It was a Cold and Rainy

Morning.

As I sat in my vehicle at 7:30 AM letting the engine warm up, my hands began to freeze on the steering wheel. Little by little, the defroster overcame the frozen patches of frost on the windshield; my seat warmer began to heat my butt up to driving temperature. It was December 14 and I was beginning my Lamb Quest.

Flaps down. Vehicle trim. Power on. Move from “P“ark to “D“rive.

“Ensign Crusher — engage!“

And there I was, walking into my grocery store, eyes straight ahead, la-la-lalling down the coffee aisle, headed straight for the meat coolers where all those day-before-expiration-date-price-reduced legs of lambs were waiting. Man, oh, man, I was psyched. Five of them! I grabbed the first one.

The red REDUCED FOR QUICK SALE price label was missing! I pushed up my trifocals, focusing on the label. The leg of lamb was so close to my face I could smell sheep lanolin and hear the bleating, “Bahhhh, bahhhh, BAH.” But it was not a lamb bleating I heard. It was a MOAN coming from — me. “Last sale Date: December 15.”

I was a day early.

Miserable and dejected, I clutched the steering wheel and began to drive home. The rain changed to snow.

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FFT: Souse

FRIDAY FOOD THING

Hog's Head Cheese

Today’s FRIDAY FOOD THING was going to be a leap of faith for me: a review of something I have never had before. Something I’ve been afraid to try. A Southern something called “Souse“. Something that’s often called “Hogs Head Cheese“. Souse sounds better, but it was not meant to be. When I got home from the grocery store, a bottle of wine and my package of souse was nowhere to be found. The only thing I can figure is the grocery store bagger must have put the wine and the souse on the bottom shelf of my shopping cart, where I neglected to look. The wine and the package of souse is probably still sitting in the parking lot cart caddy.

Well, the package of souse probably is…

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04/28/2012

Tim Says: Oh, oh. The ball’s a rolling. I just called a local butcher shop and can purchase a hog’s head for $8 plus tax. Sounds cheap to me! I asked if they could cut my head in half for me. They laughed. “I meant the hogs head!” “No!” they said. “That would tear up our saw.” I made a mental note. Haven’t stepped off the cliff yet. But now I know the cliff is there if I decide to leap.

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The Bandit Grebe

For the past few days I have baited my minnow trap with stale slices of bread and thrown the contraption out into the shallows near my boat dock. Curious minnows and tiny sunfish soon gather around and eventually find their way through the one-way doors to feast on the goodies within. But hours later, upon checking the trap, I have noticed the trap has been mysteriously opened, devoid of both bread or minnows.

Years ago lake otters would have been the obvious culprits, swimming by in their charming manner, fooling us into laughing at their antics, later backtracking when we weren’t looking, to peel fresh fish from our stringers or shiners from our bait boxes, chuckling to themselves as they laid on their backs, in plain sight, nibbling on what they had stolen.

But, sadly, I haven’t seen otters in my cove for many years.

This morning I noticed a lone grebe paddling around the end of the dock. A grebe is kind of like a duck, except (some of them) are dark and have white bills with myriad shades of glowing neon eyes. Grebes come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. All grebes are exceptional swimmers and, like penguins, can dive underwater and travel great distances. And like otters, I discovered, they can open minnow traps and gobble down anything that’s inside.

So now when I toss out a baited minnow trap I also toss a few pieces of bread off the other end of the dock. The grebe pays me no mind, dives ungraciously underwater. A minute later a chunk of damp Wonder bread is yanked below the surface, and when I leave the dock to grab a bite to eat and return later, my minnow trap is empty all over again.

I’m sure this love-hate relationship will flourish, and we will become great friends. Who knows, maybe one day we can share a box of crackers and a can of sardines.

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Plant Day

Very similar to Spring Cleaning but occurring one or two weeks later, “Plant Day” has always been one of my most pleasurable household chores. Plant Day is that particular moment in time when all wintering indoor plants are moved outdoors for the summer. A kind of healing quest where, over time, all the winter-damaged miscellaneous plants of every description are carried outside (dead and yellowed leaves forming a Hansel & Gretel bread-crumb pathway through every doorway in the house) to a screw-hook fastened to a wizened tree or overhead porch-space, with a garden hose outlet nearby.

So it will be today at Lake Gaston.

One by one, the south-side houseplants are removed from their dangling chains and crowded tables, transferred to a seasonal space out-of-doors where varying degrees of sunlight soon performs a triage of sorts. Out comes the kitchen scissors amid screams heard only by me, as lagging shoots, roots, and leaves are snipped off in a massive shearing operation not unlike that shared by draftees at boot camp, sheep farms, or possibly even guillotine inductees.

But after a while the screaming subsides.

A positive type of attitude adjustment is occurring, one that works quite well in tightening up the ranks of straggler or confused plant limbs and dangling vines. By the time evening trickles through the leaves of nearby oak and maple tree neighbors,  the indoor house plants will have become OUTDOOR house plants, no longer flinching when I walk by browsing casually through their foliage, looking for last-minute edits, like a needle-wielding dentist.

By nightfall most wounds will be healed and plant-heads will be carefully exploring their new surroundings, murmuring semi-contentedly to themselves just loudly enough so I can hear — new night sounds melding with the screeing of tree frogs, hoot-owls hooting, and the flap-flaps of bat wings chasing insects overhead.

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Is that a Duck?

(from 2001)

I received a phone call last week from a creditor who was inquiring about my recent change of address. It seems I had forgotten to inform the Texaco credit card folks of my move to Lake Gaston, and they were politely wondering if the current North Carolina charges were, in fact, my own doing.

Is that a Duck?

On that particular morning I had taken the call on a wireless phone. I was sitting on the dock enjoying a cup of coffee.

“Excuse me, Mister Lee… but is that a DUCK I hear in the background?” asked the account representative.

“Yes, it is,” I replied, heading to the house in order to examine my most recent Texaco credit card statement. “I’m now living on a lake,” I explained.

When I got to my office I sat down next to my computer, where I had left a Microsoft Golf game program running. (MS Golf often lets fly with a “RiBBit!” sound effect to distract you during a back-swing.)

“Excuse me, Mister Lee,” the voice said again, this time hesitantly. “… but is that a FROG I hear in the background?”

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Spring Greening

Spring on Lake Gaston

With the mild type of winter we’ve had here in North Carolina, it’s hard to feel that Spring hasn’t already happened. March came in like a sacrificial lamb, and even though it’s long gone, there’s still a passive bleating going on out there that’s becoming more and more like a whimper. The daffodils near the edge of the lake are thoroughly confused, as are the azaleas—now in full bloom. Leaves have puffed out from tree branches like lime green popcorn. (I would think the maples and oaks have been fooled by unseasonably warm weather before, and are smart enough to know better. But they are actively frolicking like children in the warm afternoons as well.)

But for now, everything seems right, and even though the mad prance of Spring seems to have passed like a ghost, I’m sure there’s a surprise or two greening just around the corner.

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Gertie the Gardenia

A while back I mentioned a tiny plant Mom had received from one of those 1-800-SendMomaPlant holiday florist-type shops. Sent to her for a Valentine’s Day “IrememberU” gift by a granddaughter, it was a small, 6-inch, green-foil-wrapped potted gardenia whose tiny buds were miraculously in full, miniature bloom.

Like most such live potted love-plant gifts, it was doomed to a slow, windowsill death.

On the last morning of my Valentine’s Day visit, Mom said, “Why don’t you take this plant back up to North Carolina with you and plant it somewhere safe rather than letting it die, neglected, in my room?”

When I got home, I set “Gertie the Gardenia” on a living-room table that had a bright, Venetian blind-protected Southern exposure: right from the start, Gertie was happy. In the winter months — with the sun very low on the horizon — she blushes like hell sitting adjacent to “Ollie”, an indoor oregano plant, with whom she has become (I suspect!) a bit more than just good friends. As the years passed, and seeing how well she had adapted to her indoor home, I transplanted Gertie several times, until she sits — even as I write this — in a 25-inch pot.

Valentine's Day Love-Plant with Lots of Blooms 2B

Last time when I told you about Gertie, I mentioned how great she smelled when she was in full bloom. And that — yes, indoor gardenia plants do, indeed, bloom. “Pictures!” you all cried out. “Show us PICTURES!”

Well, by golly, and since I never forget, take a look at Gertie, who has just begun one of her robust blooming campaigns that will last for a month or longer. Sometimes, she does this more than once a year.

Just thought you’d like to see what can be done with one of those “doomed to a slow, windowsill death” Valentine’s Day love-plants. (Okay, I admit it. In-between bursts of around-the-clock spiritually cleansing fragrance, Gertie asked me to write today’s story.)

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Warp Speed

I don’t want this to sound like a “you know you’re living in the twenty first century when” chain email, but a friend of mine called a while ago saying he was looking at a new house. He, his wife, son and daughter live near Kerr Lake (pronounced “car”), on the western end of Lake Gaston. Water flows through the Kerr Lake dam, feeding Lake Gaston. Although the Kerr Lake water level may fluctuate twenty or thirty feet, Lake Gaston always remains at about the same level.

“I found an eleven acre farm, Tim,” he said. “House looks real nice. Everyone’s excited. Big trees, a barn, lots of garden space. Real nice. Gotta go talk with the real estate agent.”

He called back about three hours later. “How’s the house?” I asked.

“Forget it,” he exclaimed. “It’s so far out in the boonies there’s no cable modem service. Then I called to check on DSL and they laughed.”

In all fairness, my friend works out of a home office instead of commuting to and from Raleigh every day, a two hour drive each way. A large part of what he does relies on a swift company link in both directions. I suggested a satellite system similar to one I used to use, but a satellite upload is comparable to dial-up speed and not fast enough for his needs.

My friend’s reasoning got me to thinking about how completely the weft and woof of technology has been woven into the everyday tapestries that make up our lives. To think that Internet connection speed and broadband availability could affect such a monumental decision as buying a new home is, well – mind warping. But it’s certainly something to check out before making the plunge.

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“And the Moon be Still as Bright”*

“And the Moon be Still as Bright”*.

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If I Just Listen

If I Just Listen.

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