On the Eve of a New Year

Dawn this morning was met with a clear sky and 40F degrees, balmy weather for our zone and for this time of year.  When I went to bed last night, the cloudless sky, brightened by the waning moon, suggested there might be ice in the birdbath in the morning, but not so.  A friend out west wrote that it was going to be nippy in his area this week - around zero degrees.  Nippy, for me, is what it is outside this morning, but he comes from hardier stock than I, or else has adjusted to the deep freeze that is more usual there.

When I opened the back door to sniff the air, it reminded me of when I was in boot camp, at Bainbridge, MD, almost 44 years ago.  We were awakened around 5 each morning, hurried through morning showers, bed-making and mustering out on the tarmac prior to being marched over to the chow hall.  In January, this frequently meant facing biting winds from down the mountains, having our nose-hairs crackle with every intake of breath, and arriving with stiffened cheeks (all four of them) to stand in line outside until we could enter the hall.  This morning, the cold air racing into my lungs took me right back to 1969.

On this morning, grandson Donovan is getting ready for surgery.  He's having a septoplasty done, to repair a deviated septum and to remove a bone spur that is growing toward his eye.  He'll be under the knife for at least two hours, possibly longer.  The surgeon will have to break a couple of bones to remove the spur and widen/straighten the septum.  He's going to miss the 'pretty lights' this season.  We were scheduled to go last night, but he changed his mind and preferred to stay home and set up a gift he'd received from a friend yesterday.  It's a new game machine, an X-Box something.  After his surgery this morning, he isn't going anywhere for the rest of this week, so we'll have to catch the lights next year.

The day before the new year always finds me in a reflective mood, an old habit from the days of resolution writing, started when I was a pre-teen.  I don't write resolutions anymore, but the reviews of my life, past and future (hmmm, how does one re-view the future?), take up most of the day.

I found an envelope among my papers last week on which I had written the question, "Has my life lived up to my expectations?"  I cannot remember when I wrote that, nor can I recall ever having expectations for my life.  Certainly, I must have; just can't remember them this morning.

Must be that frosty air.

I sincerely hope all of you whose blogs I read, and who have been kind enough to visit/comment on mine, have a new year better than the one we are leaving behind.  Much joy and happiness!

Christmas Ramblings

(Ramblings in the sense of musings, following random thoughts, not actually walking about the neighborhood or woods.  More detritus.  Long post, skip it if you like - I won't know.)

I have been wished a Merry Christmas, received hopes that I'll have a good one, by many this season, most of them friends, or, at least, friendly acquaintances; all such good wishes are sincerely appreciated and remembered. One stranger said to me last evening, as I was scraping snow off my truck before heading home, and he was headed to a church across the street, that he hoped I would have a happy holiday.  He sounded as though he truly wished me a few moments of happiness.  For some reason, I was deeply moved by his wish, and would have asked to hug him, had I not been so inhibited.  There was a touch of melancholy in his voice, and a tenderness unexpected under the circumstances.  A gift, received with gratitude and treasured for its sincerity.

Tomorrow morning, a man I work with will, no doubt, ask if I had a good Christmas, in the same 'make-talk' way he asks how I am doing.  I used to try to answer him honestly, then realized he wasn't really interested in knowing, just acting a part he seems to think a man in his position needs to play.  Two weeks ago, when he asked me the same thing, I answered, "Fine as frog hair.  And you?"

"Well, good," he answered.  "I'm doing well, too."  Didn't bat an eye, lift an eyebrow, or in any other way acknowledge there was anything different being exchanged.  I think I could have told him I'd lost my right leg that morning and was standing there bleeding to death, and he would have said, "Well, good.  I'm doing well, too."

So, what will I tell him tomorrow?  About the stranger in our parking lot from the night before Christmas?

Will I tell my boss of the young hawk that for the last two days has alighted in trees outside my back door and called to its parents? That sat in the trees, ignoring my walking about trying to spy him, until a parent finally answered and he flew off?

It is so rare to hear young hawks, or adults, come to think of it, in my yard. I know there is a mated pair that live in a neighbor's trees, behind my property. This summer, one of the parents was calling in a shrill, persistent manner - sounded almost like a rabbit's distress cry, which is why I went to the backdoor to see if a feral cat had caught one of the babies from the warren back at the barn. Instead of a cat, I found an adult Cooper's hawk covering something larger than a baby rabbit, and grey, held tightly in its talons. The hawk looked at me, but stayed put, crying out again. I was only a few feet from the bird, but I froze in step, and it tolerated my presence. As I stood still, another bird, a Cooper's, but with juvenile markings, flew right in front of my face. I felt the wind from its wings, was almost touched by its flight feathers. What a thrill! What joy, to come so close to 'touching the wild.'

And then, to have (I am certain) that same juvenile hawk, its breast still streaked with teardrop-shaped spots of russet-brown, come visit me at this bleak time, lightening my mood by stirring those summertime memories.

Still another gift, for which I also am grateful and which also is treasured.

Will I tell him that the annual bonus I received went to repair my truck, instead of getting a gift for my grandson, and food for our holiday dinner?  Will I tell him the sadness I felt when I had to explain the situation to Donovan, and the heartbreak that made me cry when he said, "It's okay, Nanny.  I know these are hard times for you.  It doesn't matter."  This boy, for he is most of the time a young boy, emotionally and socially, lives for Christmas and all the trimmings. That childlike anticipation and joyfulness on his part has helped me get through some very tough holidays in the last few years.  This child, albeit a young man of 20 years, hindered in his life by autism and the ignorance of those not afflicted with or affected by this incurable disorder, wanted me not to feel sad.  

Another gift, received with deepest gratitude and treasured beyond measure because of the concern and love with which it was given.

When I went over to their apartment this morning for brunch, he asked if we were going to be able to go see all the "pretty lights," like we always do.  I assured him we would, but I'd have to wait until I received my paycheck tomorrow, and put gas in the truck.  We usually go after Christmas dinner, which should have been tonight, but the Jimmy ate my bonus.  We put off Christmas until this coming Sunday, so we'll go through the neighborhoods looking at lights then.  And we will stop for hot chocolate - maybe twice, this year.  (Yes, Ken, we still do the "pretty lights" thing, with Donovan doing your part.)

If he asks me tomorrow, I think I will tell my self-involved boss that I probably have had the best Christmas of my life.

"Well, good!  I am doing well, too." 

Vote for Obama!

To see what the 47% Romney has written off as not worth his time will receive if he wins the election, please visit Mike's blog.

Then, Vote for Obama!

Thanks, Mike.

After the Storm

All that's left of Sandy in our immediate area is rain and wind, mild wind under 40mph.  This is do-able, folks.  I haven't looked at news reports lately, but I know we were fortunate here in my town compared to the rest of the East Coast.  Haven't lost power yet, which means the sump pump continues to pump, I can reheat my coffee, and I have Internet - my connection to the rest of the world.  Life is good.

So, thank you, Universe and whatever other powers that be, for the good fortune we had.

And for the sassafras that still stands next to my house. 

Eye of the Storm

Monday, 10-29-12, 11PM, EST (US)

It is eerily quiet right now - the rain has stopped, the two wind chimes hanging from the dogwood at the back door are silent and the sump pump isn't running. 

The eye is upon us.  I don't know how long it will take to pass over, or even if it is the complete eye or just the edge.

I've been pushing water around the basement for so long that I'll be doing it in my dreams for the next week.  But, hey!  We still have power in this part of town and my brooms are holding up rather well, considering, so what am I complaining about, eh?  Not only that, but the sassafras is still standing.

New York City is dark, or large sections of it is, and the subways are flooded.  DC and Baltimore are not faring any better.  Phillie has massive flooding and property damage.  From the forecasts and weather-in-motion maps (go here to view them, if you're interested), it appears Sandy has altered her expected course and now will sweep across the entire length of Pennsylvania.  Bummer, dudes!

On the culinary front, I am celebrating this lull in the chaos with a cup of joe and some crackers with - pardon the vulgarity - tiger shit.  What,  you may well be asking yourself, is tiger s**t?!  In my case, it is peanut butter and some sugar-free strawberry jam all swirled together so that the two are streaky.  Yum, she says, voice dripping with sarcasm, breath stinking of...of...oh! - so that's why it's called that! 

Oh, crud!  I just realized that once the eye passes, the fun really begins.  The rains will be renewed, but coming from a different direction, and the winds will be stronger.  Hmmm...might lose power, after all.

While enjoying my hurricane party repast, I listened to Neil Young, one of my favorite singer-songwriters.  I was fine until "Only Love Can Break Your Heart" came on.  That song gets me every time.  He's going to be in concert in Fairfax, Virginia the day after Thanksgiving.  Would love to see him, hear him in person.

I'm rambling, I know.  Truth is, I'm at sixes and sevens, what with the storm going on outside, and the one going on within me.  This is one of those times when living alone is not as much fun as I thought it would be.  Actually, I didn't think it would be fun, exactly, but I thought it would be better than being married to someone who absolutely didn't love or want me around.  And, for the most part, it is.  Except when it feels like the world is falling apart, and I have no control over any of the scary bits, you know?  Maybe I need to get a dog.  Yeah, that's what I should do, definitely...NOT!  At least, not just yet.

Aha! the wind chime is singing again.  And there goes the wind through the trees, followed closely by the sound of rain dripping over the edge of the gutter, beating its own tattoo against the bowl of the bird bath.

Won't be long now until the sump pump starts up again.  I guess break-time is over.  Time to down the last of the coffee, put the tiger shit away and go pick up a broom.

Later, dudes!

That wasn't the eye of the hurricane - just a lull.  The eye will be here around 2 am, or so; another hour from now. 

Battening Down the Hatches

 

 

 

 

So, it begins.

 

The rains started early this morning, before the alarm woke me.  Until around 2:30 PM, EST (US), the weather wasn't anything unusual for this time of year.  We frequently have windy rainstorms in early- to mid-autumn, and this morning seemed like any other late October, early November weather system.

 

I left work about half an hour earlier than normal, to try to beat the winds that were forecast to begin around three this afternoon.  As I made my way across the back yard of the Weaver House (our office), the winds kicked up with a sudden force that nearly knocked me over.  It sucked the lift out of my umbrella and threatened to turn it inside out.  The ribs buckled and snapped, the canopy twirled like a top.  As heavy as I am, it felt as if I were being pulled skyward for a brief moment.  Mary Poppins flashed through my mind.  All I needed was Dick Van Dyke - and some cartoon penguins - and I'd've burst into song.

 

(If it weren't for my fantasy life, I'd have no life at all.)

 

When I arrived home, I could hear the sump pump running, trying to empty the basement of rainwater that had seeped in from every crack in the foundation it could find.  I know what I'm going to be doing for the next several hours.  I just ask the Universe to see to it that the power doesn't go out.  If it does, the sump pump won't run and the basement will become a swimming pool for all the spiders that live down there.  (No, Joe, I'm not going to make paper funnels to rescue them.  If they can't swim, too bad.)

 

In-landers sometimes seem (to me) to be Nervous Nellies about hurricanes.  Keep in mind, though, that I lived in New Orleans, where if Bubba Brown up the street flushed his toilet one time too often, the mayor called for emergency evacuations, that's how far below the sea level we were.  However, Pennsylvanians have survived some pretty nasty storms that even Crescent City folk would have to respect. 

 

Forecasters are suggesting that Sandy could well be as bad as Agnes, back in June of 1972.  I was with my first-Ex-Beloved and toddler daughter in California when Agnes came a-callin' on my in-laws, who were quite a few feet above sea level in beautiful Adams County.  The wind-driven rains and heavy downpours flooded basements and cellars in most of the homes there, not to mention heavy-duty property damage.  When my second ex-beloved and I bought the house I now call home, we were told how high the basement was flooded after Agnes.  That's when the sump pump was put in, and the furnace lifted from the floor onto a new concrete pad.  In fact, the entire floor to the basement was poured at that time, with a ten-degree slope laid in to facilitate the draining into the sump.

 

I am confident (I hope not overly so) that this storm will not be that bad, but I have been preparing for it, nonetheless.  In case power goes out, I have prepared some foods that require little, if any, refrigeration - boiled eggs, salads, fresh fruit and nuts for snacking - that sort of thing, nothing elaborate.  I've made a pot of coffee and some iced tea for the thermoses, and have filled a few clean water bottles.  There are fresh batteries in the five flashlights strategically placed around the house.  I brought out extra blankets to wrap up in, in case the furnace stops working.  Laundry has been washed and put away, so I have lots (!) of socks in case my toes get cold.

 

My biggest concern is the dead/dying sassafras at the side of the house.  Every time we have an 'ordinary' wind storm come through, at least two or three more branches break off, though not all of them hit the ground.  There is a slew of widow-makers hanging menacingly from the remaining limbs, draped like Snoopy-the-Vulture, in waiting for their next victims.  The deductible on my homeowners insurance is more than I can handle right now, so I'm hoping not to wake up in the morning with part of the Squirrel Highway across my bed.

 

A year ago, I'd have been freaking out about the dire possibilities this storm might bring, but having survived the year, my personal tour through the Ante-Chambers of Hell, I'm shrugging it off.

 

Either I've gotten better, or I am so deep in denial that even those ocean-trench-dwelling fishes with their own lanterns would be reluctant to visit me.

 

Whichever, I hope to be back reading your blogs before too long.

 

May the Universe look after all those in Sandy's way, as well as those of you who aren't.

Midnight Tarantella

It is nearly midnight of Sunday, 9-9-12, as I begin to type this.  I feel foolish even doing this, but there it is, what can I say?  I should be upstairs, in bed snoozing, out like a light, because I have to get up early for work. 

So, you might be asking yourself, why is she at her desk writing a blog post instead of falling asleep in her room?

Because there was a honking big spider in my room and I'm too weirded out to go back in there! 

How big, you ask?

All right, okay...maybe not that big, but even without my glasses on I could tell that it was the biggest spider I've ever seen in my house.  And it was on my bed.  ON MY BED!  where I was about to lie down and go to sleep.  Not only that, but it was posing in its menacing, eight-legged posture on my t-shirt I had planned to wear tonight, poised as tense as a rattler ready to strike if I so much as breathed in its direction.  After yelling "Omigod-omigod-omigod!" a couple of times (as if that was going to help) I grabbed the nearest thing I thought might dispatch the beastie with no harm to me.  I had brought up a plastic cup for water so I put that over my hand and smashed it against the spider.  Or so I thought.

I succeeded only in scaring the spider, which ran directly at the cup!  What was it thinking?  I had a weapon, and it was going to attack?  If I were a spider and something several hundred times bigger than I was was trying to hit me with something harder than my invertebrate body, I'd have run like hell for the nearest dark spot I could find - AWAY from my attacker.  Not this one!  It kept lunging toward me!

I smashed at it several more times with my red-cupped hand, all the while doing my kill-it-kill-it-kill-it dance from one foot to the other, missing the thing every time.  The cup cracked on the last attempt and two fingers slipped through the break.  I did a modified ninja leap over the bed and grabbed a flip-flop from under my dresser.  That's when I noticed one of the spider's legs had come off, stuck in the cracked plastic just above my fingers.

It was waving at me.

That's when I lost it.  The spider was no longer on top of my bed, but it wasn't on the floor, either.  I ripped the blanket and sheets from the bed looking for the thing.  Then a shadow in the space between the mattress and foundation moved toward the darkness.  Wielding the flip-flop as if it were a baseball bat, I beat the daylights out of every shadow I could find until one of them fell to the floor, limping away toward the dark under the bed.

SMACK! Smack, smack, smack!  Then one more for good measure.  The shadow pulled its remaining seven legs tight against its thorax and died.  Whereupon I ground its flesh deep into the fibers of the carpet, until only a wet spot marked its existence.

Exhausted, by emotions as much as the physical exertion the murder demanded, I tentatively checked to see if there were more of them waiting to cross my bed.  They travel in herds, you know, like deer, and if you see one, you can be certain there will be others waiting in the dark at the edge of the road (bed) to leap out in front of your car - or flip-flop - and frighten the life out of you.

I have to go put clean sheets on the bed and find another t-shirt to wear, one that isn't decorated with a dismembered spider parts.  I'm leaving the light on tonight, and sleeping with the flip-flop under my pillow.

Actual size of Spider:

No, I'm not kidding!

Love

 

I just read the most beautiful love story...two, actually.  You can find them at Anne's blog, under the title, September Sunset.

I feel a good weep coming on, so please excuse the brevity.  Goodnight, all.

Say It Ain't So, Fyodor! Oh, Say It Ain't!

Image © Jeremy Early

(Found this passage at Whiskey River.  All I could think to say is to paraphrase a newspaper headline, from years ago, about the "Shoeless Joe" Jackson baseball scandal; hence the title of this post.  - Martha)

"We're always thinking of eternity as an idea that cannot be understood, something immense. But why must it be? What if, instead of all this, you suddenly find just a little room there, something like a village bath house, grimy, and spiders in every corner, and that's all eternity is. Sometimes, you know, I can't help feeling that that's what it is."

- Fyodor Dostoyevsky

The Brothers Karamazov

Home Again, Jiggity-jig

The Crow (how odd to refer to my alter ego self in the third person) has returned to the nest.  Internet access was restored this morning.  I feel like I've been isolated while molting and now, full-feathered again, I can fly freely once more.

Yet...

Yet, I feel something is amiss.  This feeling is predictable, since we humans resist change, even change for the better, or one for which we have yearned a good while.  The walk to a computer I use today is far shorter than a few days ago, but not nearly so interesting.  I know the layout of my home better than the back of my hand.  There is nothing interesting about the basket of clean laundry waiting to be folded, or the jumble of art supplies in need of a good sorting, or the dishes from breakfast lallygagging in the sink.  I thought surely they'd have washed themselves by now.  Must I do everything in this house?  Oh.  I guess I must, mustn't I?

I did brew some Peruvian coffee this morning, a gift from my last visit to the food bank.  Quite good, actually, but not the high-end stuff at the library.  On the other hand, I did bring a cup of it to the office, where I set it precariously atop the hard-drive tower while I cleared a spot for it next to the keyboard.  Wouldn't have been allowed such a risky indulgence at good old Guthrie Memorial.

The early morning light streamed into the back room (office) through sheer tan curtains, not the spectacularly colored bits of glass that make up the Aristotle window.  Against light tan walls, the light was monotone, almost dreary.  Except that it was light, in all its glory, and I was alive to see it, so I can forgive its flatness.

The only chatter I heard came from two squirrels in the dogwood outside the back door, scolding a blue jay about something.  Probably because the bird was bathing in their drinking water.  Little do they know that's not all the birds do in their basin.

There were no quirky neighbors at the desk, no gigglers, nose-miners, nor grunters.  No social butterfly who used her computer time to take phone calls and text her numerous friends, all the while posting to a variety of social media platforms.  Now that's multi-tasking, folks, to the max!

Quiet is the sound I hear.  Broken only by the sound of keys being struck as I type this post.

Too quiet.  At least, it is this morning.

I see there will be a period of adjustment to get through, this being alone with my own computer, in my own library (of sorts), listening to only my thoughts. 

If only I can ignore the bossy squirrels.

Composing Myself at Computer #2

Next week I will have Internet access at home again, so this is likely to be the last dispatch from the library for awhile.  That being the case, I thought I'd close out this chapter of my blogging life with a few more of the photos I took in April and May.

The photo to the right (I hope what I'm seeing as I type this is what we'll all see when I publish this post) is the marquee of one of the first cinema houses in Pennsylvania west of Philadelphia.  It has fallen into serious disrepair, like a number of buildings here in town.  When the business community started spreading away from the downtown area, one of the first things the developers did was put in a multi-screen theater complex.  (I think they are referred to as "multi-plex" cinemas.)  That meant that the old State Theater drew fewer and fewer patrons, eventually closing its doors as a movie house shortly after we moved to town.  It then served time as an antiques mall (there is sarcasm in those words), then something else equally unimpressive (a cat lived in the ticket window, which is now boarded up in the image here) before a group of civic-minded investors tried to get a grant to restore the theater to its former glory.  The grant was denied and the theater has sat forlorn ever since.  I was struck by the poignant message on the marquee the morning I first walked up to the library.  It could easily apply to this town as well as the building.




 I love to window shop, which is what I do every time I walk up here.  I named these shoes "Spring Peepers."  These are in the store with the pencil-like art deco facade in an earlier post.














One of my favorite shops in town is the local bead shop.  It appeals to the crow in me, all those sparklies in one spot! 




















Below is a wide-angle shot of the northwest corner of the town square. I love how the early spring sunlight makes the building glow.  This was taken on my first walk up to the library, in April.

Finally, this green-sided house is where I work.

Sorry for the hodgepodge jumble this post has turned out to be.  See you farther down the line, friends.

Because You Turn 65 Only Once

The celebration seemed as good an excuse as any to be less conservative in my behavior -  and to wear a silly hat and wave a wand trimmed in pink mirabou feathers.  The day started on a sour note, but ended beautifully.  What more could one ask from a birthday?

In the clear light of the following morning, while brushing the sparklies from my hair, I was overcome by sensibility and rationality, far worse than any hangover I might have had in my life.  Now I had to be a somber, example-setting role model again - okay, okay - try to be.  My free-wheeling fun and silliness of the day before were becoming but a memory.

Albeit, a damned good one; to be brought out in the weeks and months ahead and savored; treasured, relived with wild abandon when life begins to get tedious again.  I started to write that the next milestone birthday would be my 70th, but following my quarterly check-up with my doctor the day after 65, I think every birthday from here on in will be a milestone.

Any excuse to wear a silly hat, I always say.

The Aristotle Window

This is the window I wrote about in earlier library posts.  No doubt, there are more spectacular pieces of stained glass art in the world, some even in the US, but this one lends a stately dignity and beauty to our library.  The artist was Raymond K. Perry.  He began designing and constructing the window in 1910.  Couldn't find much about Perry on Google.  Perhaps there is something in the library stacks about him; seems a logical place to start, eh?

The library's stained glass window is beautiful, especially when the afternoon sun shines upon it and the room is dappled in a rainbow of color.  It depicts Aristotle instructing a young Alexander, on his way to Greatness, I suppose.

The first image below shows the panel above Aristotle and his student.  The swastikas must have caused a terrible controversy post-WW2 because the library felt compelled at some point to produce an information sheet explaining that the swastika, as shown in the window, pre-dates the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei by at least 2,000 years and is a part of ancient cultures around the world, including Native American tribes.

The final image is of the bottom panel of the window.  I don't know who Edward Etzler Young was, other than someone's beloved son who died in his youth.  The window was installed in 1911, when the library was completed - hence its original name, The Young Memorial Library. 

There you have it: all I know (at present) about the Aristotle Window.

Hello, from Computer #1

I soon should have my own Internet service back, probably by mid-August.  On the one hand, that's a good thing (I can sit at the desk in 'jammies - or not - and can bring food [though ought not, the way I spill stuff], and I can stay on the Internet visiting my favorite blogs all blinkin' night long), but I will miss the people around the computer table, an ever changing cast of fascinating characters if ever there was. 

Some days it's like a three-ring circus in here (like today), some days are quieter than a Quaker meeting, other days remind me of the tableaux in '20s and '30s night clubs; not that I was there, but from what I've seen in movies from the time. 

Today, there is a young man who reminds me of my grandson, who is autistic.  This boy seems to be in his late teens, physically, but exhibits the same distractedness as my grandson, speaks in a voice more like a 12 year old and giggles at the oddest things.  (Hmmmm...wait a sec...so do I, come to think of it.  Am I an Aspie, too?  If so, then cool beans!  I like seeing the world through a different set of glasses than everybody else.  So, you go, kid!  Enjoy your view of the world and giggle all you want.)  I think he's giggling about the fellow who took his chair up to the checkout desk, set it down on the counter and asked, "Why is this chair so low?  Every time I sit in it, it gets lower."

For some reason, the librarians are especially vocal this afternoon, something I'm not used to; but then things have changed quite a lot from the time when I was a kid and librarians shushed you for coughing.  (Daisy, if you read this, I know you aren't like that - the shushing kind, I mean.)

I meant to post a photo of the stained glass window I mentioned in the earlier post about the library, so will do that another time.  I left my photo thumb drive at home.  Turns out it wasn't done by Tiffany after all, but by the man who co-founded DC Comics, home of Superman, Batman, Green Lantern, Wonder Woman and others.  The DC line started out as illustrated crime/detective stories, in the style of graphic novels, but along came Superman and out went the detective/crime stories. 

Another thing I'll miss when I no longer need the library is all the books.  When I finish on the computer, I like to browse the stacks, to see what we have here.  It's the slow, tactile, hands-on, old-timers (that would be me) version of search engines.  I do the searching, the browsing.

Then, there are the drop-down, keyboard-hopping spider surprises.  No, there aren't any here at the library.  That's my point. 

I have a few more minutes at Computer #1, and I want to go read my favorite blogs, so - Adios, friends.  See you farther on down the line.

Oh, yeah!  The coffee.  The library offers premium grade coffee for their patrons, although we can't bring it to the computer table, a small bummer.  Yeah, I'm going to miss the coffee.

Okay...maybe I'll wean myself away from the library after I have the 'Net at home again.  Maybe for every posting I make at home, I'll come here and post three, or four, or more.  Yeah, that's the ticket.

Farmers Market: Last Images

She makes breakfast items - eggs, sausage, bacon, toast, breakfast sandwiches.

Father and son team make soft pretzels, pretzel sandwiches and pretzel dogs.  Pretzel dough is cut into circles, flattened into thin rounds then ham and cheese is sandwiched between the dough rounds - somewhat like a croque monsieur, only baked.  The wieners are wrapped in strips of dough, then baked.  I probably should have tried for a different angle on the dogs.

Of course, there are sweets, the kind that make your teeth ache just looking at them - from the gooey, pudding and whipped cream concoctions...

...to all sorts of candies.  There were dozens of items in the sweets category, but these are the only photos worth posting.

(C)2012, M. C. McLemore

Farmers Market: Not Locally Grown

The images below are from April. 

The contract with the borough all renters sign states that we must be open for business each day the Market is open and that we must sell what we stated we would in the contract.  Consequently, some of the farmers and fruit growers buy produce from area wholesalers in order to stay open and keep their stalls.  All the produce and fruit has to be grown in the United States, however.  Most of the warm weather and tropical fruit and vegetables come from Florida, Louisiana, Texas and California.  I think the pineapples are from Hawaii...or, maybe, California.
(C) 2012, M. C. McLemore

Huge cantaloupes (a.k.a. musk melons, down south).

Farmers Market: Local Greengrocers

When I went to Market in April, the local growers didn't have much in yet.  When I returned in June to take more photos, there were many more things on hand.  The first six images were taken in April; the remainder, in June.

I am embarrassed to say I have lost this farmer's name.  He owns one of the organic farms in the county and is very proud of that fact.  The greens and lettuces are from his farm, started in cold-frames then set out in the warm part of the beds.  Because we had such a warm, wet spring, the plants took off like a house afire.

A friendly, but camera shy Mennonite woman brought in asparagus from her farm.  Somebody else had the thin spears for sale a couple of stalls down from her, but I fancy fat spears.

These mushrooms are from Lancaster county, to our east.  The area is known throughout the state for its mushrooms, all kinds, but these are all that were ready in early April.

Beautiful spinach.

 Mrs. Mennonite also had early onions (scallions) on offer...

...and some of her pickled end-of-harvest veggies.  That's chow-chow relish third from the left.  Chow-chow is one of the seven-sour-seven-sweet pickles on their farm tables, especially at haying time, funerals and barn-raisings.  I don't think they put out that many for regular meals, though they might.

The following photos were taken in mid-June, when local produce became more readily available.

 New potatoes: Yukon Golds, I think.

 Zucchini wars!  One competitor's zukes are smaller, more tender, certainly fresher looking, and less expensive than...

...his competition right around the corner.  They all look good, but I bought from the first guy.

These next photos are all from the same farmer's stall.  His orchards are producing better this year, he said, than the last couple of years, due to the good weather we had this spring.

These are an early sweet cherry, the name of which I didn't write down.  I want to say Bing, but I'm not positive.

 This is a recently developed peach Mr. Tuckey's experimenting with in his orchards, called PF5.  It's supposed to mature early, produce heavily and early, and is sweeter than most early peaches.  It is a cling.  Too early, I learned, for freestones.

Root crops (turnips and beets), left in the ground and heavily mulched over last winter for an early spring crop.  Dug up and cleaned the day before market.

 Another early peach, Rich May, if I remember correctly.  I'll correct that, if I discover that isn't the name.  Another cling.

Queen Anne cherries, possibly Rainier, one of my favorite sweet cherries.  (I also favor Bings and sour cherries.  I think the sour cherry is Montgomery...I'll check.)

There are a couple of commercial 'farmers' stalls that I photographed because of how nicely the produce was arranged, but the produce was not locally grown.  I'll post a couple of those next.

(C) 2012, M. C. McLemore

Farmers Market: the Baker

This is Mrs. B, owner of Byer's Butterflake Bakery, and her granddaughter, who loves to come to Market with her grandmother.  I used to buy a pastry from her shop when I had a stall here, to have with one of the teas I had brewed for samples.  Good stuff, let me tell you.  Lots of Pennsylvania-Dutch treats, and so much more.

What I like about her cinnamon bread is that it's baked in pans that leave cutting marks along the loaf.  How convenient!  The loaves are loaded with cinnamon and make fantasic toast.

Despite it being only early April, she had several of this lovely, fragrant strawberry pie for sale.  (I think the berries are from Louisiana, maybe Florida.  Local berries don't start showing up until mid-May, usually.)  Those are key-lime pies in the background.



 Lemon sponge pies above, and springtime-themed sugar cookies below - flowers, chicks, Easter eggs.  Oh, how I wished I had brought money along that day!  Mrs. B also makes the best shoo-fly pies I've ever had, but that photo didn't turn out well enough to post.  Another day, perhaps.

I returned a couple of weeks later, with wallet, and bought one of what Mrs. B calls molasses cakes.  I call it delicious, soft, and wonderful with a cup of coffee from the corner mini-mart.  I justified the purchase by telling myself that I had burned off most of the calories in the cookie...uh, cake...by all the walking I'd done that morning.  Hey, that's my story and I'm sticking to it, okay?  Okay.

(C) 2012 M. C. McLemore