Shoo, fly — especially those painful yellow ones

Egrets eat flies which bother cattle...and people

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 27, 2010)

Yellow flies are nasty little buggers.

I was showing a customer around the bamboo nursery on a hot weekday morning when it became obvious that something was biting us. We politely tried to ignore the bites at first, but our sense of propriety was short-lived. With arms, legs and necks suddenly punctured by painful pecks, we stopped talking and started swatting.

The yellow fly, Diachlorus ferrugatus, belongs to the Tabanidae family of insects, which includes the equally annoying horse and deer flies. Although adult flies are present in Florida from March through November, tabanids are most active from April through June, especially in the early morning and late afternoon.

Renowned for their relentlessness, these yellow-winged fliers provide no audible warning. When they are ready to attack, they do so silently.

Females — the only ones who bite — wait for their warmblooded prey in the shade. When a mammal unwittingly ambles along, the female uses sight, smell and an awareness of carbon dioxide emissions to sense its presence. Once her target is located, she abandons her shady retreat in pursuit of her intended meal: fresh blood. Although adult flies of both sexes survive on a diet of nectar and pollen, females need blood for the development of eggs.

I have a generous nature when it comes to wildlife, but I draw the line at offering my own vital fluids for insect sustenance. Unfortunately, my preferences were not honored. By the time the yellow flies found us, it was already too late. Enough blood had been withdrawn to assure the continuation of the species.

Unlike mosquitoes, yellow flies don't inject an anesthetic when they bite. That explains why their bites are so painful. They puncture the skin by making a serrated cut before sucking blood through their tubelike mouthparts.

Until that day in the nursery, I rarely gave yellow flies a thought. That wasn't the case 30 years ago when we lived on Cape Cod. On the Cape, flies were a seasonal nuisance. Along the Massachusetts coast, we were bothered by another member of the Tabanidae family, Tabanus nigrovittatus, better known as the salt-marsh greenhead.

These equally aggressive pests appeared in late July, making it impossible to spend any time outside without suffering multiple bites. They pestered us mercilessly for two weeks until the first high tide of August, and then they disappeared. I miss many things about Cape Cod, but greenheads are not among them.

Since we've been in Florida, I can't recall a time when yellow flies were a nuisance. We have plenty of killdeer and cattle egrets on our property, and both birds consume tabanids, so perhaps the birds have helped control the fly population. At least they may have helped until now.

"Expect the unexpected" is one of my mottoes, and although most of my discoveries are joyful, every now and then I have a less-than-pleasant encounter. The yellow-fly incident was a reminder that life is not all sunshine and smiles and that some things in nature just plain hurt.

Rowboat ride leads to bouquet of discoveries

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 20, 2010)

I came in from rowing carrying a bouquet of flowers.

"I thought you were out in the boat," Ralph said, as he watched me arrange a vase of blooms.

I admitted that I was.

"Then how'd you pick flowers?" he asked.

I told him: "From the boat."

Rowing provides many pleasures, not the least of which is the ability to see things from water that I'm unable to see from land. Certain plants — those with a tolerance for fluctuating water levels and perpetually damp soil — are often unnoticed from the house or yard.

However, as I drift along the shoreline, those same plants pop out and catch my attention. When I'm on the lake in my old aluminum rowboat, I'm looking back at land instead of seeing things the other way around. I'm on the lookout for discoveries.

Buttonbush was one such discovery.

Cephalanthus occidentalis is a woody shrub that likes having wet feet. Growing 3 to 10 feet tall, it usually roots in damp shorelines, surviving even when rising water submerges the lower limbs and leaves.

I've often thought that buttonbush was misnamed. Its white flowers aren't flat like buttons. They're round, like pingpong balls, with what looks like dozens of short, yellow-tipped needles sticking out of them. It's a most unusual and striking flower. I paddled up close to the plant and snapped off a few bloom-laden branches.

A bit farther along, I saw an expansive spread of peelbark St. John's wort. Hypericum fasciculatum is a yellow-flowered perennial herb that grows about 3 feet tall. The cheerful blossoms of this evergreen shrub are small but plentiful. Unlike other varieties of St. John's wort that prefer dry, sandy soil, peelbark does best when its rhizomes can spread through ground that's perpetually damp.

In our lake, a large stand has rooted on what used to be an exposed island of peat. With the rainy season here, the peat island is submerged, but the peelbark remains. As I rowed around through the shallows, great masses of yellow blooms grew out of the water, and I picked off a few to add to my collection.

The final flower to catch my eye was marsh-pink, also known as Sabatia stellaris pursh. As its name implies, marsh pink is a pink-flowered plant with a preference for soggy settings. The five-petal bloom grows at the end of a tall, slender stem with small leaves. At first glance, marsh-pink resembles a rose-colored coreopsis. Both flowers have similar faces — bright, open blooms a little more than an inch wide. Individual plants tend to cluster, but without the density exhibited by peelbark. Marsh pink brightens the landscape by adding a splash of color to surrounding greenery. I picked several blooms, making sure to clip them with plenty of stem intact.

When I got home, I arranged the flowers in a vase and set it on a ledge next to the kitchen window. Now, when I stand at the sink doing dishes or preparing food, not only can I see the lake, I can look at the bouquet and think of my row.

Being on the water provides a different perspective, a different way of seeing the familiar and discovering the hidden. Picking flowers is a treat for the senses as well as a way to connect with nature. Put the two together and you have ingredients for Memory Stew, a mental meal that's healthy, hearty and good for the soul.

A stinging reminder that summer has arrived

 Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 14, 2010)

Every summer I manage to get myself stung by a wasp.  This summer is no exception. 

On a recent Sunday, I was sitting in the porch reading.  On the other side of the porch is a garden bed in which a rambling rosemary bush had sprawled over the walkway and grown about four feet tall.  For months – okay, maybe it’s been over a year - I have been meaning to trim back the fragrant herb but I kept putting it off.  I told myself I would prune it when I was ready to propagate the cuttings.  Rosemary sprigs propagate easily and the idea of wasting potential plants bothered me.  The problem was I had no idea where to put all those potential plants.  Without a plan, I opted for inaction allowing the plant to expand exponentially.

Although I was in the porch reading, I kept putting down my book to look at the lake.  However, every time my gaze swept outward the overgrown rosemary bush obstructed the view.  Impulsively, I decided to trim it back. 

Impulsivity was my undoing.  Had I stopped to think, I would have at least put on some gloves and spent a few minutes scanning the shrub carefully before making any cuts.  I knew wasps nested in the dense cover provided by the untrimmed branches.  Paper wasps have lived in that rosemary bush for years.  I’ve even been stung on previous occasions when trimming it back.

People often learn from their mistakes.  Not this time.  With a burst of energy, I grabbed the hedge trimmers, opened the screen door and enthusiastically began to hack back overly tall top and side stems. 

I was making impressive progress.  The wasps must have thought so too.  I snipped.  They swarmed.  I screamed and ran for cover.

One snap of the blades exposed the wasps’ previously hidden home.  Paper wasps build open-cell structures out of wood fiber mixed with saliva.  These normally non-aggressive insects often construct their honeycomb-like nests under roof eaves or in the center of protective bushes.  A queen wasp is the core of wasp community, which also includes fertile male drones that don’t have stingers and a contingency of infertile females called worker wasps.  The workers do have stingers.  It is their job to tend and defend the eggs whenever they perceive a threat.    

I was that threat.

Although many wasps fly out of the nest, only one wasp managed to make contact.  It stung my left pointer finger.  A wasp’s stinger connects to a venom sac inside its body.  Chemicals in the venom cause pain and irritation.  Unlike bees that die after stinging a victim, paper wasps can sting repeatedly.  I don’t know how many times my attacker pumped chemicals into my flesh but I know its venom was effective.  Despite liberal applications of witch hazel, vinegar and Benadryl, my finger swelled up immediately.  By the next day, my left forearm resembled an overinflated balloon.

The way I see it, one sting was a small price to pay for my lapse of judgment.  Paper wasps are not evil animals out to get people.  They are actually beneficial insects that consume many of the pests – caterpillars, flies and beetle larvae – that damage garden plants.  The secret to avoiding painful interactions with paper wasps is to be aware of them and to exercise reasonable caution when working around areas where they may be living.

Impulsive behavior can be charming or, as I so recently experienced, it can also be alarming.   Next time an urge to control untidy plants strikes, I’ll try to control myself first. 

Cross-country by tandem bike: Dreaming, then doing

Jenny and Brett pose in front of the Rans Screamer recumbent tandem bicycle they are riding across country

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 7, 2010)

My daughter and son-in-law left today on a three-month cross-country trip. If you're wondering why it will take Jenny and Brett so long to cover the 3,000 miles from their central Massachusetts home to the California coast, it's because they're not traveling by car, train or plane. My daring daughter and her adventurous spouse are pedaling their way across the nation on a tandem recumbent bicycle.

If you've never seen or even heard of a tandem recumbent bike, you're not alone. Jenny and Brett's preferred mode of transportation is not your ordinary two-wheeler. Their 46-pound, 27-gear riding machine is a Rans Screamer, considered by bike enthusiasts to be one of the highest-performing, best-climbing and most stable recumbent tandems.

As a parent with a propensity to dwell on potential problems (my son Toby has nicknamed me Queen Hysteria), the Screamer's stability is a comforting feature. I also find it reassuring that Jenny and Brett have anticipated many of the questions and concerns that run — or should I say cycle — through my mind.

On their blog (www.playalways.blogspot.com), a post is devoted to answering questions such as: How will you carry all your stuff? Where will you spend the nights? Can you pedal at different speeds on your tandem? What about the Rocky Mountains? What will you eat? How will you get home?

Their answers are both amusing and informative. After reading another entry about their pedaling preparations, I found myself awed and inspired by Jenny and Brett's initiative, focus, determination and ability.

Although this trip will be their first long-distance excursion on the tandem, is not their first cycling adventure. On their honeymoon in May 2009, they explored Cape Cod on two wheels, and last summer they joined another couple for a five-day pedal up and down the Maine coastline.

Brett has more long-distance cycling experience. Several years ago he bicycled alone from Massachusetts to North Carolina to join our family at a juggling convention we all attended. Even Brett's work – at one of his three jobs – involves daily cycling excursions. He's a part-time employee of Pedal People, a worker-owned, human-powered delivery and hauling service for the Northampton, Mass., area.

It's an odd feeling to see your children grow up and undertake unexpected adventures. Our son Timmy was the first of our four children to surprise us. When he was 18, he spent four months hiking the entire 2,175-mile Appalachian Trail by himself. Now it's Jenny's turn to amaze and inspire.

As I sit here in my office just a few feet away from a well-stocked refrigerator, gas stove, electric teapot and fruit-filled pantry, it's hard to believe my daughter and her husband are carrying everything they need to complete such a long journey in four blue "panniers," each about the size of a large backpack.

I was happy to see that in addition to tools, spare parts, clothing, toiletries, food and utensils, the gear list included a cell phone, solar charger and netbook computer. Thanks to technology, friends and family will be able to track the cyclists' route and stay in touch while they're traversing the nation's scenic byways.

I'm excited for Jenny and Brett as they head out on what will undoubtedly be an amazing adventure. I'm proud of them for many things, but I am especially pleased with their ability to make play a priority and turn dreams into reality.

We all have the opportunity to follow dreams, but so few of us actually do. For several years, one of Jenny and Brett's goals has been to pedal across the country. As of today — Day 1 of their 80-plus-day journey — they are on their way to making that dream come true.

Passionflower is useful as well as beautiful

Sprawling plant provides fruit and juice while attracting wildlife

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 31, 2010)

May has been a warm, wet month — perfect weather for one of Florida's most versatile plants, Passiflora incarnate.

Commonly called passionflower, maypop or apricot vine, this Florida native is completely edible – leaves, roots, flowers and egg-shaped fruit. The plant has a number of medicinal properties and herbal qualities, including calming nerves and acting as a natural sedative. The Food and Drug Administration includes passionflower on its GRAS (Generally Recognized As Safe) list, and in Germany it has been officially approved to combat "nervous unrest" since 1985.

But that's not why I like the passionflower. I like this plant because it's pretty and attracts wildlife.

Passionflowers provide nectar to bees, hummingbirds, hummingbird moths and quite a few butterflies. It also acts as a larva host to the Gulf fritillary, variegated fritillary and zebra longwing butterflies. The most common passionflower — and the one growing wild where I live — is light purple with a yellow-green center.

This low-growing, sprawling plant has an extensive root system. In sandy, dry woods and fields, passionflowers tend to behave themselves. Occasionally they will stretch up a tree trunk or climb through shrubby branches, but most of the time the flowering vine creeps along the forest floor, dotting the pine needle and leaf litter with its fancy, round blossoms. On our property, hundreds of individual plants emerged in May when rain came down and temperatures rose.

Wild passionflowers become more wayward when introduced to the home landscape. When I lived in Kissimmee, I intentionally transplanted a single wild passionflower vine into an irrigated garden bed filled with enriched soil. My hope was that the pretty, purple-flowered vine would climb a trellis set against the house to provide a colorful display.

Reminder to self: Be careful what you wish for. The vine climbed the trellis, then proceeded to twirl its tenacious tendrils around the exterior siding as it crept up the wall, over windows and onto the roof.

I no longer attempt to domesticate Passiflora incarnate, enjoying it instead in its natural state as an undergrowth plant in forests and open fields. The face of a passionflower bloom is intricate and lovely. The round, flat flower resembles an eye. Blossoms are about 3 inches wide, with a thin, wavy layer of fringe atop broader, two-tone purple petals. In the center, showy yellow stamens surround a pale green pistil. Although blooms last only a day, new flowers appear daily.

Because individual blossoms have such a short life, these pretty wildflowers aren't the best choice for bouquets. They are, however, functional plants worthy of admiration. Native Americans made a poultice of passionflower roots to relieve inflammations, earaches, boils and cuts, while in Central America, the Incas brewed leaves for tonic and applied crushed leaves to bruises.

In the United States today, the most commonly used part of the passionflower plant is not its leaves or roots but its fruit. The size and shape of a duck egg, the green fruit turns yellow as it matures. Break open a ripe passion fruit and inside are gooey sacks of sweet-tartness. Much to Ralph's amazement and, dare I say, disgust (he doesn't like the taste at all), I like to suck the syrup out of passionfruit while we're taking walks around the lake.

These days, passion fruit juice is all the rage. Welch's is one of many companies that have tapped into consumer demand for this rich, flavorful source of potassium and vitamins A and C. Those same nutrients also make it an important component in cosmetic products such as shampoo, lotions and creams.

I'm always glad when wildflowers receive the attention they deserve. The passionflower may be a lowly plant, but this determined vine has crept its way out of the fields and woods and into our everyday lives.

Plentiful harvest is tasty and peachy keen

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 24, 2010)

My kitchen pantry looks peachy, and I mean that in the most literal way. I recently rearranged items on the pantry shelves to provide ripening room for our first substantial crop of nectarines and peaches.

This year's abundant harvest is the result of my oldest son's efforts. Three years ago, Timmy planted a small orchard on our property, but he moved out of state before the trees became productive. Although he is not here to sample them, his father and I have been enjoying the fruits of his labor. Thanks to our son, we've been picking fuzzy-skinned peaches and smooth red nectarines by the bucketful — and what a delightful treat they've been.

Last year was the first that the trees produced fruit. Because the initial crop was small, we picked only a few, thinking it would be better to let the rest ripen a bit more before we collected them. That was a mistake. Unbeknown to us, other residents of the property — those of the four-legged, furry-skinned variety — were also keeping an eye on the fruit trees.

The day after our small first harvest, we discovered the entire orchard picked clean. All the peaches and nectarines — ripe or not — had vanished. Whoever the culprits were — raccoons, possums, squirrels or some other hungry critter — they made fast work of our fruit.

Determined not to make the same mistake twice, Ralph and I began gathering this year's crop just before the fruit approached maturity. We walked to the orchard with empty buckets and returned home with containers overflowing. I couldn't believe how much we gathered.

Citrus is the first thing that comes to mind when people think of Central Florida, but stone fruits such as peaches, nectarines and plums are among the many other edibles that flourish in the Florida sun. The University of Georgia, University of Florida and Louisiana State University have all developed varieties specifically for a Southern climate. I don't know which varieties my son planted, but whichever they were, they've managed to thrive despite minimal care.

Before Timmy planted anything, he first dug large holes, removed all the sandy soil and replaced it with a rich mixture of composted manure and peat. That was a smart move because peaches, plums and nectarines prefer a rich, well-drained soil. These relatively small trees — they top out around 15 feet — don't need irrigation or pesticides, but their roots like to spread into nutrient-rich soil.

I'd like to say that Ralph and I did a good job maintaining Timmy's trees, but the reality is we ignored them. It wasn't until they began to bloom — lovely, fragrant pink blossoms emerged toward the end of March — that I paid them any notice.

There are many reasons to plant fruit trees. Homegrown fruit — although it may not be as large or picture- perfect as store-bought fruit — is almost always more flavorful. It is definitely fresher, fun to grow and educational. Perhaps most important, when you grow food yourself, you know exactly what you're eating. That's seldom the case with produce purchased at groceries.

In 2008, the U.S. Department of Agriculture tested imported peaches en route to American stores. The tests showed that more than 50 pesticide compounds appeared on the peaches, including five that exceeded Environmental Protection Agency limits and six banned in the United States.

Analysts at the non-profit Environmental Working Group came to a similar conclusion. They studied 43 fruits and vegetables and found peaches to have the highest amount of pesticide residue. Nectarines ranked fifth. The organization based its rankings on 43,000 tests conducted by the Agriculture Department over a four-year period.

Information of this sort can be so upsetting that it might make you want to stop eating peaches entirely or, at the very least, wash produce thoroughly before it is eaten. Alternatively, you can switch to organic produce or — better yet — set aside a little space in your yard to grow your own.

As parents, we consider it our responsibility to feed our children and provide them with long-lasting sustenance. How lovely it is when a child returns the favor. The orchard our son planted on our property three years ago is a gift we'll enjoy for years. Timmy may have moved away, but with each juicy bite, he's right here in my thoughts.

A new look at an ancient food

 Vats of fresh bean curd can still be found in ethnic food stores

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 17, 2010)

When I say "tofu," what comes to mind?

If your answer is "a strange-looking, foreign-sounding food," then chances are you probably don't have packages of bean curd stacked in your fridge.

Although it has been an essential part of Asian diets for more than 2,000 years, tofu wasn't commercially available in Western markets until the mid-1960s. Since then, this highly versatile, nutritious food has risen slowly but steadily in popularity.

Tofu has eased its way into mainstream American culture over the past five decades, thanks in large part to books such as Frances Moore Lappé's Diet for a Small Planet, first published in 1971, and The Book of Tofu by William Shurtleff and Akiko Aoyagi, which appeared in 1975.

Ralph and I owned a natural-food store in Wellfleet, Mass., when these authors were encouraging a generation of young adults to explore more healthful ways of eating. At that time, anyone who wanted to try tofu had two choices: They could buy it at a natural food store or make it themselves.

Packed away in our attic is a wooden tofu-making kit. Made by Larry Needleman in 1976 and based on designs from The Book of Tofu, the soybean press was a popular item during that burgeoning period of do-it-yourself food preparation. Although we owned the kit, we seldom used it, relying instead on the fresh tofu we sold in our store.

Our store was on Cape Cod, and to supply our customers (and our own family) with the tofu we wanted to eat, Ralph and I traveled to Boston. We took a four-hour round trip at least once a week in our station wagon to buy several five-gallon containers of freshly made bean curd from a tofu maker in that city's Chinatown. We brought the containers back to Wellfleet and sold the cubes, still floating in the watery brine, by the piece to eager customers.

Stepping into that tofu shop was like walking into another world. Steam rose over vats of boiling soybeans as an aged tofu maker stirred the mixture with a long wooden paddle. The floor was wet, English was barely spoken, receipts were scratched on soggy pieces of paper, and the tofu was incredibly fresh and flavorful.

Anyone who has ever tasted tofu knows it is not notable for its remarkable flavor. Tofu is a bland food that picks up and absorbs the essence of other, more distinctive-tasting seasonings and spices. However, the tofu from that old Chinese tofu maker had a taste sensation all its own. Ralph has fond memories of driving home from Boston while devouring one fresh cake of tofu after another. I can't say that I did the same, but I have always enjoyed incorporating tofu into our family's diet.

In our house, we usually eat tofu at least once a day. As I sit in my office writing this column, our dinner of roasted vegetables and tofu is cooking in the oven. When tofu is not being roasted together with onions, garlic, zucchini, carrots, broccoli and whatever other vegetables are handy, I often sauté thick slices of it in a cast-iron pan that has been lightly coated with olive oil and seasoned with freshly squeezed garlic. Sometimes I make lasagna, using an entire cube of crumbled tofu in place of cheese.

The use of tofu is not limited to main-course menus. One of my favorite ways to enjoy tofu is as a dessert we call tofu cream. To make it, I put into a blender about a cup of liquid — sometimes I use fruit juice and sometimes soy milk — add a banana broken into pieces, an entire cake of tofu crumbled up and about a quarter-cup of honey or agave. If stevia is used instead of honey or agave, one teaspoon of powdered stevia is enough to sweeten the mixture. When blended together, tofu cream has the consistency and taste of pudding.

Tofu is a heart-friendly food. It is an excellent source of protein, high in iron and calcium and low in calories, and it contains no cholesterol.

If you haven't tried it, don't be scared by its foreign-sounding name. Pick up a cake at your local grocery and experiment with one of the many recipes available online for this versatile, nutritious and historically important food.

A mother's love is universal

 Cardinal nest in Angel Mist bamboo

I love finding bird nests, and this week I found two — a cardinal nest and one built by a pair of wood thrushes.

The thrushes built their nest about 4 feet off the ground in a thick, branchy clump of Sunburst bamboo. The green-striped, yellow-caned bamboo is growing close to a wooden post that the thrushes use as a combination landing strip and lookout post.

Whenever the birds return with food to feed their hungry nestlings (and they do that all day long!), they always stop first at the post, pausing just long enough to look around and assess the safety of the situation before flying into the bamboo thicket and providing their offspring with a tasty meal.

That's how I discovered their nest. I was in the nursery and spotted the wood thrush standing on the post with a beak full of something. Watching from a distance, I saw the bird leave the post and fly into the bamboo. He (or she — both parents help feed their offspring) stayed awhile before flying off again in search of more food.

A little later, I walked over to the clump of Sunburst and discovered three down-covered babies sitting quietly in their tucked-away home. I was careful not to get too close because I didn't want my human presence to limit their chances of survival.

The cardinals also have chosen a clump of bamboo in which to build their nest. Unlike thrushes, which prefer a low-lying location, the bright red male and his less flashy mate have anchored their bowl-shaped structure quite high in the branches of Angel Mist bamboo.

Either I had been particularly unobservant or the cardinals' building skills were especially efficient, but it seemed that the nest appeared out of nowhere. I spend considerable time in the bamboo nursery taking customers on tours, and my route always passes the bamboo where the cardinals built their nest. But until now I had no idea it was there.

Like the wood thrush, the female cardinal builds the nest while her partner stays nearby to watch for danger. Once the nest is completed — and that takes three to nine days — the female will begin to lay eggs and will stay on her clutch of two to five eggs until they hatch a little less than two weeks later. Because of the location — suspended from branches about 12 feet in the air — I was unable to tell how many eggs there are or whether they have hatched. Once a nest is used, neither cardinal nor wood thrush returns to raise another clutch.

Finding bird nests always brings me joy. There's magic in the way a small animal without hands can fashion a beautiful, secure home out of twigs, pine needles, mud and bits of leaves. Using only their beaks to carry building material and their bodies to shape the structure, birds manage to create habitats that are not just functional but architecturally beautiful.

While the Mother's Day tributes of the past weekend are still fresh in our minds, we shouldn't forget that human beings are not the only ones to benefit from maternal love. The baby birds that hatched from eggs laid in a carefully built nest, the tiny bunnies that snuggle in a fur-lined hole, the armadillos born in a burrow are all here because they had mothers who cared enough to find secure places to raise their progeny.

Making sacrifices is what mothers do. It doesn't matter if you're a human being who gives up sleep to tend to the needs of a crying newborn or a mama cardinal that won't leave her nest — not even for food — until all her eggs have hatched. Being a mother means being willing to give of yourself to help your children. How lucky we all are to be the result of a mother's love.

All you need is love...unconditional love

 Amber, Sherry, Jenny in 2008

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel May 3, 2010)
 

This year will be my 30th Mother's Day. It will be the first for my oldest daughter, whose son was born last July. Unfortunately, 2010 is the first year my husband will be without his mother, who died in February at age 93.

Mother's Day has always been a bittersweet holiday for me. My own mother is still alive, but she suffers from Alzheimer's and lives in a nursing home in South Florida. Even when she was well, our relationship was rocky because our expectations about life were always so different.

When parent and child do not share the concept of unconditional love, conflicts are bound to arise. I did my best over the years to stay close. I tried to be the daughter my parents expected me to be while staying true to myself. That proved to be a difficult – if not impossible – path to follow.

The good thing about bad relationships is that they can teach us how not to be. When I began to have children, I was determined not to be like my mother. I wasn't naïve enough to think I wouldn't make mistakes — I just didn't want to make the same mistakes my mother made with me.

I wanted my children to grow up feeling loved no matter how they looked, what work they did, how many times they changed jobs or with whom they chose to share their life. It was important to me that my children feel not only accepted but also treasured, respected and appreciated for their individuality.

For the most part, I've succeeded. My four children have put my parenting philosophy to the test on multiple occasions, but we've all managed to survive those challenges with our relationships intact. Our clashes have not resulted in prolonged silences or seething rage, throbbing aches or irreparable damage. I like my children, and it appears they like me back.

Liking one another is such a simple concept, it should be a given. Unfortunately, it's not. Parent and child may love each other — that's automatic — but liking each other is another matter. Liking someone takes work, respect and a willingness to relinquish responsibilities and relax roles.

This year I'm reaping the dividends of my parenting efforts. Not only am I watching my oldest child, Amber, turn into a loving, kind and patient mother, I recently received an essay written by my daughter Jenny in which she put into words her own feelings about our mother-child relationship.

Jenny wrote:

"I feel a lot like my mother these days. It hits me the most when the phone rings — as it does so frequently — and I am quick to answer it with that professional, upbeat tone in my voice: 'Hello, this is Jenny.' It's just the way my mother answers the phone. Actually, it would be difficult to tell us apart, with the exception of the name, of course.

"Each day I put on one hat and take off another. This happens many times throughout the day. Ever since I was young, my mother proclaimed herself to be 'a wearer of many hats.' When I was little, I always thought this meant that she liked hats and that she had many different kinds that she wore. Though she did have an awful lot of hats, now that I'm grown up I know what she really meant.

"It's 8:30 in the morning, and I am on the phone answering questions about an apartment we have for rent. Next, I am talking to a cleaning client who wants to reschedule an appointment. As the day continues, I switch hats to become a nanny. I have a paper due in the morning that I haven't written yet, and when I get home, there is dinner to make and laundry to take in and fold. It's getting dark, and I'm finally home and so is my husband. A quick kiss as we push open the door and set our bags down. My phone rings. 'Yes, I'd be glad to give you more information about the apartment.'

"I feel a lot like my mother these days. I wonder as I'm falling asleep if we really do eventually all turn into our parents.

"I think it wouldn't be so bad if I did. My mother has the prettiest smile and is one of the nicest people I know. But, just to make sure I stay a little different, sometimes I let the phone ring without answering it. Whoever it is can leave a message. I'll call them back later."

I've always admired women who stayed close to their adult children. Years ago, when I became a mother, I hoped that over time my children and I would grow together rather than apart. My wish has come true, and I couldn't be more grateful. People can buy any number of Mother's Day presents, but the best gift of all is unconditional love.

Sights and sounds of spring are all around us

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 26, 2010)

I've become aware over the last few weeks of a seasonal shift. Winter this year was especially harsh. Spring seemed in no hurry to make an entrance. March was colder than normal, with several false starts at warming temperatures, making it hard to believe that winter would ever end.

Then it happened. I flipped the calendar page to April, a month that in Florida has always meant ideal weather and, sure enough, I wasn't disappointed. Springtime took its time but finally arrived.

How do I know?

I know it is spring because every evening a whippoorwill sits on the irrigation spigot in the front yard to sing its repetitive tune. I hear its song through the open doors of the living room and bedroom. The doors are open because the weather is perfect.

I know it is spring because the mosquitoes think the weather is perfect too. Taking advantage of the warming weather and my open doors, they sneak inside during the day to torment me at night with their buzzes and bites.

I know it is spring because the loquat tree is full of fruit, and both white and black mulberries are ripe. Plump, juicy morsels of sweetness cover the limbs of the mulberry trees. What an amazing crop we have this year! It's too bad there won't be any left for us to enjoy.

I know it is spring because vast flocks of cedar waxwings have arrived, descending on the mulberry trees and devouring every berry in sight.

I know it is spring because plants are growing. The green leaves of passionflowers, rain lilies, amaryllis and other potential blooms are unfurling at a speedy rate.

I know it is spring because little black lubber grasshoppers are covering the leaves. The still soft, small bodies of these voracious eaters depend upon leafy food. In every chewed leaf they find nutrients needed to transform their half-inch selves into the 4-inch-long, thick-skinned pests they'll become by summer's end.

I know it is spring because the lawn has turned green. Nasty brown patches that looked dead a few months ago have responded to recent downpours with exuberant growth.

I know it is spring because the weeds have responded to downpours as well. Spiky stands of cow thistle dot the yard along with a tenacious assortment of weedy blooms. Some wildflowers are worth mowing around. Others are not.

I know it is spring because the lawn mower is busy keeping weeds and tall grasses at bay. The sound of its motor running competes with the whistles, trills and coos of songbirds in the trees.

I know it is spring because the smell of orange blossoms sweetens the air. Honeysuckle, brunfelsia and wisteria flowers infuse the atmosphere with a heady perfume.

I know it is spring because weird-looking stinkhorn mushrooms have popped up in the moist soil. When mistakenly kicked over, these red fungi have a notorious stench.

I know it is spring because animals are entering nesting mode. Carolina wrens, cardinals, little gray catbirds and even wild turkeys are showing signs of nest building.

I know it is spring because wasps and mud daubers also have begun building their nests … in the garage and under the house eaves.

Spring is a wonderful time of year. It's full of hope, potential, beauty and warmth, but even in this loveliest of seasons, downsides are inevitable. With every shift — seasonal or otherwise — come adjustments. With every attraction, there are distractions.

As I watch the cedar waxwings devour this year's crop of mulberries, I can't help but admire their beauty. As I exercise caution when walking by wasp nests, I find myself appreciating their house-building skills. While shooing away pesky mosquitoes, I marvel at their ability to zone in so effectively on potential meals. As I avoid kicking over stinkhorn mushrooms and spiky weeds, I find myself awed by nature's diversity.

I could get upset over the unpleasant parts of life, but what would be the point? By accepting the good with the bad, I am accepting life to the fullest. It's not always pleasant but it is definitely real, and I'm really glad to be along for the ride.

Enjoy splendor right outside your door

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 19, 2010)

I was taking a walk around the yard with my little grandson when we stopped in front of the brunfelsia bush.

"Smell the flowers, Atom," I said, as we leaned in to take a whiff.

Brunfelsia, better known as the Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow plant, has fragrant white, pink and purple blooms. I was admiring the plant's beautiful display and trying to pass along my enthusiasm for all things floral to my 8-month-old grandchild when a hummingbird moth suddenly caught my attention.

"Look at that, Atom. Do you see the moth? He likes the flowers too."

Hummingbird moths are fascinating creatures. A member of the Sphinx family of moths, Hemaris thysbe (or common clearwing, as it is often called) is frequently mistaken for the small bird it is named after.

Like many people, I had no idea what it was the first time I saw one. Although it looked like a hummingbird, somehow it didn't. It's easy to get confused. Hummingbirds and hummingbird moths are of similar size, weighing in at around 3 grams — about as much as penny. Bird and moth each seek out nectar-producing plants and feed in a similar fashion. They hover over flower heads while sipping nectar through thin, long, strawlike tubes.

Although most types of moths appear only at night, hummingbird moths are diurnal. That means they are active during daylight — the same time that their lookalike namesake is active — as well as in the evening.

Atom and I watched the tiny nectar sipper flit from one brunfelsia flower to another. Within seconds, the tiny flier moved around the flower-bedecked shrub, sampling the wares and absorbing nectar through its proboscis. As we stood there, a second moth swept in, and the two moths continued encircling the shrub, pausing frequently for sweet sips.

Florida is not the only place where hummingbird moths live. They range throughout the United States and Canada, living as far north as Alaska and the Northwest Territories and as far south as Florida and Texas. Because their survival depends on a steady supply of nectar, they frequent yards that have flowers with strong, sweet fragrances and pale colors. They are especially fond of bloomers such as honeysuckle, viburnum, blueberry, thistle, vetch, beebalm, phlox, milkweed and blackberry as well as the light purple to white blooms of brunfelsia.

As they zip from one bloom to another, brushing against plant anthers in the process, hummingbird moths inadvertently act as pollinators. Their fuzzy bodies attract dusty pollen like magnets. Once gathered, the pollen rubs off on the next bloom the moth visits.

At less than a year old, my grandson understandably lost interest in the fuzzy moths long before I did. While I was willing to watch this unexpected glimpse into the world of tiny fliers and fragrant blooms indefinitely, Atom was becoming more and more ready for his afternoon nap. Of course, his needs took precedence. We left behind the moths and blooms to venture inside for a bottle of formula and a nice cuddle.

As a grandparent, I see it as my duty to not only love my grandchildren but to teach them to love and respect the many wonders of nature that surround us all. The interaction with the hummingbird moth was only one of what I hope will be many encounters with nature's fascinating creatures.

There's so much splendor right outside our doorsteps. Whether you live on large acreage, as we do, or in a city apartment, nature's bounty surrounds us all. The key to finding these treasures is the ability to look at the minutiae of life and to savor the moment. Like the flower that blooms in our yard, Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow, there are pleasures to be found with every passing day.

Little blue flower is overlooked beauty

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 11, 2010)

If you've been out driving lately, you may have noticed a flush of blue wildflowers on the roadsides. The flowers are 1 to 2 feet tall with lavender-blue blooms atop thin, leggy stems.

They are small flowers, easy to overlook if grown alone but completely captivating when clustered together. The flower's botanical name is Linaria Canadensis, but its common name is toadflax. I've only recently learned its name and I don't much like it. The image that toadflax invokes is not nearly as attractive as this wildflower deserves. Fairy bonnet or shy violet would be a more appropriate moniker suggestive of the plant's delicate and unassuming appearance.

Although Linaria canadensis is native to Florida, it grows throughout the United States and Canada. A springtime bloomer, this sun-loving, slender-stemmed flower is not fussy about soil conditions or irrigation. It does just as well in dry, sandy locations as in irrigated garden soil. Self-sown by seed and spreading through an underground network of roots, thousands of individual toadflax are scattered about our property, appearing in equal numbers around water spigots as they do in dry open fields.

When my children were little, they used to gather quantities of the delicate flowers and present them to me for bouquets. The blooms of Linaria canadensis are just right for little hands. The slender stems either break off or pull out of the ground easily and the flower heads are tiny – each one barely bigger than a half inch. From a toddler's perspective, that's an ideal size and if an adult takes the time to look closely at this miniscule bloom, they'll understand why children find them so attractive.

I think Linaria canadensis looks a little like snapdragons but Frederic William Stack, author of Wild Flowers Every Child Should Know, says the flowers remind him of lobelias.

"The pretty little tubular flower is two lipped, with a slender, sharply-pointed, curving spur. The upper lip has two small, rounded and erect lobes. The lower lip has three rounded, spreading lobes, and at the throat there is a prominent, white, two-ridged swelling that hides the stamens and pistil. Several flowers are set on tiny stems in a loose terminal spike."

I like to learn about the plants in my neighborhood, especially ones as prolific as Linaria canadensis. For more than 19 springs, I've enjoyed this wildflower's colorful displays. I've picked the flowers, put them in vases and intentionally left large patches of the bloom standing when mowing the lawn, and I've done all that without knowing the plant's name. That's not unusual. If I walk outside right now, there are probably a dozen other wildflowers growing nearby that I'd be unable to label.

Although I may not know their botanical names, I do know those flowers by their traits. Some are prickly. Some have burrs. Some pull out easily when I weed the garden while others require a substantial yank to detach the roots. The blooms on a few are impressive, on others, not so much. I know which flowers attract butterflies, bees and caterpillars and which have a fragrance that's pleasant to inhale. As interesting and informative as it is to learn the botanical and common names for everyday plants, a name is only one part of a plant's personality.

On the topic of names, I think Linaria canadensis is too large a title for a little flower and the less than attractive moniker toadflax seems all together inappropriate for this lovely member of the figwort family. To me, Linaria canadensis will always be "the little blue flower that appears in spring." That name is admittedly longer than necessary but at least it accurately describes this overlooked beauty that enriches our landscape each year.

Feathery friend sits in catbird seat

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 5, 2010)

A small, gray catbird has befriended me.

When I walk out to the nursery, a 2-ounce bit of feather and fluff usually hops over to say hello. The bird displays an eager curiosity. Rather than be intimidated, scared or threatened by my presence, the black-capped bird seems keen for the company. He follows me about like a well-trained puppy acting as if he's happy to have a visitor.

Maybe he's curious about what this large, featherless creature (me) might be doing in his territory. Or it could be that he's lonely and looking for a friend.

Although I've yet to find his nest, I suspect that he lives in one of our many mature plantings of clumping bamboos. Catbirds, which are related to mockingbirds and thrashers, like to build their open-cup nests close to the ground on horizontal branches deep in the center of dense shrubs and thickets.

Certain bamboos grow very thick, and I can easily imagine how a small bird seeking protective shelter would gravitate toward a mature clump of Buddha Belly, Alphonse Karr or Multiplex bamboo. It can't hurt that several food sources, such as our white mulberry and loquat trees, are just steps away from potential nest sites.

In addition to dining on all sorts of fruit and berries, catbirds are fond of eating bugs. Beetles, grasshoppers, midges, caterpillars, spiders and moths make up much of their diet. They even eat ants, a highly prized attribute in this part of the country, where ant populations are out of control.

Being befriended by a feathery flier has improved my bird-identification skills. Although I used to confuse catbirds with mockingbirds, I now realize that the two are quite different in appearance and behavior. Mockingbirds are larger than catbirds and have distinctive white streaks on their wings and tails. They also like to fly from one treetop branch to another, while the smaller, gray-colored catbirds keep to the ground. Catbirds prefer flitting from one low perch to another. Although not exactly ground birds, they demonstrate a decided resistance to broad, showy flights.

The catbird in the nursery is a sweet little bird. The fact that it acts so forwardly toward me contradicts the species' normally shy nature. Why this bird has chosen to be so sociable is a mystery. I have no way of knowing if he is merely defending his territory or is actually as interested in me as I am in him.

Like most people, I've accumulated a wide range of friends over the years. I have elementary-school classmates I still stay in touch with as well as new people I've grown close to even though I've known them only a short while. Several pets have been as dear to me as human companions, and I've even become close to certain people with whom I communicate online but have never met.

My friendship with the catbird, however, is a brand-new experience. He (or she — I really can't tell if the bird is male or female) has initiated the relationship, making me the unexpected but delighted recipient.

It's a pleasure to be on the receiving end of any friendship and good will, and if that friendship happens to be with a songbird, well, all the better. It's not every day that people are "adopted" by wildlife. When it happens at all, it usually happens the other way around. Thanks to the little gray catbird, my life is fuller; I've broadened my knowledge and expanded my perspective.

Every wildlife encounter is a chance to glimpse, ever so briefly, into the lifestyle and habits of another creature. Thanks to the black-eyed beauty that lives in our bamboo nursery, I head out to see customers with a renewed enthusiasm and lightness to my step. On one level, I'm going to the nursery to sell bamboo, but on an entirely different level, I'm heading out to see a friend.

Broccoli is the beneficial harvest of March

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 29, 2010)

Think of harvest time and autumn comes to mind. But if you live in Florida, and if you grow broccoli, March can also be a bountiful month.

In our family, broccoli dominates. We devour green florets with the voracious appetite others reserve for sweet treats, salty foods or chunks of red meat. Seldom does a day go by without one or more servings of broccoli on the menu. Light steaming is our most common method of cooking, but the green tops also find their way into stir-fries, roasted vegetable concoctions, quiches, soufflés and sandwiches.

When broccoli is not growing in the garden, we buy it at the store, but fresh-picked vegetables are more flavorful than anything found in the produce aisle. Fresh-picked, however, is not always available. We planted our current harvest from seeds sown in early January. Broccoli is one of many edibles that do best when planted successively. Seeds can be sown every week from mid-August through early March. Follow that schedule and you will have broccoli ready to pick from early October through May. That's eight months of healthful eating. It's a wonderful plan if you can manage to follow it. Unfortunately, we never have.

Most years, we get off to a good start. We think about planting in August when the weather is too hot for anything other than thinking. Sometimes, like this year, we actually go a step beyond the thought process and plant seeds in the fertile ground. The problem is, we don't continue. One planting, maybe two, and our momentum is lost. Seeds germinate. Young plants develop. Flower heads form. But instead of putting more seeds into the ground as we know we should, we become sidetracked with other projects. We often don't put in another planting until several months later — as we did this year — when we realize we've fallen behind.

A member of the Brassicacae family, broccoli shares its heritage with such "love them or hate them" vegetables as cabbage, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts, kale, collards, kohlrabi and horseradish. When cooked, broccoli emits a strong sulfuric odor, a smell strong enough to discourage many people before the first bite. And that first bite can be disappointing. Too often broccoli is overcooked, mushy and dark green instead of being fork-tender, crisp and brightly colored. A light steaming is all that's needed to provide nutritious eating. Broccoli is an excellent source of vitamin C and minerals such as potassium, calcium, magnesium, iron, zinc and copper. Research has shown that broccoli also contains several important cancer-prevention elements.

I'm sure that the plant's potential health benefits influence our family's eating habits. But even if broccoli wasn't a nutrition powerhouse, we'd still be growing and eating it. We eat broccoli because we like the way it tastes, and we have it in our garden because it is such an easy, productive plant to grow. A single mature broccoli plant requires about two square feet of space and takes about 60 days to go from transplant to cooking pot.

Although broccoli leaves and stems are also edible, the portion of the plant most commonly consumed is the flower head, which forms — quite beautifully — in the center of the leafy surround. Once the flower head has reached an acceptably large size, it is "beheaded" and eaten. But that's not the end of the plant's life. Small side shoots soon appear, extending the plant's productivity for several more weeks. A single round seed or a young transplant purchased at the garden center provides months of edible goodness.

I wonder if we'll ever manage to plant our favorite vegetable at successive intervals. Ever the optimist, I'm hopeful we will, but even if we don't, I won't despair. It's hard to feel disappointed when you can walk out your front door at the end of March and return moments later with an armful of nutrient-rich veggies. Autumn may still be months away, but I have no reason to wait for September. I'm cooking up a batch of fresh broccoli for dinner and celebrating harvest time today.

Vintage baby gear stands test of time

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 22, 2010)

Shhh! My eight-month-old grandson is asleep in the Gerry Pack.

I love the Gerry Pack, an ingeniously designed baby carrier for kids up to 40 pounds. Ralph and I depended on the lightweight, aluminum-frame backpack when our four children were little. Now, as grandparents, we find ourselves depending upon it again.

Thirty years may have flown by since we first slipped Atom's mother, our oldest child, into the carrier's padded pouch, but the backpack works just as well now as it ever did at soothing fussy babies, lulling overtired toddlers to sleep and providing alert little ones with a secure and cozy perspective from which to observe the world.

The beauty of the backpack's design is that while the contented tot is toted about, the grownup upon whose back he is being carried is granted a rare and precious gift — hands-free mobility. When I use the Gerry Pack, my fingers are free to dance upon the keyboard, stir food on the stove, pick toys up off the floor or push the vacuum around the room. I realized shortly after our grandchild was born that while many things change over the years, certain pieces of essential child-rearing equipment remain constant.

Consider the table at which Atom sits when he visits. My husband first used the simple wooden table with adjustable seat, movable tray and wheeled legs when he was a baby. My mother-in-law, who recently passed away, not only saved much of the child-rearing equipment she used for her own three children, she somehow managed to keep everything in excellent condition. She gave us the table when our kids were babies, and it was in constant use from 1979 until the mid-1990s.

Recently, Ralph reclaimed it from the attic and cleaned it up so that when Atom visits, we have a comfortable, practical place for him to sit while eating.

During those visits, Atom plays with some of the many wooden toys his great-grandmother passed down to us. The same colorful playthings that entertained my husband and our children are now working their wonder on a third generation's inquisitive mind. Stackable wooden blocks that fit over a dowel have an ageless quality.

Atom is still more interested in eating books than reading them, but one day he'll realize how much pleasure is contained between the covers of books. When that day comes, I'll be ready with dozens of well-worn classics. I look forward to taking out the Harold and the Purple Crayon series, sharing with Atom the story of Ferdinand the Bull and introducing him to Robert McCloskey's Blueberries for Sal and Make Way for Ducklings. So many books now gathering dust on our bookshelves will soon provide Atom with portals into new and fascinating worlds.

Grandparenting may be a new phase in my life, but it came preloaded with memories and familiarities. When my grandson sits on the floor and plays with a basket of bottle lids, I remember his mother doing the same thing when she was a baby. When Atom is tired and nods off in the Gerry Pack, I flash back upon an earlier period of my life. I may not be able to carry a baby's weight for as long as I remember doing when I was in my 30s, but I can still support and soothe a fretful child.

Child-rearing trends come and go, but certain things never change. A child's need to be held will never stop, and expensive playthings will forever be tossed aside in favor of everyday objects. Toys may become fancier and more mechanically advanced, but that doesn't make them better. Wooden blocks and household items have an enduring quality that trumps technology And when it comes to books, well, as amazing as computers are, nothing can take the place of an illustrated hardback.

Right now my grandson is asleep in the Gerry Pack, but soon he'll awaken. When he does, my husband and I will be there to attend to his needs. The years may have taken a toll on my endurance, but my ability to love is as strong as ever. Love is another quality that doesn't diminish over time. It just grows stronger.

This red wagon is for the birds

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 14, 2010)

The birds are enjoying their newest feeding station — an old Radio Flyer wagon filled with birdseed. My children used the wagon when they were little, but that was a long time ago. Since then it has been in the junk pile, exposed to all the abuse that wind and rain can muster.

The old wagon is a sorry-looking thing. Its color has faded, and rust has pockmarked the handle, hubs and bed. Although its wheels still turn, the wagon's swift-moving days are gone forever.

When I rescued the abandoned toy from the junk pile, my intention was to use it as a planter, but that was before winter temperatures plunged into the teens and my wildlife concerns skyrocketed. I fretted over the birds – the cardinals, goldfinches, doves and occasional jays that frequent the feeders. I wanted to give them more food to help them along during the coldest months.

The wagon was my solution. Its long, flat, edged bed holds quantities of birdseed. An old piece of screening laid over the bed prevents smaller seeds from disappearing through the corroded metal, and the wagon's flat surface enables many birds to feed simultaneously.

Rarely does an hour go by without some birds or squirrels approaching the feeder. Squirrels love the easy access I've provided to a seed-based smorgasbord, and while I'd rather feed birds than supplement the diet of hungry rodents, I accept the fact that squirrels are an inevitable component of all bird-feeding operations.

The mix I use is millet, flax, sunflower seeds, safflower seeds, corn and thistle. Pretty little goldfinches come for the tiny thistle seeds while cardinals prefer the plumper sunflower seeds. Because the wagon's bed is roomy, even ground-feeding birds such as doves are willing to make use of my improvised feeder.

The converted Radio Flyer is the latest in a series of feeders made from reclaimed material. Over the years I have fed my feathered friends out of recycled milk cartons (both the plastic and boxy, wax-coated types), empty tofu containers, shallow cake pans, the hollowed-out shells of coconuts and half-round pieces of bamboo. It doesn't take much inventiveness to fashion an effective feeding station from items found around the home and yard.

I love finding new purposes for old items. There is so much stuff sitting in the back of closets and cabinets, filling up garages and overflowing onto yards. With a little imagination, chipped dishes, outgrown apparel, unwanted furniture and an abundance of other ordinary items can be refashioned in practical and attractive ways. I have turned old chairs into plant holders, retrofitted holey boots and conch shells into flowerpots, repurposed rusted-out wheelbarrows and converted a wood stove into an outdoor plant stand. When you begin creating garden art out of castaway items, you enter a new world of possibilities.

There are many Web sites that showcase the work of creative recyclers. The GardenWeb (www.gardenweb.com) is a popular online community that covers a wide range of gardening topics. It has an excellent forum called Garden Junk dedicated to creative uses of everyday items.

Similar to GardenWeb is GardenStew, another online community for plant lovers. Also called Garden Junk, the forum on GardenStew (www.gardenstew.com) calls itself a "discussion about creating interesting decorations and items of interest for your garden using everyday objects." Both sites provide ideas and instructions on how to convert bowling balls into gazing globes and teacups into bird feeders and how to create windchimes out of, well, just about everything.

I don't have a lot of time to spend browsing Web sites for ideas, but I do find myself frequently thinking about new ways to use old items. My most recent project — the refashioned Radio Flyer wagon — met all my personal requirements. It was extremely easy to convert. The conversion did not require any output of money. It looks attractive, works wonderfully and has the potential to last a long time.

Even more important, it brings me joy. Watching the birds — and, I admit, even the squirrels — flock to the red-wagon feeder makes me smile even when I'm feeling overwhelmed and down. I may be feeding thistles and millet to the birds, but they're providing me with a steady diet of hopefulness, happiness and amusement. That's what I call a recycling project that keeps on giving.