent on devouring eggs instead of a slim weed bending in the breeze, the male proceeds to peck at it repeatedly. For good measure, he also pounces upon it twice as if telling a potential predator, "You're not going to bother my family!"

In all of 19 seconds, the show is over. The male bird immediately reverts to normal behavior, meandering along the ground in search of food. But what a 19 seconds it was!

In that short time Mr. Sandhill Crane showed his missus how big and strong he is and how protective he can be of his family. Was his partner impressed? I don't think so. Throughout this dazzling display of male virility and protective prowess, the female crane paid little to no attention. Basically, she ignored him.

When it comes to demonstrations of showoff-y masculinity, humans and birds have much in common. The males of both species occasionally act like fools.

I made a video of the sandhill crane mating dance and posted it on Facebook. My friend, Stephen Scarlato in New Haven, Conn., watched it and left the following post: "I showed Bridget (my girlfriend) this video. Her reaction: 'That's totally us, as birds.' That is, one dancing around extravagantly, one totally ignoring . . . :)"

How often have women watched men try their hardest to impress them with boisterous behavior, self-proclaiming boasts and blatant brags?

Puffing out their feathers and stomping up and down might turn a few heads, but women often respond to such displays by rolling their eyes, shaking their head and hoping with all their might that their hormonally charged partners won't do something stupid such as get in a fight.

Sure, we want a life mate who will protect and defend us, but virility has its limits. Strength is important but so are tenderness, sensitivity and compassion.

Maybe birds have it easier than humans. With needs so basic -- food, water and a safe nesting place -- they can afford to act extravagantly -- even foolishly -- at times, stomping on blades of grass and leaping into the air with wings spread wide. If their mate ignores them, well, there's always next time.

They have the luxury of spending all day, every day with the object of their attention. Sandhill cranes are monogamous and mate for life.

I felt privileged for the chance to peek into the world of these fascinating birds and ponder the wonders of another way of life.

People are certainly not sandhill cranes, but we're not as far removed from our avian counterparts as some might like to think. We can learn much by watching wildlife -- not only about the animals we observe but also about ourselves.

A few right words can show the love

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel February 16, 2009)

A few days ago, I was talking to one of our customers while her husband helped my husband load bamboo plants onto the back of their trailer. While the men busied themselves with tractors, tarps and tie-downs, we women made small talk about our children, homes and garden projects.

After telling me about a waterfall her husband had built in their backyard, she made a comment that surprised me.

"I have the best husband," she said. "He can do anything, fix anything and build anything."

"I'm afraid I have to correct you on that," I replied. "My husband is the best husband there is."

We sat there laughing, two strangers of a similar age who have both been happily married for many years.

My customer's words surprised me because they are so rare. Casual comments about our partners are far more likely to include complaints and criticisms than compliments and praise. We don't think twice about telling complete strangers our mate's bad habits, unpleasant mannerisms or unacceptable behaviors but we seldom share tales of their kind actions, loving gestures or admirable qualities.

Why is that? Why is it easier to disparage the people who are dearest to us rather than laden them with praise?

Valentine's Day was this past weekend, and people across the country took advantage of the holiday to proclaim their love with cards and gifts. But do we really need a designated day to announce our affection? Shouldn't our entire lives reflect the affection we feel for our partners?

I've been married to my husband for 38 years and I never tire of singing his virtues. Ralph isn't perfect but he comes mighty close. He's smart and handsome, strong and gentle, hardworking and playful. His easygoing, patient nature is the perfect counterbalance to my often emotional, erratic self.

We work well together, agree on important issues and share the same priorities. Our marriage is full of soothing patterns and exciting surprises. The gratitude I feel for our shared life only increases each day.

I expect most people in relationships feel similar affection for their partners. Characteristics and qualities may differ, but beneath all the layers of everyday life is the undercurrent of love upon which unions are built.

I wonder how different the world would be if more people -- like my customer the other day -- expressed appreciation for their partners instead of reverting to the far more common words of mockery and ridicule.

Media rules the world. We are constantly told how to look, act and think. On Feb. 14, the powers that be tell us now is the time to express our love. Buy a present for your sweetheart -- the more expensive the gift, the deeper your love.

I'm sorry, but I just don't buy it.

Love isn't measured by dollars and cents. It's not something that can be purchased over the counter or ordered from a catalog. Real affection -- true caring and devotion -- is expressed every day by kindnesses large and small, by actions, reactions, by hugs, kisses and -- most importantly -- by words.

Saying "I have the best husband" is one person's way of acknowledging the passion that can remain in a marriage even after 40 years have come and gone. My customer might not have realized it at the time, but she gave her husband an early Valentine's Day gift when she visited our nursery last week.

I'm not referring to the purchase of bamboo plants to add to their landscape. The present she offered was far less obvious. Her five little words stated in a matter-of-fact tone was a gift so grand, it deserves to be passed on.

Give someone you love a hug. Tell them you care. Valentine's Day may be over, but the future is just beginning. Fill your tomorrows with declarations of love. When all is said and done, it's the only gift that counts.

Few days of chill a small price to pay for this sun-kissed paradise

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel February 9, 2009)

If my favorite color were tan, I would be ecstatic when I look out my window. The recent cold snap has leached most of the green out of the garden, leaving behind an ecru landscape. Hibiscus, pentas, gingers and impatiens withered up when the temperature dropped. The plump leaves of ground covers such as wedelia, wandering Jew and spider plant turned to mush, their bright colors faded to dull blackish-browns. I expected the bananas to succumb to the cold - most winters they do - but during this freeze, unexpected trees were also affected.

Tropical fruiters such as the carambola tree, papaya, mango and pineapple were badly hit, but so were normally hardy plants such as Surinam cherries and mulberry trees. Even emerging fruit on our loquats and our neighbor's grapefruits were damaged when the thermometer dipped to the mid- to low 20s.

It really got cold.

In past years, such an extensive kill-back would have brought me to my knees. I would have bemoaned our fate.

"What are we going to do?" I would have wondered. "Everything looks terrible!"
I don't do that anymore.

Despite the recent cold snap, I am taking it in stride. I've lived in Florida long enough to know how quickly the weather will warm up, how soon new leaves will appear and how pretty the landscape will look again. The beauty of it all is that none of these changes will take long to happen.

Florida is a state of immediate gratification. Instead of lasting for months, winter lasts for days - sometimes only for hours.

Plants that look dead often spring back to life once the sun has been shining on them for a couple of weeks.

When I moved here 21 years ago from gray Cape Cod, I was awe-struck by all the sunshiny days. I hadn't realized it until I moved away, but Cape Cod was a rather dreary place to be. Winters were long, chilly and raw. Springtime was exciting but it was also muddy. Even during summer, when the weather finally warmed to the 70s and 80s, we rarely experienced more than two days in a row without overcast skies.
By contrast, the sun hardly ever disappears from Floridian skies. Even now as I look out upon the cold-decimated landscape, I can imagine how vibrant everything will look a couple months from now.

The suddenly tan landscape acts as a reminder of things I like best about Florida - the quick turnaround of seasons, the rapid resurgence of all things botanical, the inevitable warmth that's never far off.

For the moment, the only thing I'm doing about the cold damage is waiting it out. There will be time enough in March to trim back dead branches and rake up fallen leaves. Right now is the time to appreciate how good we have it.

Unlike family and friends in other parts of the country, we're not blanketed by snowdrifts, driving over ice-slicked roads or withering under a shroud of gray skies and nose-numbing winds.

We're merely experiencing a sliver of the shivers most Americans deal with daily. A few days of chill and the loss of some greenery is a small price to pay for the nearly semitropical climate Central Floridians enjoy most of the year.

That is not to say we should resist complaining when the thermometer dips. Bemoaning the weather - whether it is too cold or too hot - is human nature. The important thing is to keep it in perspective.

Even in the midst of one of the coldest snaps on record, Florida weather is a wondrous thing. Accept the present, anticipate the future and appreciate how lucky we are. Warm days are ahead. That's a given.

A sweet addiction

SIMPLY LIVING

My son says I’m addicted and maybe he’s right.

If the definition of an addict is someone dependent on a substance, then label me hooked. My drug of choice, however, is not a drug at all. It’s a zero-calorie, zero-carbohydrate, plant-based sweetener that – unlike sugar - doesn’t induce a dangerous spike in blood sugar. The product is stevia and the way I see it, my dependency upon it is a positive addiction.

Stevia is a member of the Compositae family of herbs – the same family as asters, sunflowers and daisies. The indigenous people in Paraguay and Brazil have used the leaves of this small shrub for hundreds of years to sweeten beverages and medicines but it wasn’t until the 1970’s that other countries began to incorporate the naturally sweet leaves into food products.

The Japanese were the first to jump on the stevia bandwagon. About 30 years ago Japan approved the use of stevia to enhance and sweeten foods and its use quickly became widespread. Today it represents 40 percent of that country’s sweetener market. Although China, India, Israel, Australia, New Zealand and Canada have recognized stevia’s taste-enhancing benefits, it wasn’t introduced to the American consumer until 1996. I discovered stevia a few years later and have been adding it to my daily cups of tea ever since.

Unlike Splenda, Sweet N Low or Equal, stevia is not an artificially derived chemical product and unlike sugar, it neither raises blood sugar levels nor adds calories. Fresh picked stevia leaves are 30 times sweeter than table sugar while a purified extract made out of the leaves can be up to 400 times sweeter. Stevia comes in both a powder and liquid form and even though both types share space in my pantry, my latest favorite is the liquid form.

“Why bother pouring it into your tea?” my son asked the other morning while watching me prepare my morning brew. “Why not just inject it directly into your veins?”

I may be addicted but I’m not that far gone.

Mainlining stevia is out of the question but that doesn’t mean the herb’s medicinal qualities are without merit. In Paraguay and Brazil, members of the Guarani tribes have historically used stevia as a remedy for heartburn. Recent research suggests it may also be beneficial to treat hypertension, osteoporosis, high blood pressure, diabetes and obesity. Such claims are impressive but that’s not why I use stevia. I like it because it is sweetens my tea without adding calories or potentially dangerous chemical additives.

Apparently, several major beverage companies like those features too. In an attempt to cater to the demands of health and diet conscious consumers, both Coca Cola and Pepsi are in the process of developing stevia-sweetened drinks. Coca Cola will market a version of Sprite during 2009 as well as two flavors of Odwalla juice while Pepsi’s stevia enhanced offerings will include Sobe Lifewater and a Tropicana Orange drink this year.

The only drawback that I can find to stevia is its high price tag. A four-ounce bottle of Stevia Clear Liquid manufactured by Wisdom Natural Brand under the name of SweetLeaf Sweetener costs $14.95. It took me just over two months and about a hundred cups of tea and homemade stevia-laced lemon and limeade to use up the liquid in that bottle. At that rate, a year’s supply of the naturally sweet liquid would cost about $90. That’s a fair amount of money but I don’t mind spending it because it enables me to enjoy my favorite beverages without worry about added calories or health concerns.

Prior to the 20th century, a typical American consumed only 5 pounds of sugar a year. Today we ingest 135 pounds of the refined white powder annually. Not surprisingly, health problems have increased too. Sugar has been linked to a number of health concerns including cardiovascular disease, cancer, hypertension, diabetes, obesity, periodontal disease, depression and allergies.

America’s obsession with sugar makes my addiction to stevia seem minor by comparison. If more people got hooked on positive food choices – whether it is switching from white flour to whole grains, cutting back on processed foods, eliminating hydrogenated oils or reducing their sugar intake - we’d be a far healthier nation.

Being addicted isn’t always bad. The problem isn’t the addiction itself – it’s what you choose to be addicted to.

Talking trash

SIMPLY LIVING

I just came in from picking up cigarette butts. Forty-nine cigarette butts, to be exact. A tenant in one of our rental houses moved out and although no smoking was permitted inside the unit, that didn’t stop my tenant’s boyfriend from dropping his smoked down cancer sticks all over the ground around the house.

How stupid can people be? Apparently, pretty darn stupid.

These days, with the correlation between cigarette smoking and lung cancer so well documented, one has to be either foolish enough to think he’ll be immune to the hazards of continually inhaling carcinogenic smoke into his system or too dumb to care.

And that doesn’t even begin to take into consideration what smokers are doing to the environment. Every year an estimated 4.5 trillion cigarette butts find their way onto our streets, parks, sidewalks and waterways. Have you ever been at a beautiful beach or a lovely overlook along a highway only to glance down upon a mound of litter predominated by cigarette butts? Sadly, it’s an all too common sight.

Why are those cigarette butts still there? Don’t they break down and deteriorate like paper or cotton? In a word, no.

Cigarettes are not biodegradable. Ninety-eight percent of a filter’s composition is cellulose acetate, a type of plastic that does not readily decompose. What it does do is sit there on the ground until rains either sweep it into a sewer or wash it into a waterway. But that’s only the beginning of the bad news. One hour after a spent cigarette becomes wet, harmful chemicals like cadmium, lead and arsenic begin to leach out of the butt and into the environment. Fish and other marine animals ingest those chemicals. Birds eat them. So do wildlife and even humans. If you’ve ever been at a beach, you’ve inevitably seen a baby pick a cigarette butt out of the sand and stick it in its mouth.

Potent stuff, cigarettes. They poison the water. They poison animals. They poison people.

In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m frustrated – not just by cigarette butts but by litter in general. Trash lines our county’s streets. Beautiful lakes and waterways are depositories for tossed beer cans, old tires and the remains of fast food containers. A couple weeks ago I drove out my dirt driveway onto the paved county-maintained road only to discover several dozen tires dumped along the roadside.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t an isolated incidence.

What are we doing to our beautiful countryside? Are the majority of Lake County residents completely uncaring? Is the precarious state of our fragile environment so unimportant to most people that they’d rather pollute the land than put the tiniest bit of effort into keeping it clean? How difficult is it to throw a cigarette butt into a trashcan instead of dropping it on the ground?

Although generally an optimist, I’ve become pessimistic about the problem of litter. I used to think if one person did their part, others would follow.
Dutifully I filled garbage bags with the trash that landed along the roads leading to our driveway. I explained to the little girl down the street who repeatedly dropped bubblegum wrappers on the road when she walked to the bus stop and explained to her why littering was bad for the environment. I added a clause to every lease emphasizing my zero tolerance of all litter, especially that of cigarette butts. I chastised tenants who didn’t listen and, like the tenant who just moved out, picked up after them myself.

Still, litter continued.

It doesn’t have to be this way. Places do exist where litter is not an issue. When I lived on Cape Cod, garbage did not line the roadsides or fill the waterways. People cared enough to pick up after themselves. Even here in Central Florida, you’d be hard-pressed to find cigarette butts on the ground or fast food containers littering the roadsides of any on Disney-owned property. Why not? Because the people in charge at Disney takes litter control seriously.

There’s no reason Lake County can’t be a paragon of environmental consciousness. If enough residents let our county leaders know we want them to prioritize cleaning up the countryside, the amount of litter could drastically decrease. If enough parents insisted that our school leaders ramp up the anti-littering curriculum, more children could grow up to be informed, responsible adults.

If we don’t voice our concerns or make our desire for change known, well, I guess we deserve what we get – filthy roadsides, polluted water, cigarette-covered ground and a beautiful countryside marred by the ugly aftermath of county filled with uninvolved, poorly educated, uncaring people.

What better time than now, as we embark on Obama’s “Change We Need” presidency, to contact our school leaders and county commissioners. Insist upon the enforcement of existing littering laws. Demand that citizens – young and old - be educated on the importance of a clean environment. If more of us follow Obama’s lead and work for important changes in our own backyard, even difficult problems like littering can be overcome.