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Idle essays

Memorial Day, Memories, and Amazing Work

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Yesterday being Memorial Day, the berserk hordes who now inhabit Our Great City headed out of town, leaving the city streets prett’ much empty. And good riddance to them: it gets less and less pleasant to live in a city that keeps growing like some unholy fungus from outer space…without regard to whether there’s enough water to support millions of people from now into perpetuity…or even until the day after tomorrow. Meanwhile, though, some of us do not quit working just because it’s a holiday: Luis the Arborist showed up at 6 a.m. sharp (uhm… more or less) to cut back the overgrown paloverde, palo brea, and olive.

I hate to do that to these beautiful trees. But the paloverde had sent two limbs up over the roof. One of these sprang from a trunk (it has four trunks) that had started to sag ominously under the weight…suggesting that the first good, hard monsoon that blows in this summer would drop a half-ton of tree limb onto my roof or the neighbor’s. The palo brea poses no threat to any structures, but it does crave to claw out the eyes of passers-by. Given the opportunity, it drapes its monstrously thorny boughs over the sidewalk, where they wave in the breeze right at head-height for a human. So that thing has to be trimmed back every year.

And yes, I do hate cutting them back, especially the paloverde. This morning there are NO birds in the side yard. As I’ve said recently, normally the place is alive with them. So presumably they were either nesting or taking shelter in the overgrown paloverde.

Before Luis came over, I inspected it to see if I could spot nests, but couldn’t see any. So thought it safe enough to let him have at it. But this morning’s absence of the flocks of sparrows, towhees, dove, and house finches suggests that was wrong.

However…the risk of a 500-pound tree limb falling on the roof kinda outweighed the risk of, alas, scaring off the birds.

Meanwhile, a Memorial Day shopping expedition was planned with friends VickyC and KJG. I had to arrive at VickyC’s house at 10 a.m., meaning the key errands I needed to do — grab some dog food and fill up the gas tank — had to be done early. Wrangling the tree guy around the dogs threw a monkey wrench in the plans to do those tasks.

Flew up to Walmart, which is close to the house and usually has the fancy dog food — overpriced though the stuff is for their customer base. But no…they had no chicken, only beef. Ruby the Corgi Pup is allergic to beef. So had to traipse all the way down to AJ’s. The Costco was on the way from the Walmart to the AJ’s, and by then it was past opening time.

Arrive at the Costco gas station to find it empty. Closed. Padlocks on the gas pumps. F!!!ck.

Moving on to AJ’s, they were mercifully open (not so merciful for their employees, but I have no idea what I would’ve done about the dogs had the store been closed…not many places carry this particular brand of overpriced dog food, and it takes two or three hours to cook a new batch of their regular chow).

This junket, as it developed, was a Drive Down Memory Lane.

Holy mackerel…do you have any idea how long it’s been since driving around our fair city was a pleasant endeavor?

The streets were essentially empty. Every yahoo and homicidal driver had freaking left town, Memorial Day traditionally being the first really hot day of the summer. Everyone who’s anyone and a great number who are no one heads out of the city, northward bound on often motionless freeways.

And I was reminded that — can you believe this? — once I liked to drive around Phoenix. Once upon a time it was actually fun to get in your car and just cruise the streets, day or night. As bored 20-year-olds, we had a game in which we would get in the car, the driver poised to take orders from the person in the shotgun seat. Said sidekick would flip a coin: heads we go left; tails right. And we would just drive around, exploring the city at random, usually ending up on the side of Camelback Mountain. If driver and sidekick were members of the opposite sex, this accidental destination presented some even more entertaining possibilities. 😉

So it was strangely pleasant. Despite the frustrations encountered at the Walmart and the Costco, I arrived home in an almost unheard-of good mood, instead of mad as a cat and grinding my teeth. Surprising! On any normal day, driving here leaves you wanting to bite someone.

Leads me to think I should think about living in a smaller city. Like, say, Prescott. Or the beloved Yarnell. Ah, Yarnell. Ah, 40 acres a few miles out of town. Yes. Please.

KJG and her husband, Mr. Fireman, just sold their house up against the White Tanks. They’ve bought a place in Payson, where they’re now in the process of moving. It’s on four acres of forested land and is really going to be a lovely place to live.

Our plan was to have lunch at a favorite place in lovely downtown Tempe, then make a run on our favorite European shoe store, which was having a 10% off sale. But just before we left, we discovered the restaurant was closed. So were all the restaurants in the vicinity of VickyC’s house.

So we came on up to the Funny Farm, where I happened to have a nice package of organic free-range chicken thighs snabbed from the local Sprouts. We cooked those up with some veggies and a side of fresh tomatoes, and enjoyed sitting around yakking for quite some time.

KJG remarked that she’s headed up to Payson this week to establish residence and clean cupboards, cabinets, closets, and everything else preparatory to the arrival of their worldly goods. Mr. F is staying here for the nonce, so that he can continue to pack stuff into their pick-up and trailer and to keep the crazy neighbors’ horde of cats out of the yard…the new buyers being innocent of the fact that KJG and Mr. F are moving because of the filthy cats’ defiling the house’s yard, walls, patios, and gardens.

Isn’t that something? Being driven out of your dream home, custom built for you in one of the prettiest parts of the Valley, by effing nut cases who board mobs of cats and refuse to keep them off your property! These people essentially hijacked the HOA, so the specific written covenants were not enforced and are never gonna be enforced.

At any rate, she remarked that she didn’t have enough silverware to leave some for Mr. F and take enough for her — they only have one set.

Mwa ha ha! Lo and behold, I just happen to have a whole set of fairly fancy flatware, purchased at Williams Sonoma about three years ago. Bought it because I was about to host a temporary roommate, and I knew the fact that my working stainless looked almost identical to my Christofle — which I use all the time — was gonna cause trouble. The silver, while it can be washed in the dishwasher, has to be loaded separate from the stainless. Well, the existing stainless set is such a close knock-off of the Christofle pattern that sometimes even I have trouble telling them apart.

As soon as the roommate moved on — joining her husband in San Francisco, whence he had decamped three months before her contract employment ran out — I resurrected the Christofle knock-offs. Old age: anything new makes you nervous. 😉

So she was pleased to take this practically new set, and I was delighted to give it to her. A great housewarming gift, eh? May she use it in good health, now and evermore.

By the time we finished stuffing ourselves and talking ourselves blue, KJG was getting tired. She and Mr. F have been schlepping up and down to Payson (a 2½ hour drive) carrying their worldly goods, all the while packing and trying to keep the Waddell castle pristinely clean (and cat-urine stink-free…). So she excused herself.

VickyC and I drove out to Tempe, where I spent a great deal more than I could afford on a new pair of dressy(ish) black sandals. My old ones, which I wear to excess, were completely shot: holes worn on the insole under the toes! So that was a pricey trip. Not as pricey as it would have been, though, had we found a non-fast-food restaurant open.

And so it goes…

 

Running around in Circles

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Just back from a one-mile jog with the dawgs. Trying to get out at 5:00 a.m., but we usually dawdle until around 6, which means some rush-hour traffic is already beginning. And the sun is in your eyes: hafta wear a wide-brimmed hat.

So we must make quite a spectacle by the light of dawn: two dwarf shepherd dogs and an old lady in a floppy straw hat, trotting along while trying to stay in the shade. 😀

I hate running. I’ve never liked to run, not even when I was a little girl. And truth to tell, I walk faster than I can run.

Jogging is not exactly running and it certainly isn’t walking: it exercises a few different muscles and pounds your joints, which supposedly is therapeutic for your osteoporosis. Right…if you can’t break your hip one way, you can do it another way! 😀

A mile or more of jogging at least does work you up to light panting, which I imagine means it’s burning some calories. I’m frantically trying to get rid of the 8 pounds I put on during the time when the only thing I could eat was ice cream. This, before revisiting the quack, who is now all worried because my cholesterol levels are wacksh!t, presumably because of pigging out on ice cream for a good ten days. Or more.

The chemical burns in the mouth went away after about two weeks or so. So now I feel no great craving for a way to chill the inside of the maw without causing the cracked and chipped teeth to explode. That’s nice. I guess.

So I’ve lost almost 2 pounds in the past week… but… My son invited me over to his house, and I did eat.

This kid can cook.

Normally I eat my largest and last meal of the day around 1 or 2 p.m. That way, I’m not especially hungry at bed-time, or if I am hungry, it’s not unbearable. This strategy — a decent breakfast around 6  or 7 a.m. and a magnificent meal in the early to mid-afternoon — seems to promote weight loss efficiently, especially when combined with light exercise.

As of yesterday morning, I actually was down more than 2 pounds: 2.1 pounds at the crack of dawn. But by this morning I’d gained almost a pound: .8 pounds over yesterday’s measure. So in fact, the official May 23 weight-loss figure is only 1.3 pounds down from Day 1. So my cookies are frosted.

Most of the meal was within the low-carb limit: steak, salad, mixed vegetables. But the veggies came from Sprouts and had some sort of commercial sauce — presumably, like most things that come out of boxes, bags, and cans, full of sugar, starches, and substances from the chemistry bench. And worse yet, we had garlic bread.

Bread makes me blow up like a balloon.

But I dearly love garlic bread. It is impossible to resist garlic bread. Naturally, I had four pieces of the stuff. Who wouldn’t? 😉

Oh, well. Usually bread-based bloat goes away in a day or two. But it’s annoying. Especially when you have to run around in circles to make it go away.

“Another Beautiful Day in Arizona…”

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“…Leave us all enjoy it!”

{chortle!} That was the slogan of a long, long-ago governor of Arizona, a classic specimen of the state’s political fauna. The guy had been a radio announcer before he rose to the state’s highest office. He was a bit of an ignoramus, a good ole’ boy who may or may not have feigned that style. As it developed, he was far from the most stupid of the critters we have elected to public office. Evan Mecham took that cake. Ev was the Donald Trump of the Southwest.

What a character.

Ev was so flamboyantly bizarre — and so excessively stupid — that nobody wanted to miss a minute of the sideshow. We all — every citizen of the state — went out and bought these tiny portable TVs (this was long before the day of cell phones and Google News), which we toted into the office with us. It took a year and four months to shovel him out of office. He was impeached in April 1988, when he enjoyed a criminal trial for his efforts as, uhm, governor.

It was hilarious while it lasted. But then…to have a fool for a governor is a bit different from having one as President of the United States, hm?

In less laughable climes: Just found two (!!) emergent holes of paloverde beetles under one of the beloved Arizona sweet orange trees. The monsters love citrus as much as they love paloverde trees.

That tree was peakèd this spring, so I suspected something was up. (Or…down under.) Citrus trees will go “off” once every few years, look sickly, and produce rather sad fruit. Then they revive the following year. It’s as if they need to “rest” every now and again. But I’m afraid the present anemia resulted from its roots being eaten by these goddamned bugs’ grubs, which live most of their lives underground — about 8 years. When they emerge to breed, they’re at the end of their lives — they only last a few days above ground.

Control is extremely iffy. We might say “feeble.” Virtually nothing kills them. Some years ago I found a supposed organic treatment — you apply these microbes that allegedly attack the grubs, infect them, and do them in. But after a couple of years of applying according to instructions, they didn’t do a thing.

Then a guy at Home Depot — a retired arborist come back to earn a few pennies to finance his loafing — steered me to an insecticide that he claimed, contrary to accepted wisdom, would do the grubs in if applied at the right time of year and well soaked into the ground. That stuff does work moderately well. It certainly cut the number of emergent holes, which at one point were upwards of a dozen around the paloverde tree. Since at any given time an infestation can deliver hundreds or thousands of grubs, you know that for every mature, flying beetle dozens and dozens of babes are chewing away at your trees.

The problem with said insecticide is you can’t apply it to food plants. So if I put this stuff on the oranges, I won’t be able to eat next year’s crop of oranges. And that will not be a good thing. Those oranges are like candy. I gorge on them all spring, starting in February. I can easily eat five or six for breakfast, and then pull off some more during the day.

So I’m loathe to apply it. Not only do I not want to do without next year’s crop, neither do I know whether the following year’s fruit will be safe to eat. And of course, given that this stuff certainly isn’t going to kill all of the thousands of grubs underground (there were still some emergent holes the summer after I dumped it around the paloverde tree), getting rid of them may entail having to apply it several years in a row. Or…now and evermore.

It’s very early for paloverde beetles to emerge. Forgodsake, this is only May! They normally come out at the beginning of monsoon season, which starts mid- to late July. Apparently the combination of heat, humidity, and long daylight hours calls them forth. For two of them to climb out of the ground at this time of year is pretty surprising.

A flock of a dozen whitewing doves are scarfing up the seed I put out this morning. An interested thrasher is also lurking around. Thrashers will eat paloverde beetles. I’ve seen one do battle with one of those armored bugs…and it’s quite a show! So it’s in the trees’ interest to attract some fierce and muscular flying dinosaurs…as well as their cousins, the mockingbirds.

Here’s a thing that looks sort of like a house finch, but he’s probably not getting the type of food he most needs. His head and breast are distinctly orange, not red, which (so we’re told) indicates he’s not finding food with enough pigment to make him red. When you’re a lady house finch, you tend to favor a gent with the reddest possible coloring.

And the requisite pair of Abert’s towhees are back. These fine little birds will clear out an anthole in a few days. They do a funny little dance in leaf litter that involves hopping back and forth to stir things up until they flush a sowbug or some other hapless ground-crawling critter. It is, we might say, a well fed bird in these parts.

Speaking of the paloverde tree, one of its major branches has become so heavy it has dropped down to the level of the back wall and threatens to rest on the roof. Luis the arborist said he would come by this afternoon (that would mean “some time this week, maybe”) to take a look at it.

Luis is a very fine tree guy, hampered only by the fact that he no habla a helluva lot of inglès. Old-country men have much to recommend them, specifically a kind of grace and courtliness that tempers their machismo. Not only does he have this much-to-be-desired characteristic, he also really knows how to maintain trees. Never once have I seen him hack away at a tree with a chainsaw. He trims and shapes each tree by hand, with his brain fully engaged. He knows what he’s doing, and he does it well.

My plan is to ask him if we can brace that big stem up, because (especially at this time of year!) I don’t want to lose its shade. But I can just imagine what he’ll say about that.

I may have to take out a bank loan to pay him — there wasn’t enough in the checking account to cover Chuck’s bill for the damn Venza’s new battery and also stave off bankruptcy. In addition to the paloverde tree in back, the shrubs I installed in front to block the view of the former Dave’s Used Car Lot, Marina, and Weed Arboretum ran amok this spring. It’s surprising the neighbors haven’t complained to the city about them. So there are at least three very large plants out there that need to be cut back.

devil-pod-treePlus Gerardo would like to say good-bye to the devil-pod tree on the west side. I’d like to see it go, too. But…

a) I do not wish to say good-bye to its shade, despite the unholy mess it makes; and
b) Neither do I wish to say good-bye to one of Gerardo’s cousins, who you may be sure will be sent into the treetop (which touches the stratosphere now) to hack it down; and
c) Nor do I wish to have one of those characters drop a branch on my neighbor Terri’s roof, since I very much doubt my homeowner’s insurance will cover any such antics.

I think it will require a crane to take it down safely, that’s how high the tree is now. And I’m going to afford that…how?

Gooood morning, America…

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Aaarghhh! 😀 It was a good morning in America, till my fine failing memory scotched it up. Yesterday afternoon when I put a pot of sun tea to steep on the flagstones by the BBQ, I said to my hot (indeed) little self, “Remember to bring that in lest the dogs bash it running around.”

Seems like a reasonable thought, doesn’t it?

The dogs usually go out the side door at any time other than early morning, because it’s shadier and cooler on the side of the house. In the morning they go out the back door. And any time they go out, they FLY out the door like two rockets competing to see which will get to the moon first.

Naturally what with the distraction of an entire day of singing and then a church potluck, I forgot the tea. When I staggered in the house yesterday evening, only one thing was on my mind: Fall face-down into the sack!

That’s my excuse and I’m stickin’ with it.

So, continuing the “Naturally” trail, we get home from running a mile. I toss off my clothes so as to jump into the pool, fling open the pack door, and the rockets FLY out the door in their accustomed style.

And they SLAM into the damn bottle of tea, which flips over, explodes, and scatters tiny razor-sharp shards of glass all over the quarter-minus.

For those of you who live in more civilized climes: Quarter-minus is finely ground gravel mixed with sand. It’s used to ape the natural look of the ancient desert floor in xeric landscsping.

What a MESS!

So I have to spend a half-hour cleaning up that menace.

First, check dogs: they seem not to have cut their feet and I can’t find any shards of glass stuck in their pads. That’s something, anyway. I guess.

Now it’s BOLT down breakfast, because I have to get out of here at 7:30 to take the car to Chuck’s for an oil change. That is about 12 minutes from right now, as we scribble.

Chuck’s 8 a.m. appointment means that I have to do this wack-sh!t jig to get out of the ‘hood. You can’t turn left off the main north-south drags that flank the ‘hood, except for Conduit of Blight, which is blocked by the damned train, which means you’ll have a five-minute wait at any left-turn signal. The train renders Conduit of Blight pretty much nonnavigable south of Gangbanger’s Way.

So to get to a road where I can reach Chuck’s garage, I have to drive through three neighborhoods to reach a southbound road that I can turn left off of, or drive through two neighborhoods, go a half-mile north, go east on Gangbanger’s Way all the way to 12th Street, then go south on 12th (adding another half-mile, meaning I have to drive a mile out of my way to accomplish this jig) to neighborhood street where Chuck’s resides (you can’t turn left into Chuck’s from the main drag that his garage fronts on, either), park in the alley behind the garage, walk in, and let the boys know I’m in their precincts.

So 12th Street is a half-mile east of Chuck’s. This latter route, then, entails having to go TWO MILES out of my way every time I take the car for an oil change.

In other words, our fine green-thinking City Parents’ traffic control schemes ADD to the air pollution and gas consumption problem that they supposedly address. You can be sure that if one little old lady is driving out of her way to go in the direction that she needs to go, so are a whole lotta other people.

Makes Yarnell look mighty good, doesn’t it?

Yarnell doesn’t even have stop signs. That’s how huge it is.

And so, away…to do battle with the effing rush-hour traffic! A good morning to you, too, America…

This, That, and the ‘Tother…

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Drawing a bit of a blank about what to write about this morning. Yesterday evening I had some brilliant idea, but now can’t remember it. But of course I can’t remember my name, so…no surprise there.

Here’s an Abert’s towhee out here in the backyard, pecking up some bugs under the paloverde tree. They’re effective insectivores — the birds, that is; not the trees. Along with a thrasher or two and a passel of sparrows, they’ll keep your yard free of ants and any number of other little crawlers.

Most of the hummers have (wisely enough) migrated north. They’re leaving the Valley earlier each year, in response to the climate change that doesn’t exist.

The Anna’s hummingbird used to migrate with them. They stopped doing so, though, with the influx of human admirers who hang out sugar water for them. For many years they buzzed about the Valley all year round. But this particular variety of flying gem is also damn scarce this spring…summer, or whatever it is. Reloaded all the feeders but have only seen one or two of them. So presumably this is yet another loss to what was once a pretty spectacular quality of life in Arizona.

My son says he wants to buy 40 acres in southeastern Utah, park a Tiny House in the middle of it, and go completely off the grid. Just him and his golden retrievers.

I have to say…there are times when that sounds pretty damn good. Think of how many unpublishable novels a creative type could scribble under those conditions.

😀

But turning to the writing career, let us speak of cabbages and journalism…  The other day I picked up a sort of scholarly disquisition published by a Canadian university press. It is, shall we say, spare. Not to say “slight.” Which is, yes…that is what it is.

It’s only about 100 pages of copy, including a very lightweight introduction that does nothing but outline the book’s contents.

Looked at that thing and thought…huh! What I’ve already got in the “Drugging of America” series would fill that much space. Especially if, as this guy’s book is, it’s set in large type with wide margins. The guy has gotta be someone’s son-in-law.

So I decided to trick out a proposal. Preparatory to that, I took the first post and de-bloggified it yesterday. First step was to convert the links to end-notes.

Well. Naturally this led to another garden stroll through the Internet. HOLY shit, but this is a rich topic. Madly saved sets of links to a new Wyrd file, and came up with material for a good three more chapters. This would give the proposed book ten solid chapters, plus an introduction, plus a bibliography. And that would be one heckuva lot stronger than this little hardback I’m looking at now.

So over the next few days, I need to write an introduction, a chapter outline, a TofC, and a proposal. In a week or two, I hope to have that ready to send off. I’ll also send it to Columbia, which has published another of my books. And the UofA Press, where I have friends who have friends.

Step aside, Barbara Ehrenreich…

Choir season is winding toward its end. It’s been a splendid year with our two new musicians operating as director and associate director. The latter proposes to give voice and music lessons over the summer.

A friend and I have already imposed on her for the same, during the past couple of months. She (assoc. director) would like to be paid in the form of donations to the church. That would’ve been OK if I hadn’t used a large slab of this year’s required minimum drawdown from retirement savings to pay off the damned car. But having done that, I’m running dangerously low on money — have about four grand to last till the end of the year…and since operating this shack, eating, and maintaining the hounds and the car cost about two grand a month…well. Houston, we have a problem.

Really, I don’t know how I’m going to get through the summer, to say nothing of making it to the end of the year.

Complicating matters, the pool replastering job can’t be delayed much longer. There’s a crack under the coping that clearly extends through the shell, meaning the water that’s leaking through it is quietly creating some major structural problems. So that needs to be fixed.

Maybe it can be patched. But that will not fix the other issue: the plaster is flaking off because it’s almost 15 years old. That will cost four to six grand.

Ohh well…

Speaking of the writing career, I told myself I would finish (or at least make progress on) a chapter of Ella’s Story. Since I have to be out of here in an hour and a half to meet my business partner in lovely downtown Tempe, I seem to have procrastinated about as much as possible on that scheme.

And so, away…

Yipes! Allergic to life???

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So I’m down at the church putting in a little volunteer time and altogether enjoying my hot little self.

About three hours into this excursion, I realize I’m damn hungry (sorry, God, but You’re responsible for this hunger gig, so kindly hold the lightning bolt), so I raid some leftover cupcakes that have been remaindered to the work table. Pretty tasty: some sort of spice cake nummy commercially processed and processed stuffoid.

An hour or so later — mebbe less — get home and start gathering chow to heat on the Que:

  • 1 small piece beefsteak
  • 1 handful of pre-roasted potatoes, needing a reheat
  • 1 fistful of fresh asparagi [i hate the Mac, which hits, somehow, backspace-skip-back-over-half-a-dozen-words-for-no-rational-reason]

Place these edibles on the grill; pour a glass of wine.

DAYum, but that wine…well…it HURTS. The inside of the lips hurt hurt fuckin’ HURT.

WTF? Cold sore? Reeeellly??? Bottom lip as well as top lip? Seriously?????

Stumble to bathroom while chow is grilling, inspect the maw.

Yeah, lots of redness around the inside of the lips. External part of lips starting to swell. No sign of a localized cold sore. Hm… DIY diagnosis: allergic reaction to some goddamnfool thing.

Like…really, really, REALLLYYYYY i cannot afford another trip to the Emergency Room, dear God and dear Medicare. What to do?

Drop an allergy pill, of course.

What can go wrong, eh?

Not dead by the time the magnificent meal comes off the grill.

Still hurts to eat dinner. But…no sign of anaphylactic shock.

Yet.

Munch a handful of chocolate chips for “dessert.”

Decide I have not yet died. Pour one final glass of wine.

Hurts slightly less to consume this dose of lip-singeing potable.

Ersatz dessert inhaled. Dogs placated. Wine snurfled up. And…the swelling (which was proceeding apace by the time I dropped a Claritin) is much reduced. A sip of wine does not feel like it was preheated in a blast furnace.

Thank you, Your Godship.

But nevertheless (apologies to Your Godship): SOMETHING there is that allergic reaction kicks up!

What?

Only the faintest clues:

  • cinnamon?
  • industrial chemical added to processed bakery goods? fake white frosting??? ersatz vanilla flavoring?
  • whatever else was in the tasty treat, which, being highly processed, was pretty damned anonymized?

Dunno.

Thinking maybe I need to keep a few allergy pills in the car, there to have recourse should this happen again

As I click “Publish” for this idle post, the effect — whatever its cause — is almost gone.

Message? Do not, my loves, DO NOT eat fake food, no matter how hungry you think you are. The starving children in Bangladesh are a lot hungrier.