Dueling Vines

A wall of jasmine covers a large section of the clay wall

 

Simply Living

Two flowering vines are competing for my attention.  Japanese honeysuckle and Confederate jasmine are both blooming right now.  Cloying aromas fill the air.  In our yard, both plants grow next to each other on the clay wall, about 40 feet away from the wisteria, which stopped flowering just before the others began.  When I walk outside and take a whiff, it’s impossible to tell which fragrance is which. 

I’ve always liked vines.  In addition to their enticing scents, I find vines inspiring.  They offer so much potential.  Filled with strength and determination, these botanical climbers twine upward, stretching toward the sky.  Wispy tendrils wind around whatever material is handy in a steadfast quest for support and height.  Their movement is compelling.  Even when vines sprawl on the ground, they do so with abandon. 

“Mine!  Mine!”  They seem to exclaim, “The world is my banquet!” 

A vine’s hunger for real estate is insatiable.  If something nearby is climbable, the vine is right on it.  It doesn’t matter if it’s a tree or trellis, wall or woodpile.  As long as there’s something to cling to, instincts kick in and a steady rise upward and outward begins.

Often, that rise is a vine’s undoing.    

An overly ambitious climber might warrant removal.  Several years ago, my son and I painstakingly tore out a solid wall of passionflower vine, which I had foolishly started from a single small plant.  I did the same with wild morning glory, another equally aggressive grower.

Both vines thrived along the clay wall.  They liked it so much they proceeded to sprawl across the wall and up the hill like out of control steamrollers.  However, instead of flattening every living thing in sight, the vines embraced them with smothering hugs.   

That’s the problem with some vines.  Their very nature gets them in trouble. 

I have an uneasy feeling that past mistakes are about to be repeated.  The problem isn’t with the honeysuckle or even the more aggressive jasmine vines.  It’s with the wisteria.  The wisteria took off this year as if injected with growth hormones.  Pumped up and on the run, it’s become the Barry Bonds of botanicals.

From my office, I look out at the clay wall.  To the right I see the wisteria, no longer blooming but lush with verdant foliage.  It fills about a 30-foot-long stretch.  To the left is a 20-foot expanse of Confederate jasmine, the white star-like flowers aromatic and full.  Both vines have managed to encompass large swaths of land while the less aggressive honeysuckle has stayed in small islands of resistance. 

“Don’t let us die!” honeysuckle vines seem to cry.  “Don’t let us be buried beneath botanical bullies.” 

It has happened before.  Neither Mexican flame vine, coral honeysuckle nor cypress vine could hold their own against more dominant climbers.  The phrase, “survival of the fittest,” usually refers to animals but it applies just as easily to plants.

My intention with the clay wall has always been to see it covered by a succession of flowers.  I envision a wall of color and different scents, one bloom and fragrance fading into another as months go by. 

Unfortunately, it hasn’t exactly worked out as planned.

Apparently, vines don’t coexist as harmoniously as I had hoped they would.  Each species is greedy for as much square footage as it can grab.  In that way, I suppose vines are like people.  They want their space and their neighbor’s space too.  Harmonious succession?  They could care less!  Cooperative interaction?  I don’t think so! 

That’s too bad because vines have so much potential.  Then again, so do people.

Discovering DVR allows more time for nature

THE BIG BANG THEORY -- One of the shows Sherry Boas likes to DVR -- Brainy best friends Leonard (Johnny Galecki, right) and Sheldon (Jim Parsons, left), can tell you anything you want to know about quantum physics, but when it comes to dealing with everyday life here on earth, they're lost in the cosmos. Neither fully understands that scientific principles don't always apply in matters of the heart - until they meet their sexy new neighbor, Penny (Kaley Cuoco, center), a friendly screenwriter/waitress from the Midwest who also happens to be newly single.

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 18, 2011)
The television industry calls digital-video recorders "time-shifting" devices but to me, a DVR is a stress-busting time-management tool that makes modern life just a little bit easier.

A few months ago, our home became one of the 46 million TV-watching households in the United States that use some sort of digital–video-recording device. Many have a standalone DVR like TiVo added to their cable television package. A few others record television shows directly onto their computer hard drive. Because Ralph and I live outside of any cable provider's territory and since the technology to marry television to computer is still in the courtship stage, we joined group three: consumers who use a set-top box with a built-in DVR purchased through their satellite provider.

Our new unit looks very much like the satellite receiver it replaced. My capable, thrift-conscious husband installed the unit himself with help from the satellite company's telephone support staff. When he finished, we sat down in the living room and picked up the remote.

I am not the most tech-savvy person. I can't count how many times I've struggled to find the desired button on various devices. I expected the usual confusing configuration when we picked up the new DVR remote but was pleased to find it surprisingly straightforward. Even I, a reluctant learner when it comes to any new gadget, figured out how to use the remote in a matter of minutes. Button arrangement is sensible and intuitively designed. Moreover, the unit's capabilities are impressive. We can select in advance which programs we want to watch and the DVR will record them even when the television is turned off. We can choose to record individual programs or weekly shows and can even program the unit to record only new episodes instead of repeats of any previous recordings.

I had heard many good things about DVRs before we got ours but I had no idea this new technology would have such a positive impact on our lives. I realize now that prior to having a DVR, one of the things I unconsciously structured my day around was television viewing. If a show I wanted to see was scheduled for a specific time, I made a point to be home then even if doing so was inconvenient. I often stayed up too late to watch something interesting and I missed many programs altogether because they ran the same time as another show or when I was unavailable to watch. Thanks to the digital-video recorder, those situations no longer occur.

Our little set-top box has made convenience paramount. I watch what I want to watch when I want to watch it. I no longer have to be home at a certain hour or swap sleep time for entertainment time. An additional benefit is the ability to shorten my TV time by fast-forwarding through commercials. Advertisers may not like this feature but I love it. The DVR has enabled me to reclaim control over television viewing.

However, as good as a digital-video recorder is, it is not perfect. The system is unable to correctly record programs that have delayed start times due to breaking news or sporting-event overtime. Also, for some inexplicable reason, one of the buttons on the living-room remote control doesn't work. The bedroom unit works fine but the mute button on the living room remote is dysfunctional. Tech support's explanation was a verbal shrug. "The remote doesn't work the same way on all televisions," the technician explained. "There's nothing we can do."

These are small glitches in an otherwise well-designed system.

Raving about a DVR may seem out of character for someone focused on appreciating the simple things in life but the reality is our set top-box has helped me enjoy my surroundings with a less-stressed attitude. It has allowed me to have a more regular sleep pattern and to spend more time outside enjoying nature.

Set the timer. Let the recording begin!

What's a stinkbug taste like? Don't ask!

Two brown marmorated stinkbugs mate on an unripe mulberry

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 11, 2011)

Stinkbugs are a malodorous lot. But, as bad as they smell, they taste even worse. I know this because I have eaten them, though not intentionally.

My experience with stinkbugs involves mulberries and the gluttonous way I pick and eat fresh fruit. When I'm picking, I can't stop eating. I pluck one ripe morsel after another, popping them into my mouth with abandon.

Unfortunately, on numerous occasions, an unobserved insect taints the taste. Stinkbugs like mulberries, too, and because these half-inch-long bugs can quickly move from one side of a berry to another, they are quite easy to overlook when picking fruit.

What's not easy is getting rid of the spit-it-out-immediately sensation that happens as soon as stinkbug meets mouth. In a word: Horrific! Imagine a mouthful of rancid oil mixed with the numbing sensation of Novocain. That description doesn't do justice to the stinkbug's powerful punch.

Indigenous to Asia, the brown marmorated stinkbug slipped into the Western Hemisphere less than 15 years ago. These agricultural pests, which were discovered in Allentown, Pa., wasted no time sucking the juices out of fruit, vegetables, flowers and farm products throughout North America.

I can't remember exactly when stinkbugs began feeding on our mulberries, but we've had them long enough to make their avoidance part of our mulberry-eating experience. When we pick berries at our house, we put on shoes to avoid fire ant bites, wear old clothes in case of stains and do our best not to inadvertently ingest stinkbugs. The trick is to slow down enough in the eating process to examine each berry BEFORE ingestion. That's my undoing. I'm not nearly as careful or patient as I should be.

The oh-so-unpleasant odor is the creature's defense. It's hard to be critical of any animal's desire to protect itself from danger. If I were about to be consumed by a giant predator, I'd do my best to scare my enemy away, too. For a stinkbug, defense comes in the form of a scent gland in its thorax between its first and second pair of legs. When punctured, crushed or in some other way threatened, the gland produces a substance that smells (and tastes) foul.

Although stinkbug infestations are a growing problem for farmers concerned about crop damage, this winged insect poses no threat to humans. Stinkbugs don't sting, bite or harbor diseases. As long as people refrain from handling or eating them, they will never experience the insect's pungent odor.

I accept the existence of this malodorous pest as just another obstacle to overcome in the quest for nature's sweetness. Sometimes in life, we bite into more than we can (or want) to chew. The stinkbug's scent is a gagging reminder that gluttony is not a desirable path in the search for goodness and that sometimes it's best to take things slow, pick cleanly and proceed toward our goals with patience instead of an overwhelming desire for more.

Pause before plunging? Kingfishers do!

Perched on a bamboo pole in the middle of the lake, a belted kingfisher takes time to survey its surroundings before plunging into the water after another meal

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 3, 2011)

Belted kingfishers are busy birds. They spend a good part of their day pursuing food. Small fish, dragonfly larvae and water bugs are fair game for these year-round residents of Central Florida.

I've been having fun watching one particular kingfisher that has claimed our lake as its private watering hole. From my porch-side perch, I can observe the kingfisher on its own perch, a bamboo pole that sticks out of a submerged peat island.

Like ospreys, herons and cormorants, the belted kingfisher uses that airy vantage point to scope out its surroundings. This bluish-gray bird with a white belly, white neckband and oversized head employs keen eyesight to survey an underwater smorgasbord.

The kingfisher is an exceptional hunter. When diving, it swiftly navigates through the top 18 inches of water to capture prey. Its long, pointy beak minimizes splash while maximizing speed. Its beak is such an aerodynamic appendix that many Japanese bullet trains mimic its design. Its eyes are also special. It has a transparent third eyelid, and its lenses function both under water and above.

The other day, I watched as the kingfisher dive-bombed one hapless prey after another. Each time, the crest-headed bird chose a target before plunging headfirst into the shimmering depths. Within seconds, it returned to the perch with its catch clamped in its pointy beak. Before eating — great gulps taken with an uplifted head — the bird killed its prey by repeatedly banging it against the bamboo cane.

As fascinating as it is to learn about the kingfisher's habits and watch it hunt, my favorite thing about this frequently observed water bird is its distinctive call. Scientists describe a kingfisher vocalization as a rattling cry, but I think of it more as a beckoning trill. Whenever I hear it, I stop what I'm doing and look around until I locate the source. If I'm lucky, I catch sight of the bird while it's flying. Belted kingfishers often vocalize on wing when they're about to take yet another headfirst plunge into the water.

I don't know where my kingfisher lives, but I'm excited to find out. Kingfishers nest in deep burrows along the edges of lakes and rivers. They often share their tunneled abodes with swallows. Along the banks of our lake are many potential nest sites in vertical walls of clay, kaolin and sand. In some places, bored holes already exist. For a long time I've wondered what animals made those holes. Now I realize that at least one of those holes could be a kingfisher's home.

Kingfisher courtship happens in springtime. The male bird woos a potential mate by trying to feed her a freshly caught fish. If she accepts his culinary advances, the birds mate, build a nest and raise a family. Often they raise several families. During one nesting season, a single pair of kingfishers can produce three sets of offspring.

Kingfishers are monogamous and remain together throughout the breeding season. They also share much of the work of parenting.  During daylight hours, the male relieves his mate by sitting on their brood of five to 10 eggs, but at night the female takes over. Eggs hatch in 20 days. That's when the real work begins.

A brood of hatchlings requires more than 100 fish a day. Fortunately, both parents pitch in. They feed their young by regurgitating fish and aquatic invertebrates into the opened mouths of their hungry horde. It's no wonder the kingfisher is seldom idle. Parenting babies is demanding work.

The belted kingfisher may be a busy bird, but taking time — making time — in my own busy day to watch its exploits has the surprising effect of calming me down. Worries dissipate as I sit near the water's edge, snapping off photos. Tensions ease as I listen to the belted kingfisher's trilling call and watch it survey the landscape from its bamboo perch.

It's hard to spend as much time as I'd like doing things that make me happy, but sometimes a bit of self-indulgence is worth the effort. Even a busy bird like the belted kingfisher takes time between fishing ventures to digest its food and consider its surroundings. Only then does it take another plunge. Shouldn't people be able to do the same?

A sweet addiction

Black mulberries go through several color transformations before they are completely ripe and ready to eat.

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 27, 2011)

I'm having a hard time controlling myself. Mulberries are ripe, and I can't stop eating them.

This year's crop is the biggest ever, and for some reason the birds — cedar waxwings, in particular — have not arrived to eat them. That leaves more berries for me to devour, and devour them I have. I can't seem to keep my mulberry consumption under control.

Pick a bowlful. Eat a bowlful. That has been my pattern. A couple of hours later, I'm at it again. By the end of the day, I'm wishing I had exercised some restraint.

"I don't feel so good," I told my husband the other night. "I think I may have overdone it a bit with the mulberries."

"You think?" he responded rhetorically, while directing his gaze toward my purple-stained fingers. "How many did you have today?"

"More than I'd like to admit," I admitted. "You know how I am with berries. I have no self-control."

Confession time: I am a berry addict. Put me in front of ripe fruit and you'll have a hard time prying my greedy little fingers away. That's especially true when the fruit is growing not on shrubby bushes or prickly vines but on huge trees.

My friend Pat recently moved to Florida from New York. He had never seen a mulberry tree, so I invited him to see and sample ours.

"Isn't it a bush, like in the nursery rhyme?" he asked.

"Not even close," I said, as we approached a grove of mulberry trees laden with ripening fruit.

Despite what "Pop Goes The Weasel" suggests ("Round and round the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel"), the mulberry is not a small plant. It's a large, deciduous tree. Several of ours are more than 30 feet tall and equally as broad.

The fruit develops on new growth and hangs from bendable limbs accessible by both adults and children. There are no thorns to contend with on this powerhouse of productivity, and it is one of the first plants to bear edible goodies in spring.

On our property, we grow three kinds of mulberries — white flesh fruit, black flesh fruit and red mulberries. The latter are native to America, but both white and black mulberries originated in China and were imported to this country in the 1700s.

Silkworms feed exclusively on the leaves of white mulberries. In Asia, the trees are an integral part of the silk-making industry. In the United States, the primary use of mulberry trees is to provide shade and attract wildlife.

Dozens of birds feed on the early season fruit. People — especially children — also find the abundant berries a welcome addition to their pre-summer diet. Unfortunately, the sticky purple morsels aren't as popular with parents, who have to clean up messes made by stained hands and juice-splattered feet. The mulberry's messiness has caused many a tree to meet an untimely demise.

On our property, we don't mind the mess. Sure, throughout the growing season, our fingernails are purple, and we have to remember to remove shoes before entering the house. But that's a small price to pay for such an easy source of tasty treats. We especially prize white mulberries because they provide all the goodness of the dark-skinned fruit without nearly as much mess.

My only problem with mulberries is my lack of self-control. How much goodness is too much? Is it possible for something to be too sweet? I'll get back to you on that. Right now, a mulberry tree outside is calling my name. I have berries to pick.

Well...well...well...

Getting wet is all in a day's work for the crew of All-Water Services

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 20, 2011)

One of the things I cherish about living in the country is our pure, sweet well water.

The well we drink from is 80 feet deep. The well driller who installed it 20 years ago said he tapped into an underground river. In digging, he unearthed fossilized shells and shark teeth that I keep on a shelf in my office. Every time I look at them, I'm filled with awe for not only the remarkable history they contain but also the deep, reliable source of drinking water they represent.

We are dependent on our water, so I knew we were in trouble one recent night when I turned on the bathroom spigot while getting ready for bed to find a mere trickle of water.

"The pump's out," I called to Ralph, who had already gotten under the covers.

It was 11 p.m. and pouring outside, but he reluctantly got up. We rounded up the needed equipment — umbrella, flashlight and hammer — donned some warm clothes and headed up the hill to see if we could fix the problem.

Anyone who depends on a well for household water and irrigation learns to identify and (hopefully) fix some common well and pump problems.

A few taps with a hammer on the pressure switch will occasionally bring a stalled motor back to life. Ants that get into a pressure switch can short it out. Remove the ants and, if you're lucky, the problem goes away. Pressing the reset button on the control box will sometimes save an expensive visit by repairmen.

The other night we tried all the above, to no avail. The pump wouldn't start no matter what we did. The remaining option was to install a new control box, a fix that had helped in similar situations before. If that didn't work, we'd have to call in the well driller.

We went back to bed and slept restlessly, thinking of ways to avoid the expense of a new pump.

Early the next morning, we hit the Internet and phones. We located a control box and our helper, James, drove into town to get it, then came back to replace the old one with the new. When he was done, we had thrown $250 into a hole that still didn't pump water.

By then it was midmorning, and the inconvenience of living without running water was beginning to show. In the kitchen, dishes covered with the sticky remains of oatmeal and blueberry pie filled the sink. We were using buckets of lake water to flush toilets and brushing our teeth with the stale supply from our emergency stash — bottles we'd put aside months ago.

Ralph dialed well drillers to see who was available on short notice. Several calls later, he contacted the crew at All-Water Services Inc. in Groveland. Derrick Brigmond, the youngest member of the family-owned business, said he could come by in the afternoon.

Around 1 p.m., the workers arrived. By then my kitchen looked like a disaster area. With my youngest son home for spring break and my daughter and grandson expected for dinner, I could feel my mood sinking into a hole about as deep as the well that wouldn't work.

About two hours and $2,850 later, a new pump and motor were in place.

"The motor was fried," said Darren Brigmond, as he and his son packed their equipment. "It could have been hit by lightning or it could just have been age. It's hard to tell."

It is hard to tell when the problem you're dealing with is 80 feet underground in a secret river. Fortunately for us, that river is still flowing with enough pressure to supply us and our plants with the high-quality water we've come to treasure.

Good, clean water is one of life's most basic needs. It is so essential that we take it for granted until something happens and the water is gone. The next morning, when I turned on the tap to brush my teeth, I did so with renewed appreciation for one of life's most precious commodities.

An old adage says, "If you spend money like water, you'll always be broke." But as I recently learned, if your well is broken, spending money may be the only way to make sweet water flow.

Three blooms...three memories

Purple wisteria

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 13, 2011)
I've done a bit of traveling lately, but I haven't left home. The fragrance of newly bloomed plants has taken me back in time and across the miles to remind me of places and people I love. 

Sweet alyssum was the first flower to trigger a memory.

I was visiting my daughter at her Winter Garden home, where she has planted her first entirely-on-her-own garden. I hadn't been to Amber's house for several weeks, and although I'd heard about all the vegetables and flowers she was growing, I'd yet to take a tour.

We were chatting as I stepped outside, but a strong whiff of a familiar scent stopped me midsentence.

"Is that alyssum?" I asked, looking around. Just outside the door, a cluster of fragrant white blooms hugged the ground. "It is alyssum! It smells just like Grandma's yard in Seattle."

Suddenly, instead of standing in Amber's backyard, I was 3,000 miles away. I was in front of my mother-in-law's home on N.E. 147th Street, where blankets of white and purple alyssum poked through the concrete next to the garage. Whenever we visited, the sweet aroma of alyssum flowers was there to greet us.

I have always loved that smell and the memories it triggered. Grandma Boas died last year, and the next-door neighbors bought her house. Our days of sitting in Grandma's flower-bedecked living room overlooking Lake Washington are gone, but as long as I can smell alyssum, I can be there in my mind.

When I returned home from visiting Amber, I ordered a packet of "honey-scented alyssum" seeds called "Summer Romance" from Renee's Garden.

My second journey began in my own backyard.

I was taking out the trash on the last day of February when I noticed a rush of color against the clay wall. I put the bags in the trash can and went over to where a stand of mature wisteria vines covers a section of carved-out hill. The day before the vines were bare, but overnight it had rained. The wisteria responded by producing masses of purple and white blossoms. I lifted a pendulous cluster of blooms to my nose.

One whiff and I was back on Cape Cod.

On Cape Cod, wisteria signaled the end of winter. After several months of cold, gray, wet and snowy weather, it was a sign we were eager to receive. In April, vines that ambled over stone walls and climbed sagging trellises burst into bloom. The air was heavy with their aroma. I'd go outside with clippers and return home with a basket full of blooms. Vases of wisteria brought springtime indoors.

It has been years since I lived on the Cape, but one sniff was all it took to transport me to back in time. I was a young mother in our hand-built house in the woods. The kids were little. They were busily drawing pictures on a long roll of brown paper spread across the pine floor. I stood in the kitchen listening to their chatter as I cleaned up after the midday meal. On the windowsill behind the sink sat a huge bouquet of wisteria flowers. With each dish I scrubbed, I inhaled the sweet promise: "Winter is over! Spring is here!"

My third olfactory journey was closer to home. In fact, it was right here at home. Ralph and I were on our way to the junk pile in search of some paving stones to use in the garden when I smelled perfume in the air. Our junk pile is a few steps beyond a grove of citrus trees. We have only a few trees, but even one orange tree blooming will fill the air with an intense perfume.

The smell of orange blossoms is the aroma of home. It speaks of Florida and sunshine and family time together. When I first moved to Groveland, groves of citrus trees still covered the hills. There are far fewer now than there were in the 1980s, but the trees that remain still stop me in my tracks. Their heady fragrance proves the past is not over — at least not completely.

As long as scent can trigger emotions, a bit of yesterday will always be here. People who say time travel is impossible must never have taken a flight of fancy. That's too bad, because it can be quite a trip.

I'm hiding...come find me!

Small phone + large stack of papers = a frustrating search

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 6, 2011)

"Have you seen the phone?"

I ask that question several times a day. So does my husband.

It's usually followed by one of us saying, with (I'm embarrassed to admit) more than a hint of self-righteousness: "Where'd you leave it?"

The second question is followed by a frantic search that escalates in proportion to a series of accompanying queries. On the surface, the questions seem helpful. In reality, they're anything but.

"Where'd you have it last?" "Did you leave it in the car?" "How about your pocket?" "Did you check your purse?"

The answers are (in order):

• "If I knew where I had it last, I wouldn't be traipsing around the house picking up pillows and looking under papers muttering expletives."
• "No."
• "I already checked."
• "It's not in my purse, and why do you always think it's in my purse, anyway? How about in your shorts? Maybe you had it last, not me."

After a while, one of us lights upon the brilliant idea of calling the missing phone from our land line. Of course, we could have done that initially had we thought of it, but we didn't.

We weren't thinking. That's the problem.

So, we make the call and somewhere in the distance a familiar tune beckons.

"It's in the bedroom!" or "It's coming from the porch!" or "It's right here on my desk! Yeesh! I looked there twice! How could I have missed it?"

Pick any of the above. At one time or another, we've found the phone in each of those places.

The object of our attention is a simple (translation: outdated) clamshell design. We could text with it and take pictures if we wanted to, but we don't. We bought the phone for one reason: to talk. Of course, to do that, the phone must be present, and as far as I can tell, it doesn't come with a feature that lets aging boomers locate the device when they forgot where they left it.

Marriages thrive on a diet of mutual respect, appreciation and tolerance. I love my mate and enjoy his company, but when we're searching for a misplaced cell phone, he drives me crazy.

That's probably because his mannerisms mirror my own. We're both frequently preoccupied and shamefully forgetful, and our forgetfulness is vexing. No one wants to be that person — the one who is constantly wondering aloud where she left this or put that.

Yet here we are. We have become our parents. We've entered the "muttering" phase of life, when things refuse to stay put and some yet-to-be-discovered force causes small objects such as cell phones, keys and important notes to vanish inexplicably.

Until the phone rings and the wayward object is located.

Promises ensue.

"I will try harder," I vow, "not to leave the phone in the car, on my desk, on the porch or (all right, I admit it) in my purse."

I promise to try harder to focus on what I'm doing. I will pay more attention. My husband promises, too. Time passes. If we're lucky, we make it through an hour. Then it happens again.

"Have you seen the phone?" I ask as I wander through the house.

Tiny ants...big OUCH!

Immediately after a red imported fire ant nest is disturbed, the ants launch a merciless attack.

 

Given the choice of wearing shoes or not wearing shoes, I always opt for going barefoot.

But being barefoot is dicey in a state where the potential for ant bites is great. Floridians whose unshod feet touch the ground are apt to come home with painful stings inflicted by a tiny insect with a long name: Solenopsis invicta Buren.

Nicknamed RIFA, for red imported fire ant, it's one of two species of fire ants that live in the Sunshine State. The RIFA is widespread, but Florida is also home to a less common species known as the native or tropical fire ant. Neither of the species takes kindly to being stepped on, and they respond to such unwarranted behavior by attacking mercilessly.

If you spend any time outside, you know what I mean. According to a University of Arkansas report, these powerful dirt movers infest more than 275 million acres of land in the United States and Puerto Rico and inject their venom into millions of people annually.

Although we call them ant bites, what we really experience are painful stings.

Fire ants grab the attacker's skin with their strong mandibles to inject a venom that causes an immediate, localized pain. Within minutes, a red, raised spot usually develops, followed a day later by a white, pimple-like pustule that itches like crazy.

Because each ant can sting repeatedly — and because several ants often attack simultaneously — multiple stings are the norm. It's not uncommon to run away from a fire-ant encounter with dozens of stings.

Ubiquitous as fire ants are in our lawns, fields, driveways and sidewalks, they were not always a part of the Florida landscape. In the early 1900s, these South American natives made their way into the southern United States by way of cargo ship. Early seafaring vessels used soil as ballast, and it's likely the dirt-dwelling ants came aboard inadvertently and were then unloaded in America.

Once here, the ants prospered. Colonies multiplied and spread rapidly. Red, imported fire ants now populate every county in Alabama, Florida and Louisiana. They exist in parts of Arkansas, Georgia, Mississippi, Oklahoma, North Carolina, South Carolina, Tennessee, Texas and Puerto Rico. They have even made their way to California, Missouri and across the Pacific to Hawaii.

The insidious fire ants can't tolerate cold. If temperatures drop to freezing for more than a couple of weeks, the ant colonies die. Fire ants dig into their complex underground burrows for protection. Although they don't hibernate, they are increasingly less active when it's cold outside.

Although it isn't exactly barefoot weather, winter is the safest time to venture outdoors shoeless in Florida. I mention that because as of this past week — if judged by fire-ant activity — winter is officially over. My feet are proof. At the start of the week, I was going barefoot, but by the end of the week, I wasn't. My toes were so dotted with ant bites that I refused to leave the house without some sort of foot covering.

From an entomological point of view, fire ants are fascinating critters. They have complex social systems, unbelievable strength and an impressive ability to adapt to a broad range of environments. But that doesn't mean I have to like them.

The bottom line is that these small insects with the big sting are painfully annoying, practically impossible to avoid and incredibly difficult to eradicate. The best we can do is tread carefully and keep a spray bottle filled with vinegar handy. If applied immediately, white vinegar helps quell the discomfort of a fire-ant attack.

Being barefoot may be my preferred state, but practicality trumps preference when it comes to fire ants. I may hate shoes, but I love the way they protect me from ant bites.

Savoring the moment

Undulating hills in shades of green highlight a stretch of Florida's Turnpike a few miles south of Exit 285

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel February 20, 2011)

A stretch of Florida's Turnpike is especially striking this time of year. When I drive through it, I am awestruck. For just a moment, I gasp. It's that lovely.

The section I'm referring to is only a few miles from my home. I see it shortly after I get on the turnpike at Exit 285. About five miles south — still in Lake County — the road snakes its way over and around a series of hills.

In flat Florida, it's unusual to chance upon a vista with such contour-rich terrain, but this area is the exception. Gentle curves and slopes dominate, and the road follows their lead. The engineers who designed the road could have taken a different approach. In 1964, when that segment of the turnpike was built, they could have sliced through the hills with straight-line efficiency. Fortunately, they chose not to.

Although topography makes this spot special, it's only one reason why I find it so attractive. Trees are the other. This is especially true during springtime, when new leaves have formed and the land is greening up after months of brown.

Two types of trees cover the hills — pine and deciduous. The pines are about 20 years old, tall, straight and orderly. Like many local pinewoods, this is an intentional forest. The trees grow in rows with even spacing. Citrus growers probably planted them. After several severe freezes in the late 1980s, many grove owners turned to pines to maintain the land's agricultural status.

If scrub pines were the only trees covering this stretch, the landscape would be pretty but not exceptional. What makes it extraordinarily beautiful are the deciduous trees that have sprung up between the pines. They're mainly chokecherries, planted not by man but by birds and squirrels. Over the years, the chokecherry trees have flourished, growing as tall and broad — if not more so — than the planted-by-man conifers.

When I drive this part of the turnpike, I feel like I'm back in Pennsylvania or traveling through North Carolina. It's that different from the Florida I'm used to seeing from behind the wheel. It's as if I've entered a landscape painting. Shades of green are dazzling. Light greens and dark greens blanket the hills. No houses are in sight. A jewel-like lake shimmers in a hollow. A curving road weaves through the hillocks. It's a portrait of serenity, peacefulness and springtime.

And then it's over.

About a mile after it begins, the landscape returns to Florida highway normal. Hills give way to flat terrain. Straight passageways predominate. The tree line diminishes until only a few scattered evergreens border the road. Homes begin to appear. Many homes. So many houses bank the turnpike that the developments require concrete walls to buffer road noises. Welcome to the Sunshine State Parkway.

No matter where you live, there are bound to be things you love about your chosen home and things you dislike. I'm not wild about massive developments, and I hate seeing trees cut down and hillsides carved up to make way for ticky-tacky, zero-lot-line homes. I especially dislike seeing such things happen to landscapes as beautiful as this one.

For now, this acreage remains undeveloped, but if the past is any indication, it won't stay that way long. At some point, trees will give way to home sites. Hills will be paved over, and lights will brighten land that's illuminated now by the sun, moon and stars.

That's why, whenever I drive this stretch of the turnpike, I take in the view. I savor the moment and appreciate the scenery because beauty is that most fleeting of intangibles. It's as transitory as cars passing on the highway.

My fuzzy Valentine

A soft beard, a sweet baby - put them together...what's not to love?

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel February 13, 2011)

Today is Valentine's Day. On this day of love, my heart belongs to a man whose face I've never seen.

Not all of it, anyway.

My husband, Ralph, is my amour. He also happens to be a person with a beard. It's a full beard, wild and untamed. It covers most of his cheeks, all of his chin and that narrow space above his lips. Ralph had a beard when we met in 1970. I've seen his entire face only in photographs of him as a teenager.

It's a good thing I like beards. I like the way they look and the way they feel. Many people find facial hair unappealing, but I'm not among them. I'm attracted to bearded men the way some men are attracted to women with long (or short) hair. It's a hard-wired part of my persona.

Like many men of his generation, Ralph's hair fell below his shoulders when he was in college and he had a full, untrimmed beard. Although he looked the part of a hippie, he wore a beard then for the same reason he wears one now — he doesn't like to shave. I can't fault him for that. I don't like shaving either.

Over time, Ralph's thick, brown locks have become grayer and a bit thinner on top. His beard, however, is just as big and wild as ever. Occasionally, I take out shears and hack it back a bit, but that's akin to trimming a hedge. Within a few weeks, a fuzzy fringe has returned, as thick and full as ever.

Choosing to go through life with an unruly swirl of facial hair has had its downside. Some people just don't get it. My parents felt that way. They could never understand why their son-in-law didn't shave. If he must have a beard, they reasoned, why not have one that's neatly trimmed?

But my husband has never been the manicured type. He's a casual person who's more concerned with how things work than how they look. He thinks independently and questions social norms. When he believes in something, he sticks with it. I've always admired him for that.

There have been times when I've wondered how Ralph would look without a beard, but I've never taken the next step and asked him to shave. If I insisted, he'd probably cut off his beard to please me. When you love someone, you want that person to be happy. But that's also why I haven't (and probably never will) ask him to shave. I wouldn't want to make my husband do something he doesn't want to do just to satisfy my fickle curiosity.

There is no secret formula for attractiveness. No one look is right or wrong. Fur may cover my husband's face, but no amount of facial hair can hide a person's compassion, kindness, gentle nature and intelligence. For 40-plus years, my husband's words and actions have demonstrated his feelings for me and for our children. We are secure in his love and support.

Actions, not appearances, define a person's heart.

My heart belongs to a person whose entire face I've never seen, and I like it that way. In any marriage, a bit of mystery never hurts.

Signs of spring

Mulberry trees are among the many plants that are responding to warm temperatures by sending out new leaves.

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel February 6, 2011)

It is only February, but the plants think it's spring.

The tips of the fig and mulberry trees have swollen with potential, as new leaves get ready to unfurl. Meanwhile, other deciduous trees have already completed the process. The tender, young leaves of maples and tupelos appeared weeks ago. They now cover the winter-bare branches with a blush of color.

Beneath the trees are weeds, those tenacious volunteers that thrive on neglect. Weeds have spread across brown lawns and bare patches of ground.

Plants are either extremely optimistic or very foolish. Don't they know it could still get cold?

Last year around this time, we had 10 days of chilling weather. Temperatures in the low 20s and high teens turned green leaves black and dashed the hopes of new buds that dared to emerge. That experience made me cautious. The plant world might be saying that spring has arrived, but I'm hesitant to believe.

Despite my hesitation, I was outside the other day pulling weeds, transplanting broccoli seedlings and planting pansies. It's hard to resist gardening with such beautiful weather, especially after an unusually cold winter.

Temperatures in the mid-60s to low 70s are enticing. Leaving my jacket on a hook in the hallway, I go for leisurely strolls, work in the garden or settle into a chair to absorb the day. Blue skies and bright greens herald the promise of spring. Even if the promise is broken, the pleasure of these lovely moments remains.

Back in December, our loquat trees were in full bloom. Clusters of lightly scented white flowers covered the branches. When winter arrived prematurely, the flowers withered. I couldn't help but wonder what would happen next. Would the trees recover? Would fruit ever set?

It is now February, the month when loquat fruit usually ripen. Clusters of flowers once again cover the branches. On some limbs, the flowers have already started to develop into small orbs of goodness. The crop will probably be later than normal, but there will be fruit. Unseasonable weather hasn't stopped the trees from doing what loquats do — flower, fruit and produce new seeds — just delayed it a bit.

I'm encouraged by how the loquat trees overcame the winter hardship. If another cold snap strikes this month, the same thing probably will happen again. The trees will respond with more flowers and an even later, smaller crop.

Plants handle adversity with amazing resilience. From my office window, I see the dead leaves of three kinds of gingers. At first glance, they look awful — all lifeless and limp — but upon closer inspection, I see new shoots emerge. The overall appearance is barren, but hope is afoot. Beneath the dead tops, new life has begun.

Maybe plants are neither optimistic nor foolish. They are growing organisms responding to internal triggers without the shackles of human thought. They go about their business without hesitation, without worry, without frustration. They simply live.

Weather is unpredictable, but plants are the essence of predictability and patience. No matter how extreme temperatures get, the plant kingdom responds with faith in the future. Spring will come. Plants will grow. They know it, and despite my hesitancy, I know it too.

A Far Eastern experience that's close to home

Long aisles filled with boxes and tins of tea entice both Asian and non-Asian customers

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel January 30, 2011)

I don't go to Orlando often, so when I do, I pack as many stops into my trip as possible. Inevitably, one of those stops is an Asian market.

O-Town has dozens of stores to choose from, but the two I like best are Dong-A Co. (816 N. Mills Ave., 407-898-9227) and 1st Oriental Supermarket (5132 W. Colonial Drive, 407-292-3668).

The 1st Oriental Supermarket is on Orlando's west side, making it a few miles closer to home. Although the distance is shorter, it is still worlds away from any comparable American grocery-store experience.

Established in 2003 and located in a former shopping plaza in Pine Hills, the 42,000-square-foot supermarket claims to be the largest Oriental market in Florida. No matter when I go, the store is crowded. Customers of various ethnicities load up carts with products from their homelands that aren't readily available elsewhere.

For me, a person with limited travel experience outside the continental U.S., an ethnic market is like a virtual travelogue. America fades away as I step through the double glass doors. Cantonese, Vietnamese and other tongues replace English. Foreign sights, sounds and smells surround me. No matter where I look, I see something unfamiliar, and I love it. Without having to board a plane, I have been transported to the Far East.

This is no Epcot experience. This is the real deal. Employees aren't trained to cater to tourists. If anything, they display a certain amount of impatience toward the English-only crowd. Asian markets are busy, get-what-you-need-and-get-going places. Stores such as 1st Oriental Supermarket are the Far Eastern equivalent of Sam's Club or Costco. They provide a wide selection of products, often in oversized packages, at low prices with limited service.

Ostensibly, I go to the market because I'm running low on tea. Colorful tins and boxes of tea occupy both sides of a long aisle at 1st Oriental Supermarket. I can search for a specific type, shop by brand or seek out blends for certain ailments or needs. A seemingly endless array of teabags and loose-leaf varieties competes for my attention.

Inevitably, I leave with several selections, including my current favorite, Prince of Peace brand organic jasmine green tea. I usually opt for the 100-bag box for $5.95. My local Publix, which doesn't carry the Prince of Peace brand, sells a similar product for $3.96, but that's for only 18 bags. At American groceries, economy-size packages of tea are simply not available.

Although tea is my excuse for traveling 27 miles to shop, that's not all I buy. I always come home with some packaged items as well as a selection of seasonally available fruits and fresh produce. On my most recent trip, I purchased six egg-shaped white sapotes, a bunch of bok choy and two types of dried ginseng root.

Sapotes are South American fruits that have found a niche in Vietnamese and Filipino cuisine. After examining the display of about a dozen different kinds of bok choy, a Chinese green that's like a cross between cabbage and spinach, Ralph picked one and added it to our cart. Asian grocery stores stock an abundance of leafy green vegetables, most of which are unfamiliar to non-Asian consumers.

Anyone who finds the unfamiliar fascinating will enjoy a visit to an ethnic food store. At 1st Oriental Supermarket, entire aisles are devoted to bags of dried mushrooms, cans of syrupy fruits and packages of seeds, roots and dehydrated fish. Live fish and eels swim in a 1,000-gallon tank. Customers can choose what they want for dinner, then take it home, filleted to their specifications.

The store also contains a meat market, fresh poultry corner, bakery, Chinese medicinal herb area and assorted housewares, cookware and personal hygiene items. There's so much to see, I often feel I'm on sensory overload.

The Internet does a great job of bridging physical distance, but it's not yet able to duplicate the experience of picking up and touching an object, inhaling its fragrance or savoring its taste. Sometimes a hands-on approach is needed to foster real understanding. Shopping at an ethnic market is an easy, inexpensive way to expand horizons and broaden your palate without having to travel far from home.