Gray squirrels have a taste for the finest in figs

Small squirrel...large fig

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel September 5, 2010)


Bushy-tailed bandits are stealing Ralph's figs.

The abundant crop that started in July slacked off in early August, when temperatures climbed and rainfall lessened. Now, as a new month begins, our assorted fig trees, especially the ones closest to the house, are yielding one final burst of plenty. It is a harvest that my fig-loving husband is eager to tap.

Unfortunately, he is not alone in his quest for the sweet-tasting, soft-skinned fruit. A band of gray squirrels also has noticed this emergent second flush. Squirrels may be small, but they are extremely agile and clever animals. Their walnut-sized brains are adept at finding the biggest, best-tasting fruit before my husband is even aware that a fig has ripened.

Although gray squirrels are ubiquitous throughout the country, they didn't always live on our property. When we purchased the land in 1991, it was mainly open fields. We had no squirrels because we there were no abundant sources of food. A gray squirrel's diet consists mainly of seeds, nuts, berries, fruit and the inner bark of trees. Without a forest or a neighborhood of shade trees, a squirrel's chance of finding a steady supply of edibles is limited.

That changed as the trees we planted over the next few years developed. I recall wondering how long we'd manage to avoid discovery. The answer: not too long after the seedlings matured. As soon as the young oak trees developed into acorn-producing machines, a family of gray squirrels moved onto the property to claim it.

At first, they were cute. I enjoyed watching their antics as white-bellied bundles of fur sat on their haunches munching seeds and twitching their fluffy tails.

Squirrels belong to the order Rodentia, which includes the less lovable mice and rats. Like rats and other rodents, squirrels reproduce prolifically. Female gray squirrels have two litters of two to six offspring every year. After six months, the offspring are sexually mature and are ready to produce their own litters. Because gray squirrels can live up to 12 years in the wild, it's easy to see how quickly a single pair can develop into a vibrant community of acorn-nibbling, seed-crunching, fig-snatching varmints.

The squirrels that are stealing our figs are brazen. One day when Ralph and I went out to do some picking, a squirrel was already on the tree. Instead of scurrying away, as I expected it to do when we approached, the squirrel stood his ground. With four feet firmly planted on the tree's trunk, its head up and tail down, the squirrel seemed to be saying, "I got here first. Go away. Leave me alone."

Of course, we didn't.

"Shoo! Get out of here!" my husband shouted as he rustled leaves and shook branches. In this particular contest of wills, score one for the humans. The squirrel jumped to the ground and scampered off into the forest.

We may have won that round, but I have a feeling that if an accurate tally were taken, the squirrels would come out ahead. In competitions between people and nature, nature has a tendency to reign triumphant.

Perhaps that's how it should be. Figs are a wonderful addition to our diet, but we don't depend on them for our sustenance. When we're hungry, we go to the grocery store. Little gray squirrels don't have that option. They depend on foraging for whatever food they can find.

The lucky squirrels in our yard are dining on fat, juicy figs. From Ralph's perspective, they may be bushy-tailed bandits, but I have to admit: For thieves, they have very good taste.

Traditional map best guide for a trip through the past

Technology provides us with GPS units and online navigational tools, but if you're lost, sometimes a good old-fashioned map is the best way to get back on track

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 29, 2010)

During the past 10 months, my husband and I have lost all three of our remaining parents. My mother's funeral was Aug. 17 in the hamlet of Ellenville, N.Y., the town where she was born, grew up and met my father. I hadn't been back to Ellenville since my own childhood, when several times a year my parents and I would drive from our home in Yardley, Pa., to upstate New York to visit my mother's family.

Although most of my memories of those times are foggy, I can clearly recall the pretty countryside. When planning my trip north for the funeral, I made the decision to absorb as much of that beauty as I could.

"You flew into Allentown, Pa.?" my cousin asked. "You could have landed in Newark. It would have been so much closer."

My cousin was right. If I had flown into Newark, I would have had a shorter drive, but I also would have had to navigate through one of the ugliest parts of New Jersey. There would have been lots of traffic, noise, unpleasant odors and unattractive sites.

It might have been a more efficient route, but efficiency wasn't my goal. I was seeking serenity. I wanted to fly into a smaller, calmer airport. I wanted to drive down quiet country lanes. I was seeking as much peacefulness as possible to buffer what I expected to be a less-than-pleasant occasion, the funeral of a parent.

If it hadn't been for flight delays, things would have worked out as planned. Unfortunately, the plane to Allentown landed several hours late, dashing expectations of daylight driving. Instead, I set off in my economy-priced rental car just as the sun was setting.

I thought I was well prepared. I came with a Google Maps printout of my route and a portable GPS as a backup. Nonetheless, I managed to get confused. Google Maps told me one thing, while my GPS said another. Thanks to a kind storekeeper who gave me an actual map, I finally managed to get on the right road, but by then it was quite late and I needed a rest. I pulled into a small motel.

I had heard the term "fleabag motel" before, but until that night, I had never experienced one. For the outrageous sum of $57, I paid for a room inhabited by ankle-biting bugs. Too tired to realize what was happening in the dark, I discovered my predicament when I awoke in the morning.

Within minutes, I packed up my few belongings and was out the door. Despite ankles now covered with itchy welts, the morning drive was exactly what I was after. The countryside was beautiful. Colorful wildflowers lined the roads. Stone houses sat beneath towering trees. The small roads I had purposely selected wove their way through undulating mountains. It couldn't have been prettier.

I got to Ellenville with time to spare. I explored the town, browsing through shops and driving down side roads. The funeral was traditional. I saw relatives I hadn't seen since childhood. We all did our best to breach the years and rekindle old relationships. After a communal meal at a local restaurant, I said my goodbyes and left for Allentown.

This time, I was driving in daylight. I turned off the GPS, threw the Google Map printout on the car floor and relied entirely on a good old-fashioned paper map. My drive was delightful as I made my way through one pretty town after another. Two and a half hours later, my rental car was returned and I was back at the airport.

Funerals are never happy occasions, but I sought to make the best of this one by paying homage to the countryside where my mother grew up. Although not everything went as planned, I considered the trip a success. I reconnected with relatives, relived bits of the past and honored the place where my mother's life began.

My mother used to say, "If you have a mouth, you can't get lost," and she was right. With her advice in mind, I asked for a map and became unconfused. Even in death, a mother's wisdom rings true.

Antlions — clever predators of bug world

Conical holes in the sand trap ants and other bugs that happen to crawl by

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 22, 2010)

"Look at all the antlions you have," Tavares resident Mike Endres said, pointing at the sandy ground surrounding our bamboo gazebo. "You must know all about antlions."

Staring at the patch of pockmarked ground where he pointed, I said I knew absolutely nothing about antlions. Until Mike and his wife, Annette, visited our nursery, I had never even heard of them.

"I'm afraid I don't know what antlions are," I admitted.

"See all these conical pits in the sand?" Mike patiently explained. "Hidden under the sand at the bottom of each pit is a little bug called an antlion. It's called that because it eats ants that walk by and fall into its trap."

Image from http://natural-japan.net/?cat=26

What a surprise. I had no idea insects had purposely created all the round holes surrounding the gazebo. I had noticed the holes — they were always there — but thought that drips of water had made them. I didn't realize they were actually the work of predatory larvae that were patiently waiting to devour their prey.

"We used to call them doodlebugs," Annette added. "Maybe you know them by that name?"

Unfortunately, I did not.

The name "doodlebug" comes from the insect's meandering trail, which leaves visible, doodlelike designs in the sand. Once the crawling larva locates a suitable spot, it creates an ant-trapping pit by "drawing" a series of concentric spirals. Each spiral is a bit deeper than the previous one until the entire construction becomes a slippery, cone-shaped hole about two inches deep and three inches across. Clueless ants that wander into these clever traps rarely escape.

When the Endreses left, I knelt down next to the pit-filled ground to look more closely at my newfound friends. Any critter that eats ants earns automatic endearment. I was determined to learn as much as I could about these helpful predators with the underground homes.

Upon close inspection, I saw activity in the holes. In each pit, an almost completely buried antlion was either repairing its trap or capturing prey. While I watched, ants wandered by, slid into the holes and suddenly vanished. Antlions are just over a half-inch long, but their strong mandibles make fast work of hapless insects that fall into their lairs.

I consider myself a keen observer of wildlife, but somehow I had managed to live 58 years without even knowing that doodlebugs existed. To make up for lost time, I began to do research.

Antlions belong to the Myrmeleontidae family — insects that progress through a complete metamorphosis. The adult form is a four-winged bug called a lacewing-antlion that looks somewhat like a dragonfly. The lacewing-antlion stays in its winged stage for only a few months — long enough to lay a series of small, white eggs linked together in a horseshoe pattern on building eaves, plant leaves and even the underside of lawn furniture.

Image from http://exotic-life-creatures.blogspot.com

The eggs hatch into larvae, which are fierce-looking creatures with spindle-shaped bodies, flat heads, large, pincerlike jaws and three pairs of short legs. They transport themselves on these stubby appendages to sheltered, soft, sandy areas where they can doodle their way to dietary delight. While lacewing-antlions don't last long, the larva stage lasts for up to three years.

At some point, instinct triggers another transformation, and ant hunting gives way to the business of building a cocoon. Using a mixture of sand and its own silk, the larva constructs a globular cocoon beneath the sand, where it remains for about a month. At the end of the month, a sexually mature lacewing-antlion emerges to begin the cycle again.

I had no idea how much was happening in the ground surrounding my gazebo.

The day after Mike and Annette Endres introduced me to these small, sit-and-wait predators, another customer brought them up. For 10 years, people have visited our nursery without a single mention of antlions. Suddenly, in two days, two customers zoned in on the ant-eating insects.

This second customer was a mom who had brought along her three children. As I was explaining to her husband the differences between clumping bamboos and running bamboos, I overheard the mother teaching her elementary-age offspring.

"Do you see those circular pits in the sand? Down in the bottom, hidden beneath the sand, is a little bug called an antlion," she explained. "It's called that because, like a lion, it hunts for food, and the food this lion likes to eat are ants."

I may have not have known about antlions two weeks ago, but thanks to two customers, I am familiar with them now. No matter how long you live somewhere, you'll never know everything about your environment. There will always be surprises. There are new creatures to discover, plants to learn about, unfamiliar areas to explore.

This time it was antlions. I wonder what it will be next time?

Lunching and learning with a lizard

A green anole on a broccoli leaf

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 15, 2010)

I was eating my lunch on the porch. On the other side of the screen, a lizard was having lunch too.

I was sitting at a small, round wooden table, a placemat beneath my bowl, a cloth napkin on my lap. My meal was an assemblage of fresh veggies and leftover noodles with generous dollops of homemade pesto sprinkled with Romano cheese. Not only was it an aesthetically pleasing portion, it was a gastronomically appealing one as well.

The little green anole's meal was much less elaborate, but perhaps — from a lizard's point of view — it was equally appealing. While I ate sitting down, the lizard was eating on the run. Like a hungry diner at an all-you-can-eat buffet, the 6-inch-long reptile worked its way steadily from one feeding station to another. A tasty gnat here, a mosquito there — the anole ate until it was sated, at least for the moment.

I found myself so mesmerized that I could hardly concentrate on my own food.

To me, lunchtime is like a meditation. I try to eat in peace. I don't want to talk about work or projects or solve problems while I'm eating. In fact, I don't really want to talk at all. I just want to sit quietly, eat slowly and enjoy my food. Stress-free dining is what I'm after, and most days, that's what I get.

On this day, however, my eating patterns were askew.

The kitchen, where I normally dine, was anything but quiet. Ralph was on a speakerphone having a frustrating conversation with a series of tech-support people. It seemed never-ending. I tried to be patient and wait out the call, but my stomach was grumbling. My bowlful of food beckoned, and my need for escape time was growing greater by the minute. I went onto the porch to remove myself from noisy chatter.

The anole appeared right after I sat down. Often mistaken for a chameleon because of its ability to change color, the American anole, Anolis carolinensis, is a familiar sight around Southern homes. At any given time, I can walk outside and see an anole perched on a plant stem, scurrying across the sidewalk or clinging to the screens, like the one by the porch.

Anoles survive on a diet of small insects, spiders and moths, and because these territorial creatures often inhabit the same environments as people, they are easy to observe.

From my perch on the porch, I could see the lizard's entire body. I watched its stomach expand and contract as it breathed in and out. I could make out each of the five toes on its four feet as it clung to the screen with uncanny ease. Its long, thin tail and pointy nose formed a straight line as it silently gauged its next stop. When it sensed an insect, it sprang into action. Moving swiftly, it captured and devoured its prey.

As I lifted a forkful of noodles to my mouth, I considered the life of untamed creatures. It can't be easy to spend time every hour as anoles do, finding and eating food. Yet despite a near-constant need to eat, lizards are not fat. For that matter, I can't recall ever seeing any wild animals seriously overweight. Like all wild animals, lizards have predators to avoid and harsh weather to endure. Then again, they don't have to deal with frustrating tech-support calls or the myriad of modern problems that pepper our domesticated lives.

I went onto the porch to eat a peaceful meal and returned to the kitchen when my meal was over. Thanks to an unexpected dinner guest, not only was I physically well fed, I was emotionally nourished.

Use good sense, not fear, with alligators

Feeding alligators causes them to lose their natural fear and act aggressively toward people

Simply Living

August 9, 2010

"Are there alligators in that lake?"

People who visit our lakeside property and bamboo nursery have asked me that question countless times.

I always answer: "Yes."

At  all times, in any Florida lake — man-made or spring-fed — at least one  gator is likely to be present. Alligators are aquatic animals. Although  they nest in marshy areas and travel over dry land, these descendants of  prehistoric predators spend most of their time in or around water. I  find that fascinating. Many people find it frightening.

"You don't swim in the water, do you?" is the usual follow-up question.

I most definitely do, and so does Ralph, our children and now our year-old grandson, Atom.

Swimming  in a clean, clear, silky-smooth lake is one of life's simple pleasures.  The fact that at least one alligator may be in the lake, too, doesn't  stop me from enjoying the water. It just makes me more aware.

I'm  not a particularly brave, brazen or foolish person. I'm just someone who  has always liked swimming in lakes,  strives to understand her  surroundings and  appreciates and respects the critters that share her  world. Awareness and education are essential when confronting any of  life's many dangers.

The more you learn about potential problems, the easier it is to avoid them. Alligators  are large, scary-looking animals with a mouthful of sharp teeth, a  powerful tail and the ability to stay under water for long periods.  Although their potential to inflict great harm is undeniable, most of  their energy is directed toward the fish, turtles and small mammals that  make up their diet.

Fatal alligator attacks on people are rare.  The Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission has documented 22  alligator-related deaths in Florida since 1948. Figures from the  National Weather Service show that more people in Florida were killed by  lightning in the past four years than by alligator bites in the past 62  years.

I find such statistics reassuring — especially when I'm  floating in the middle of the lake or taking an evening dip to cool off  after working in the garden.

Alligators were a part of Florida  long before people. Their ancestors swam in lakes like the one in my  backyard 80 million years ago. An animal that has remained relatively  unchanged for such a long time must be doing something right. People may  not like alligators because they are so large and potentially  dangerous, but it's hard not to admire an animal that has so  successfully survived and adapted to an ever-changing world.

Although  I have no desire to have a one-on-one encounter, I respect alligators  and enjoy seeing them in the wild. Anyone who can get past the fear  factor will find these  armored creatures captivating to watch. But  watching them is all that should be done. Under no circumstances should  anyone ever feed a wild alligator. Not only is feeding these  large-bodied, small-brained animals illegal, it's what causes them to  lose their natural fear and act aggressively toward people.

Three  times in the past 19 years, we've had to have aggressive alligators  removed from our lake. When we were swimming, these rogue gators swam  toward us rather than away. When we tried to scare them off, they  ignored us. Behavior like that is not normal and indicates potential  problems. Fortunately, the fish and wildlife commission is there to  help. (The commission's Nuisance Alligator Hotline is 1-866-FWC-GATOR,  or 1-866-392-4286.)

The commission considers an alligator a  nuisance if it is at least 4 feet long and poses a threat to people or  pets. The agency sends out a licensed trapper to remove the animal. If only it were as easy to remove nuisance people...

When it comes to  alligators, our imagination gets us in trouble. Allowing fear to replace  common sense may be easy to do, but it's not particularly helpful.

If  we spent half as much energy evaluating facts as we spend concocting  scary scenarios, we'd be safer, saner and more in tune with nature. We'd  also enjoy swimming in clean, clear, silky-smooth lake water without  unnecessary worry and fear.

Sights, sounds of twilight a sensory delight

Colorful cloud formations are one of many twilight pleasures

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel August 2, 2010)

In summer, 8:30 p.m. is neither day nor night. It's in-between time when the sun has already set but darkness has not yet settled in. Although twilight lasts but a moment, it's a magical moment. At a time when people are usually winding down, nocturnal animals are gearing up. It's one of the only chances we daylight dwellers have to peek into the world of night.

I like to be there when the night show begins so I try to go outside at dusk. If I'm tired, I may only step out the door, look up at the sky and listen, but if I'm feeling energetic I might jump on the trampoline, go for a swim or row in the lake. When I'm doing any of those things, my body is busy but my eyes are free to observe my surroundings. There's so much to see if I take the time to look.

On a recent night I was bouncing. I'm always amazed how much wildlife I see while jumping up and down on a taut webbed surface. As I jumped, one, two and then three bats appeared out of nowhere. They circled overhead in their swerving, irregular flight. I watched as they swooped and dove and dove again in their dizzying dance for dinner. I imagined all the mosquitoes they were catching and it made me smile. A single bat can eat up to 3,000 insects a night and I was watching three bats dine on the pesky bugs. It's no wonder mosquitoes have never been a bother even though we live next to a lake. I gave the bats a silent "thank you" and bounced a bit higher.

A few moments later — much to my surprise — an owl flew by. I have no idea what kind of owl it was, where it came from or where it went. The owl flew low and passed right in front of me but it swept by so fast, it was all I could do to take in its distinctive shape.

Other birds soared past more slowly. A pair of sandhill cranes — diurnal animals, active during daylight hours — crossed overhead toward their evening roost. Another daytime bird, a white heron, flew solo toward its nighttime perch. Off to the east, several nighthawks appeared whooshing their way up and down over the lake — more bug hunters relishing the smorgasbord of insect delights. Frogs also became active. As I rhythmically jumped up and down, small and medium size frogs hopped across the lawn and into the garden beds.

I didn't see any large mammals on this night but sometimes I do. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of armadillos shuffling along in search of grubs, or raccoons hoping to score an easy meal in the compost pile. Although big animals tend to avoid people in their nocturnal wanderings, raccoons and armadillos seem less concerned with human encounters than with where their next meal is located.

As I continued bouncing, wildlife wasn't all I observed. I had an entire sky-show to behold. The shifting cloud formations, the darkening tones, the fading hues of blue and red added up to a sensory delight. To top things off, the moon rose slowly over the lake — a full moon, big and round, reflecting moonlight on the still water.

By the time I finished bouncing, less than 15 minutes after I'd begun, the sky was almost completely dark. Whichever insects managed to avoid capture by nighthawks, bats or frogs filled the air with chirps and buzzes. I went into the lake for a quick dip and by the time I returned to the house, the air was reverberating with the sounds of insects and frogs.

I'm not a night person. Being outside at dusk is about as much nighttime exposure as I'm likely to have. That doesn't stop me from enjoying it to the fullest. From bats to bullfrogs, owls to nighthawks, sunset to moonrise, there's magic in the moment too special to miss.

August arrives with grape expectations

A peacock parades past a row of scuppernong grapes at Tommy Free's Lake Apshawa you-pick grape farm in Clermont.  August is harvest month for grapes.

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 26, 2010)

On my office wall is a chart I made in 1998. It's an "at a glance" list, showing which month I can expect to harvest local fruits. On countless occasions I've looked up from writing projects to gaze wistfully at the chart, anticipating this or that delicacy in the weeks ahead.

A quick look the other day reminded me that August is harvest month for grapes. It's almost time to take a break from work and drive over to Tommy Free's farm on the shores of Lake Apshawa in Clermont to gather a couple bucketfuls of his wonderful scuppernong grapes.

As the crow flies, Tommy's vineyard is less than two miles from my home. By roads it's a little farther, but I don't mind the drive. Getting there is almost as much fun as picking and eating the sweet grapes themselves. It's an excuse to travel over a series of scenic, two-lane byways. On the way there, I'm bound to see cattle grazing in grassy fields and horses roaming in fenced pastures.

Wildlife abounds in Tommy's still-rural neighborhood. When I'm driving down West Apshawa Road, I often see sandhill cranes or ospreys flying overhead. One time when I was picking grapes, I even had some fancy feathered company. A pair of colorful peacocks paraded up and down the row next to mine!

The grapes Tommy grows are so special that I can understand why peacocks, opossums, foxes and other animals are attracted to his farm. What I can't quite understand is why more people aren't also enjoying the pleasure of fresh-picked, locally grown fruit.

Grapes are one of the easiest crops to harvest. Unlike blackberries, they don't have thorns. They're not low-growing like strawberries, so there's no bending over. And you don't have to struggle to reach high, as is often the case with peaches or oranges. The grapes at Tommy's vineyard grow at eye level along wires stretched between poles. To harvest fruit, all you have to do is walk down a row, lift a few leaves and pluck the grapes off the vine. Before you know it, your bucket is full.

Scuppernongs are a large, round seeded variety of muscadine grapes that are either dark purple or amber-gold. I'm partial to the amber-skin varieties. When I go to Tommy's, I fill my bucket almost exclusively with those.

Scuppernong grapes make delicious jelly, a flavorful juice and wonderful wine, but I'm too lazy to spend time creating such concoctions. I'm perfectly content eating the fresh fruit by the bowlful, one grape at a time, until my belly rebels.

"You did it again" is Ralph's usual response when I complain that I might have eaten a few grapes too many. "Won't you ever learn not to eat so much at once?"

Probably not. There are worse things in life than being a grape glutton.

Tommy's opens to the public Saturday, and I plan to be there filling a pail. When I leave, there's no doubt I'll be popping grapes into my mouth as I drive home along lazy back roads. There's also no doubt that I'll continue enjoying them when I'm back at the house, and I probably won't stop until, once again, my stomach insists that I step away from the fruit bowl.

Some people get excited about soccer, the latest blockbuster movie, new shoes or shopping excursions. Me, I get goofy over locally grown fruit. Scuppernong season is almost here and for that, I will always be grapeful.

Tommy Free's you-pick grape farm is at 18030 W. Apshawa Road, Clermont.  For picking times and prices call 352-394-3313.

Rain in Florida never loses its power to surprise

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 19, 2010)

I like to watch rain. I like to sit on the porch, look out at the lake and watch raindrops make circles in the still water. I like listening to the tattoo of rain on a metal roof, and I'm especially fond of the way showers appear out of nowhere, only to disappear just as quickly.

The other day I experienced one of those sudden downpours in a most unusual way.

Ralph and I were taking a late-afternoon swim to cool off and relax. We were more than halfway across the lake, chatting amiably about the day's events and doing lazy breaststrokes through the still water. Ralph was midsentence when I interrupted him.

"Do you hear that?" I asked, somewhat anxiously. "I think it's about to rain on us."

No more than two minutes after Ralph turned his head to look where I was pointing, a wave of coolness swept over us. As the temperature dipped, the sky darkened and a noise not unlike the sound of oncoming traffic grew louder.

"It's either rain or a train heading our way," he replied.

Instinctively, we turned around and began swimming back home. The shore in front of our house seemed farther away than usual. As we increased the speed of our strokes, raindrops began to dot the water just south of where we were swimming.

"Here it comes," I said, pointing to the curtain of droplets quickly closing in on us.

Moments later, percussive pellets of water landed on our heads. The downpour had caught up with us.

"Good thing we're already wet," I said. "Otherwise, we'd be soaked."

Ralph smiled and looked my way. I could see that his glasses had begun to fog up. On the shore our towels were waiting, but by the time we reached the beach, I knew they'd be too wet to do us much good. We stopped talking and swam on. The noise of the falling rain would have made conversation impossible anyway.

Eventually we touched bottom, stood up and stepped out of the warm lake. Despite the rain, we'd been comfortable while swimming. But exposed to the air, our bodies felt chilled. We grabbed our wet towels and ran to the house.

Since I've been living in Florida, I've seen it rain on one side of a street and not on the other. I've watched dark walls of precipitation fall from distant clouds and rainbows appear after showers. I've driven through thunderstorms so intense that I had to pull over because my windshield wipers couldn't keep up. I've seen the dry soil soak up water like a sponge and large puddles evaporate in the summer sun. I've played in the rain with my children and bounced on the trampoline while rain splashed around us. But until recently, I had never experienced a rainstorm while swimming.

"I'm glad it was just a shower and not a thunderstorm," Ralph said, once we were back on land and toweled dry.

I couldn't have agreed more.

After a few growing pains, fig trees are fruitful

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 11, 2010)

My husband is happy. Every day he walks out to check the fig trees and returns home with a bowlful of fruit. Like a child with a new toy, he likes to show off his treasure.

"Look how many figs I got today," he says after tracking me down to the laundry room, where I'm sorting through clean clothes and folding towels. "We're going to have a great harvest this year."

I'm happy for my husband. I like figs, but Ralph loves them. His passion for this member of the mulberry family of plants isn't new. He has been growing figs for more than 30 years, though his early attempts were not especially … fruitful.

In the 1970s and early '80s, we lived on Cape Cod, where fig trees grew but were susceptible to cold. To protect the plants in winter, he would partially uproot the trees and tip them over before blanketing them with a thick layer of mulch.

The theory behind all this effort was that the mulch would provide sufficient warmth to prevent the cold from damaging the plant.

In spring, when the weather warmed, he reversed the process. He removed the mulch, righted the plants and tamped down the earth. It worked, to an extent. The trees survived, but they never thrived. Despite all his pampering, I can't recall a single harvest.

Nonetheless, he continued trying.

When we moved to Florida, land of mild winters, Ralph went a little crazy. He bought several varieties of fig trees and planted them around the property. Unfortunately, Florida soil is susceptible to infestations of nematodes, microscopic roundworms that live in the soil and attack the roots of certain plants. Nematodes are a fig tree's nemesis.

Although nematodes didn't kill the trees, they severely limited fig production. Nematode-infested plants produce figs that drop off the tree before they're mature.

Unwilling to give up, Ralph sought out nematode-resistant cultivars. Somewhere along the line he chanced upon the LSU purple fig, a nematode-resistant variety developed by Ed O'Rourke, professor of horticulture at Louisiana State University. O'Rourke released the LSU purple fig in 1991. Ralph purchased some trees shortly after they came on the market, and he has been growing them ever since.

The LSU purple fig resembles the black mission fig in size and shape. It is a vigorous grower and prolific producer of sweet, medium-size fruit. Ralph has more than a dozen mature trees planted not far from the house. He can walk outside with a large plate or bowl and within minutes return to the kitchen with more fresh figs than any one person can possibly eat.

"Sixty figs," he announced last night. "That's how many I just picked."

"We're going to have to start drying them," I said as I surveyed the kitchen counter where plates full of ripening figs covered most available surfaces.

Last year, Ralph froze our extra figs. It turned out that figs freeze remarkably well. When thawed, they lose very little taste or quality of texture. This year, however, fresh-picked blueberries fill our freezer.

Unless I start making several pies each day (highly unlikely), there won't be room for too many bags of figs. We haven't experimented much with drying figs, but I expect we will soon begin.

Then again, our oldest son is due to arrive home in a few days and, like my husband, he has a passion for figs. Timmy has an uncanny ability to make food disappear, which might turn the "problem" of excess figs into a non-issue.

If you're going to have a problem, having too much of a good thing is a great problem to have.

Pesto: Top-notch topping for summertime meals

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 5, 2010)

About twice a week I snip half a dozen leafy basil stems off our garden plants and whip up a batch of pesto. Pesto has become a regular part of our summertime menu. Although it's used primarily with noodles, we also add the basil-based topping to roasted vegetables, stir-fries and omelets.

Pesto is an uncooked condiment made from crushed basil leaves, olive oil, nuts and garlic. Most recipes also call for salt and parmesan cheese, but I leave both out. Ralph and I add parmesan or Romano cheese at the table so that we can use only as much as we each like. But the salt shaker stays in the cupboard.

For decades, I've excluded salt from just about every recipe. Salt is a vastly overused seasoning with a great potential to cause harm. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, we need less than 500 milligrams a day of sodium to keep our bodies working properly, but the average daily sodium intake for Americans ages 2 and older is 3,436 milligrams.

Sodium intake directly affects blood pressure, and high blood pressure leads to two of the top three causes of death — heart disease and stroke. Omitting salt from recipes is an easy and painless first step toward improving eating habits and overall health.

Traditional pesto recipes call for fresh basil leaves crushed by hand with a mortar and pestle, but I use a mini-blender, a kitchen tool I found at Walmart for less than $10. Instead of using pignoli nuts, another traditional ingredient, I usually prepare my pesto with walnuts. They're a less expensive and easier-to-find substitute for pignolis, which are also called pine nuts.

I put about a quarter-cup of walnuts into the mini-blender, press the "blend" button and let the machine chop the nuts into tiny pieces. I then add a half cup of extra virgin olive oil, two or three cloves of fresh pressed garlic and as many clean basil leaves as can be stuffed into the plastic mini-blender container.

I push the button and presto — I have pesto!

A batch of pesto will keep in the fridge for about a week, but if you don't use it all, don't worry. Leftover pesto is easy to freeze. The simplest thing to do is to put spoonfuls of pesto into ice-cube trays, freeze the trays and then store the frozen cubes in plastic bags or glass jars. The nice thing about freezing ice-cube-size portions is that one cube is usually the right amount to season a bowl of noodles or flavor a stir-fry.

Until this year, we always planted basil in the ground, but a few months ago we experimented with container plantings. Ralph sowed basil seeds into 15-gallon nursery pots filled with a rich mix of peat, compost, manure and wood chips for aeration. Within a couple of weeks, basil seedlings emerged.

As the seedlings grew, Ralph thinned them out, leaving one to three sprouts per container. The result is lush canopies of fragrant basil leaves that overflow the pots. Basil does best when its top growth is regularly snipped back, which works for me because those snipped leaves are the ones I use for pesto.

Basil is a warm-weather crop, so there's still plenty of time to sow some seeds or transplant a young, store-bought plant into a larger container or directly into the ground. You don't need a lot of land to grow a kitchen garden. A few potted plants on a balcony or porch or outside the front door are sufficient to fulfill most families' needs for fresh herbs.

Basil originated in Asia, India and Africa thousands of years ago. The ancient Greeks considered it a noble and sacred herb and gave it its name, derived from basilikohn, which means "royal." In India, basil was considered an icon of hospitality, while in Italy it represented love.

I find basil easy to love. I also find it easy to enjoy in the form of pesto, a delicious addition to many a summertime meal.

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.