A month ago I decided to expand my orchard to include nuts and some more fruits, so from an outfit in Wisconsin, I ordered Japanese Walnuts (I have Black Walnut), some Chestnuts, Hazelnuts, Pecans (I love pecans), Peanuts (I know, not a tree), Golden Apricot (My one apricot tree is lonely), along with Kiwi and three varieties of grapes (Again, yes, not trees). Just for the hell of it, because you can never have too many of these, I also ordered a handful of tomato and broccoli seeds.
Two weeks ago, I received a small box in the mail—my tomato and broccoli seeds. All else was backordered. Deep sigh.
*Ring—ring—ring* Not many people I know are morning people, so the early phone call on a Saturday yesterday morning was a surprise. *Hello?”
“Hi! This is Doug at the Post Office.” In a small town, we all know each other. “Hey, I’ve got a tree here that’s not gonna fit in the carrier’s vehicle. Can you pick it up?” I sighed. Yesterday I was home all day, a nice sunny day. Saturday I had a rehearsal and a concert out of town—not a day I could plant. Oh well. “Sure—be right down.”
He had two cardboard boxes, one 4 x 4 inches x 6 feet, the other 2 x 4 x 24 inches. Both had labels from the Wisconsin Department of Agriculture. Apparently, my supplier had the trees shipped directly to me. I opened the tops just to see what had come. I pulled out an invoice.
Everything. Huh? I looked down. I expected roots wrapped in plastic with cord or rubber bands. Nope. Pots. Pots! Those “cardboard” nursery type, half filled with soil—as nothing secured the plants from moving about nor the soil from falling out as the package was handled. Cheese heads have different ideas about shipping plants than we do in New York, I guess—the box wasn’t even labeled “This end up” – just a small felt pen marking, “Please rush—planting materials.”
Well almost everything—they shipped the female kiwi plant, but backordered the male kiwi. I opened the small “planting materials” box—and found the male kiwi. I looked at my watch and headed for the hardware store to pick up the stakes I’ll need before I would have to leave to rehearsal.—the hardware stores would be closed on Sunday, and EVERYTHING planted must immediately be fenced,, or the rabbits will eat it right down to the ground. (They even eat the needles off my Austrian Pines! It’s a running battle—I’ve become Mr. McGregor.)
So today is the day for the digging of holes and planting, fencing and watering of trees. Probably tomorrow too. Rain or shine.
Maybe I should pick up some extra ibuprofen…
Writer
Showing posts with label New York. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New York. Show all posts
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Fear This
Yet again, President Bush has tried to bolster his credentials and his power by appealing to fear—this time attempting to draw comparisons between his middle east meddlings and World War II, the Korean War and the Vietnam War, arguing that “staying the course” in Asia proved wise when completed, catastrophic when abandoned. Interesting if weird parallels, as WWII involved fighting Japan, an imperialist power (as the U.S. has become), Korea, a Communist threat to world security that never materialized, and Vietnam, another instance when listening to the French would have been wiser.
His purpose, of course, was once again to argue that his warmongering keeps America safe from al-Qaeda, ignoring that Iraq had nothing to do with the terrorist organization until the U.S. invasion, glossing over his complete failure to capture Osama bin Laden—in fact, the president doesn’t even bring it up anymore. He DOES like to keep trying to scare the public, warning that another attack could come at any moment, and claiming his administration’s policies have so far prevented such attacks (an unsupported claim), ignoring that his administration dropped the ball and allowed the 9/11 attack he loves to reference so frequently. Truth is, we’ve been LESS safe on his “watch.”
His blind obsession with Iraq, fought on the heels of Afghanistan, has made the country even less safe, straining the military so far that commanders warn we can’t continue past this spring, while officers quit in droves and troops fall to the extreme stress of drastically increased deployments, and the U.S. commitment needed to end the mess with no end in sight. U.S. military planners had always prepared to fight wars in two theaters simultaneously. We’re doing that—for longer now than we were in WWII. Another conflict would leave us simply vulnerable. Imagine Iran and North Korea decide to push their advantage and attack together. We couldn’t handle it. We’re weak.
Bush’s arrogance and go-it-alone attitude has left the U.S. with few friends, and mostly made clear to foes that the only power we respect is nuclear power. Hence, the sooner a nation can achieve nuclear weapons, the better. How does this make us safer? We’ve given them every incentive to ignore diplomacy and pursue arms.
And how about the cost of all this invasion? The U.S.S.R., remember, fell under internal economic pressure, not at the hands of enemies. The increase in U.S. debt is financed by overseas borrowing, and adding this to our large, continuing trade deficit will only hasten our almost inevitable second place status to solid, expanding economies like China, India, and the European Union. This won’t help our safety either—in fact, it will largely prevent our recovery.
What is it about 9/11 that makes so many Americans so myopic? Take the hero worship of former Mayor Rudy Giuliani, praised for his leadership following the 9/11 attacks. Yet what did he do other than what any mayor would have had to do?
And while Bush harps on the New York attacks, he gutted every dollar he could from every program he could, leaving FEMA a shell of its former self with an incompetent political appointee at the helm—not to mention denying global warming and pulling out related environmental treaties and programs, a step toward more frequent and more destructive storms. He has come as close to repealing free speech as possible, hand picking audiences, censuring media images of the war, using the justice system to harass politic opponents, and spying on U.S. citizens while striving to keep such practices secret from Congressional oversight. How does this make us safer?
All in the name of 9/11.
Writer
His purpose, of course, was once again to argue that his warmongering keeps America safe from al-Qaeda, ignoring that Iraq had nothing to do with the terrorist organization until the U.S. invasion, glossing over his complete failure to capture Osama bin Laden—in fact, the president doesn’t even bring it up anymore. He DOES like to keep trying to scare the public, warning that another attack could come at any moment, and claiming his administration’s policies have so far prevented such attacks (an unsupported claim), ignoring that his administration dropped the ball and allowed the 9/11 attack he loves to reference so frequently. Truth is, we’ve been LESS safe on his “watch.”
His blind obsession with Iraq, fought on the heels of Afghanistan, has made the country even less safe, straining the military so far that commanders warn we can’t continue past this spring, while officers quit in droves and troops fall to the extreme stress of drastically increased deployments, and the U.S. commitment needed to end the mess with no end in sight. U.S. military planners had always prepared to fight wars in two theaters simultaneously. We’re doing that—for longer now than we were in WWII. Another conflict would leave us simply vulnerable. Imagine Iran and North Korea decide to push their advantage and attack together. We couldn’t handle it. We’re weak.
Bush’s arrogance and go-it-alone attitude has left the U.S. with few friends, and mostly made clear to foes that the only power we respect is nuclear power. Hence, the sooner a nation can achieve nuclear weapons, the better. How does this make us safer? We’ve given them every incentive to ignore diplomacy and pursue arms.
And how about the cost of all this invasion? The U.S.S.R., remember, fell under internal economic pressure, not at the hands of enemies. The increase in U.S. debt is financed by overseas borrowing, and adding this to our large, continuing trade deficit will only hasten our almost inevitable second place status to solid, expanding economies like China, India, and the European Union. This won’t help our safety either—in fact, it will largely prevent our recovery.
What is it about 9/11 that makes so many Americans so myopic? Take the hero worship of former Mayor Rudy Giuliani, praised for his leadership following the 9/11 attacks. Yet what did he do other than what any mayor would have had to do?
And while Bush harps on the New York attacks, he gutted every dollar he could from every program he could, leaving FEMA a shell of its former self with an incompetent political appointee at the helm—not to mention denying global warming and pulling out related environmental treaties and programs, a step toward more frequent and more destructive storms. He has come as close to repealing free speech as possible, hand picking audiences, censuring media images of the war, using the justice system to harass politic opponents, and spying on U.S. citizens while striving to keep such practices secret from Congressional oversight. How does this make us safer?
All in the name of 9/11.
Writer
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Dad's Driving
Among the most tedious scenarios imaginable is going to dinner with a married couple as a single person. They argue about a wide range of the most trivial points, often without even realizing they do it. This is all the worse when that couple is my dad and stepmom.
Roughly once a year, they stop by to take me to dinner, and having then discharged their parently duties, move along on their travels through retirement. While I checked the menu, my stepmom insisted, “No, you were speeding,” with the hint of a smirk. Dad looked unhappy, noting “They just lie in wait for out of state license plates,” looking to me for support. “Actually, Dad—I’m a bit afraid to ride with you.”
He looked at me, 1/3 miffed and 2/3 genuinely curious. “Why?” he asked.
Dad has always sped. He used to build mini-racers with his best friends—long friends right through when both of their wives passed away in retirement. He raced the back roads of rural western New York, leaving air beneath the car as he crested hills, disdaining yellow speed warnings as he rounded curves, counting on his self-assessed superior driving skills. This perception continues, as he tailgates cars at high speed, drives without heed even in dangerous weather, and regrets only that he’s forced to share the road with drivers so inferior to himself—the ones for whom traffic laws are written.
One, in a snowstorm that should have prevented travel, Dad insisted on driving me to my music lesson (as I finished shoveling two feet of snow from the driveway, and much to the astonishment of my music teacher). “We can make it,” he insisted. We did. Another time, he hit a kid on a bicycle. Things like this aren’t discussed in my family, so I know only what little I could gather—that the parents sued, that a settlement was reached, and to my dad, clearly the problem was the kid pulling out on his bicycle. Yet another time, while Dad was giving me a ride to school, I warned him that a certain curve, almost a U-turn, was certainly a 20 m.p.h. zone as posted. “Really?’ Dad asked, as he pulled around it at twice the speed. Thrown to the other side of the road, all he offered was, “I guess so. That IS a sharp curve.” I was just glad no cars were coming down the hill in the other direction.
I’m not unappreciative. I got to every music lesson. I got to every rehearsal. I got to every Scout meeting, every swim lesson, every campout. That 20 m.p.h. curve was on the way to a professional meeting—my dad got up at four to drive an hour to my home, pick me up, and drive me an hour to a 7 a.m. meeting when my car was in the shop. He then drove me home at the end of the day and took me to pick up my car. And let's not forget those four hour trips to and from college.
Once, my teenage fight with my mom boiled over into all out war—horrible things were said, mom resorted to throwing things, and I left. I had no prospects and nowhere to go, of course, so when I calmed down a bit, I had to call. Dad picked up the phone, and calmly, quietly asked, “Are you ready to come home?” I was. “Where are you?” he said simply. He picked me up. No lecture, no scowl—just a ride home. End of the matter.
Ironically, my daredevil dad taught me to drive (when my mom gave up in frustration over our battles). These lessons became habits I practice to this day. Always signal, even at 3 a.m. when no one’s around to see. Always check all around the car when merging. Not to mention change the oil, change the oil, change the oil—and rotate the tires. I drove my last car 199,974 miles before it threw a rod. Safety, safety, safety.
I’m no saint. When I broke my collarbone in karate, for example, my sister listened to the account, then observed, “You were showing off, weren’t you?” Don’t you hate it when someone knows you that well?
I AM a careful driver—cautious, looking ahead, defensive, keeping my ego in check as other drivers act recklessly. Except in the morning when I’m in a hurry and running late. And that I often drive when I’m tired. And distracted. Kinda mitigates all that safety, doesn’t it?
To lower my insurance, I took a six hour driving course. Now that I’ve taken a few, I recommend them (although this depends greatly on the instructor)—I learned far more than I’d have thought. My dad approved, noting that my stepmom takes one every year through AARP. No mention of Dad needing or taking one.
A key difference between Dad and me is that I drive to get places. It just needs doing. Dad drives because he loves to drive. He doesn’t need a reason. The morning of my mother’s funeral, he had to run errands. I went with him. We needed salt for the water softener. We needed tomatoes—roma tomatoes, since they’re best in salads, and we had a lot of people coming to the house. We had to stop for a lottery ticket—hey, you never know. The essentials. Dad needed to drive.
Long retired, Dad drives. He drives to Florida for half the year from central New York, relishing the trip I would dread. He travels all over the U.S. and Canada, just as he did on vacations before retirement—he and my mom drove to Alaska twice. I got a postcard this week from Arizona—as far west as I have ever been—Dad’s on his way to visit California. Doesn’t know for sure when he’ll be back.
One day, age will betray me. I worry about this. I live far out in the country, and I cherish my home. We don’t have busses or taxies, and I can’t simply walk to the grocery store or the pharmacy. When I can no longer drive, I don’t know what I will do.
When not traveling, my dad and stepmom live much closer to civilization. My dad is in excellent health, but one day, when he can no longer drive, I don’t know what he’ll do.
Writer
Roughly once a year, they stop by to take me to dinner, and having then discharged their parently duties, move along on their travels through retirement. While I checked the menu, my stepmom insisted, “No, you were speeding,” with the hint of a smirk. Dad looked unhappy, noting “They just lie in wait for out of state license plates,” looking to me for support. “Actually, Dad—I’m a bit afraid to ride with you.”
He looked at me, 1/3 miffed and 2/3 genuinely curious. “Why?” he asked.
Dad has always sped. He used to build mini-racers with his best friends—long friends right through when both of their wives passed away in retirement. He raced the back roads of rural western New York, leaving air beneath the car as he crested hills, disdaining yellow speed warnings as he rounded curves, counting on his self-assessed superior driving skills. This perception continues, as he tailgates cars at high speed, drives without heed even in dangerous weather, and regrets only that he’s forced to share the road with drivers so inferior to himself—the ones for whom traffic laws are written.
One, in a snowstorm that should have prevented travel, Dad insisted on driving me to my music lesson (as I finished shoveling two feet of snow from the driveway, and much to the astonishment of my music teacher). “We can make it,” he insisted. We did. Another time, he hit a kid on a bicycle. Things like this aren’t discussed in my family, so I know only what little I could gather—that the parents sued, that a settlement was reached, and to my dad, clearly the problem was the kid pulling out on his bicycle. Yet another time, while Dad was giving me a ride to school, I warned him that a certain curve, almost a U-turn, was certainly a 20 m.p.h. zone as posted. “Really?’ Dad asked, as he pulled around it at twice the speed. Thrown to the other side of the road, all he offered was, “I guess so. That IS a sharp curve.” I was just glad no cars were coming down the hill in the other direction.
I’m not unappreciative. I got to every music lesson. I got to every rehearsal. I got to every Scout meeting, every swim lesson, every campout. That 20 m.p.h. curve was on the way to a professional meeting—my dad got up at four to drive an hour to my home, pick me up, and drive me an hour to a 7 a.m. meeting when my car was in the shop. He then drove me home at the end of the day and took me to pick up my car. And let's not forget those four hour trips to and from college.
Once, my teenage fight with my mom boiled over into all out war—horrible things were said, mom resorted to throwing things, and I left. I had no prospects and nowhere to go, of course, so when I calmed down a bit, I had to call. Dad picked up the phone, and calmly, quietly asked, “Are you ready to come home?” I was. “Where are you?” he said simply. He picked me up. No lecture, no scowl—just a ride home. End of the matter.
Ironically, my daredevil dad taught me to drive (when my mom gave up in frustration over our battles). These lessons became habits I practice to this day. Always signal, even at 3 a.m. when no one’s around to see. Always check all around the car when merging. Not to mention change the oil, change the oil, change the oil—and rotate the tires. I drove my last car 199,974 miles before it threw a rod. Safety, safety, safety.
I’m no saint. When I broke my collarbone in karate, for example, my sister listened to the account, then observed, “You were showing off, weren’t you?” Don’t you hate it when someone knows you that well?
I AM a careful driver—cautious, looking ahead, defensive, keeping my ego in check as other drivers act recklessly. Except in the morning when I’m in a hurry and running late. And that I often drive when I’m tired. And distracted. Kinda mitigates all that safety, doesn’t it?
To lower my insurance, I took a six hour driving course. Now that I’ve taken a few, I recommend them (although this depends greatly on the instructor)—I learned far more than I’d have thought. My dad approved, noting that my stepmom takes one every year through AARP. No mention of Dad needing or taking one.
A key difference between Dad and me is that I drive to get places. It just needs doing. Dad drives because he loves to drive. He doesn’t need a reason. The morning of my mother’s funeral, he had to run errands. I went with him. We needed salt for the water softener. We needed tomatoes—roma tomatoes, since they’re best in salads, and we had a lot of people coming to the house. We had to stop for a lottery ticket—hey, you never know. The essentials. Dad needed to drive.
Long retired, Dad drives. He drives to Florida for half the year from central New York, relishing the trip I would dread. He travels all over the U.S. and Canada, just as he did on vacations before retirement—he and my mom drove to Alaska twice. I got a postcard this week from Arizona—as far west as I have ever been—Dad’s on his way to visit California. Doesn’t know for sure when he’ll be back.
One day, age will betray me. I worry about this. I live far out in the country, and I cherish my home. We don’t have busses or taxies, and I can’t simply walk to the grocery store or the pharmacy. When I can no longer drive, I don’t know what I will do.
When not traveling, my dad and stepmom live much closer to civilization. My dad is in excellent health, but one day, when he can no longer drive, I don’t know what he’ll do.
Writer
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