Here's How You Know It's Summer

Folks on the East Coast do summer.  It's not a casual thing.  Summer is serious stuff.  We go out for ice cream.  And we shop at the road side produce stands.  The farms for these produce stands are generally next to the stands themselves.  Laurino Farms and its stand are about ten minutes from our home.  We watch the stand like hawks as soon as the snow melts.  Of course it never opens until the farm has produce ripe to sell.  We were thrilled when we drove by and saw that they were selling strawberries and lettuce.  The strawberries were in plain view.  We didn't see any lettuce.  We stated, we believed rhetorically, that the lettuce didn't seem ready yet.  The man behind the counter overheard us and replied, "Of course it's ready.  I just have to go pick it for you.  What kind do you want?"  We briefly consulted and then said, "Romaine please."  "Red or green leaf?" he countered.  "Green," we replied and off he went into the field which is next to the farm stand.  As he was picking our lettuce another man came by and assured us that the kale would be ready in another couple of weeks.  Our man returned from the fields with two heads of Romaine lettuce.  "They're still pretty small so here are two for you.  No charge for the second head."  And that's how we know it is summer.  Now off for ice cream.

People Can Be At Their Best

"Despite everything, I believe that people are really good at heart."  Yesterday I saw proof of that famous Anne Frank quote with which she ended her diary.  My Mac Book Pro laptop computer needed repair.  Off I went yesterday to keep my appointment with a Mac Genius at the mall in Freehold, New Jersey.  Traffic entering and exiting the mall was heavy.  I had just made my right turn into the road which leads directly into the mall.  The next thing I saw was a man rolling down my lane while his motorcycle rolled in front of him.  I was about twenty feet from my right turn down the road.  I immediately activated my emergency flasher, shut off my engine, jumped out of the Jeep with my cell phone in hand.  I was already dialing 911 as I closed the Jeep door.  In a moment of disbelief I thought that perhaps an emergency call wouldn't be necessary.  Surely the man would just jump up, get back on his bike, and ride off.  He wasn't moving, though, so I tended to my call.  As I was waiting for a 911 response other people came running toward me and the man who appeared to be bleeding from a head wound.  One other person had his cell phone out.  People tried to comfort the man who did not appear to be responding.  A truck stopped in back of me to block the road and thus prevent the injured man from getting run over.  A woman began directing traffic.  It was a remarkable experience.  About ten people gathered around to do whatever was needed.  The common wisdom was to wait for the ambulance and not attempt any type of emergency medical treatment.  Within minutes, it seemed, police arrived and in the distance I could hear the ambulance siren.  It was a relief to have law enforcement who actually knew what to do in such a situation take over.  We were all thanked by the officers and, since none of us had witnessed the accident, encouraged to leave to make room for the ambulance.  Those of us who had stopped to help took a moment to look at each other with a combination of shock and appreciation before getting into our various vehicles to, with law enforcement guidance, leave the accident.  Yes, the accident itself was intense but more so was the unsolicited assistance and concern of those of us who did what we could to help.  

Turn those wheels, New Jersey

I really like New Jersey.  We moved here three years ago from Southern California.  I like the seasons, I like the trees, I like the farm stand markets in spring and summer.  I like the people, too. However, there is one aspect in which New Jerseyans really need to pick up their game.  I refer to the common habit of leaving shopping carts all over supermarket parking lots.

Now, it isn't as if that behavior is unheard of in California, but it's worse here. And it isn't as if cart return stands weren't provided; they are.  People just ignore them.  They leave their cart wherever it lands.  If there's room, it will be shoved between two cars, so that when one of them pulls away the cart goes careening through the lot.  Or, they prop them up on a curb, or--my favorite--in the blue striped area next to a handicapped space which is meant to allow a disabled person room to exit their vehicle.

Okay, I know I'm on a soapbox about this shopping cart thing.  A few years ago I had major surgery, and while recovering, I started to go out to supermarkets, first accompanied and then alone. It was a huge effort for me, and when the day came that I could do it by myself, and return the cart to a cart return stand felt like a milestone.  So here's a suggestion to all, in New Jersey and California and everywhere else: As you wheel your cart across the parking lot to the cart return, be grateful that you are well and strong enough to do it.

The wet, slurpy blessings of dogs

By Tom Walker

witsendmagazine

For much too long, I’ve lived without the sound of toenails clicking on our tile floors, the sensual pleasure of cuddling up on the couch with a warm furry body, and the not-altogether unpleasant surprise of slurpy kisses on the ear.

Dog blessings.

Half a dozen dogs have lived with us over the years. Each of them became part of our family, and each left an aching void when they died. The death of our sweet old Molly hurt so much that Linda and I decided she would be our last dog.

We want to spare ourselves from that kind of pain, sure; but we also want to be fair to a dog. Health problems make it impossible for us to exercise a dog properly; we’d have to have a couch potato canine or a professional dog-walker, and those don’t appeal to us.

And neither of us is a cat person. So that’s out, too.

Buddy the Beagle

 Enter Buddy. He’s our grand-dog, an extremely cute little beagle belonging to our daughter, Christina Walker Rowden. We get to dog-sit Buddy when Christina’s away. This is an ideal way to briefly share our home with a dog, without actually owning one.

Buddy has stayed with us several times, and each time is an adventure. Once, he chewed up my i-Pod ear buds, but that was my fault; I left them lying on a table where he could reach them.

Mainly, though, he spends his time incessantly hunting for badgers (or whatever it is that his beagle DNA drives him to hunt) in our backyard. As far as I can tell, badgers take the shape of lizards, birds or whatever else is lurking in our trees and shrubs.

He also digs lots of holes, because obviously badgers must be hiding underground somewhere if they aren’t lurking in the trees or shrubs.

Other than getting up to let Buddy in or out of the backyard every ten minutes or so, taking care of him is no problem at all. At bedtime, we simply smear some peanut butter on the inside of his Kong dog toy, put it inside his cage and lock him up.

Then he’s good until about 5 a.m. That’s when the whining and crying started this morning. Hey, we had to get up sometime, anyway.

Donald Trump, I’ve read, does not care for dogs, cats or pets in general. As a result, for the first time in roughly 130 years, the White House is without the sound of clicking paws on its hardwood floors, the  joyful yips of a dog welcoming the Oval Office occupant back to the family residence.

It’s hard to imagine the place without a Fala or Millie or big, galumphing Bo. A Trump supporter once offered to give him a golden doodle, but he turned it down. Not enough time for something as frivolous as a dog with funny-looking hair, he said. Guess it might interfere with his twittering.

If ever a president could benefit from a friendly lick in the ear, it’s Trump. For one thing, medical studies have found that pets help lower their owners’ blood pressures – surely something that could help the orange-faced president as well as the nation. Now that Melania and Barron have moved into the White House, maybe Trump will decide to make room in his life for a dog, as well. After all, having a pet could provide a much-needed public relations boost for the embattled covfefe in chief.
   Someone who likes a dog is just, well, more likeable. Doggone it.

But alas, Christina came back from her trip to reclaim Buddy. He seems to like us well enough, but we are clearly no match for his mom. He curled up in her lap contentedly while she told us about her visit to the old mining town of Bisbee. Then he tugged at his leash, a dog on a mission, all the way out to the car for his trip back home.

And that’s the way it should be. Unlike Trump, we don’t have a staff of butlers, ushers and others to take care of walking a dog or cleaning up poop in the Rose Garden. (Maybe that’s a job Sean Spicer could handle after the demotion that’s surely on its way.)

But as for Linda and I, we have some memories of beloved dogs – Molly, Bonnie, Ed Beagley Jr., Oreo and She-She -- but no dogs of our own.

Other people’s dogs, however, are always welcome.

Did Anyone Remember To Vote Today?

I did.  Today was the primary election in New Jersey.  We got to vote on who all should run for governor come November.  Chances are not too many people even knew that today was another opportunity to cast a vote and to participate in democracy.  The turnout, it was expected, would be really low.  I didn't know much about many of the candidates and in at least one race I didn't even know what they were running for.  The office was something about a freeholder not to be confused with a freeloader.  I do know that my grandson was going to go help his mother make her choices.  Since the ballot is electronic and looks a lot like a big computer screen there is a significant chance that she will, with his help, vote for every candidate plus write in a couple of names.  The important thing here is that he at age almost three will learn to participate in this amazing ritual.  When I was a child our ranch was the polling place for whatever remote area in which we lived.  Election days were really big deals.  People came literally out of the hills to vote.  John and Frank Goodwin and Florence who was married to one of the two brothers.  I was never clear on which one of them called her his wife.  Mrs. Pickett and her son Bob who had gone to grade school with my mother came to vote.  Oscar and Lillian Gladeau also wandered in to cast their ballots.  And finally and most exciting Mr. Kinney came out of his cave, cranked up his 1921 Dodge Brothers Dodge pick up and sputtered in to vote.  He didn't arrive metaphorically.  The man lived in a cave and he really did have to turn a crank to start his Dodge.  All sorts of other hill people arrived throughout the day, too.  Few just voted and left.  This was an event to be celebrated with coffee and conversation.  People hung around for what often to my child's mind seemed like forever.  My brother and I got to see people and be around them.  This was big stuff.  The best part of voting day, though, was when the polls closed.  Of course the polls closed when our father was ready to call it a day which was generally when it got too dark to see the ballot.  And there in the growing darkness magical things happened as if the entire day hadn't been sufficiently magical. Daddy didn't count the ballots but he did take them out of the locked ballot box and place them in a special, really big, envelope which he then sealed with sealing wax.  The seal could not be broken once it had cooled off.  Mama witnessed the procedure so that there could be no doubt about the legitimacy of the process.  Then all of the election supplies were gathered up.  The sample ballots, clearly marked SAMPLE, and the pens and the ink were placed in a box.  Tom and I got to keep those items.  For weeks after each election day we held our own elections.  We also got to keep the left over sealing wax once Daddy had placed the unused, official ballots in another sealed envelope.  A courier drove out into the darkening desert to take the unused ballots and the ballots used for voting back to a more official poling place for counting.  Back then, elections mattered.  They were important enough for people to drive dusty distances to cast their votes.  I will continue to drive not dusty distances but at least aways to cast my vote.  Hopefully you will, too.

Bless the hawks and the bees

By Tom Walker

witsendmagazine 

 

T

Harris Hawk

he Meditation Garden at my church in Tucson, St. Mark’s United Methodist, has been barricaded off. A sign at the entrance explains why: “CLOSED,” it says. “NESTING HAWKS ON PREMISES.”

This is an inconvenience to many people, I’m sure – including my wife, Linda, who often goes there to clear her thoughts and to commune with her mother, whose plaque is on the “In Loving Memory” wall and whose ashes are scattered there.

(And probably, I suspect, to get away from me for a  little time of peace and quiet. But maybe I’m just being paranoid.)

There’s no paranoia about the danger posed by hawks, however. With their sharp beaks and talons, they can do serious harm to anyone who gets too near their hatchlings. In addition, all hawks and owls are federally protected under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act. So as long as the big birds were there, St. Mark’s couldn’t do anything except try to keep  humans from encroaching into their territory.

That’s has become a major ecological problem. Too many people everywhere, crowding out wildlife habitats. Too many cars, too many smokestacks, polluting the air. Too many pesticides poisoning the planet. Too much everything.

All this is no problem, of course, to Donald Trump, who maintains that climate change is just a hoax, despite all the melting ice caps, rising seas, powerful tornadoes, hurricanes, droughts, and all the other sharp nudges our planet is giving us.

So last week, Trump announced that the United States would quit the Paris climate accord and the more than 190 nations who signed it, and join the vaunted ranks of Syria and Nicaragua as non-signers. (Nicaragua didn’t sign on because it felt the treaty didn’t go far enough.)

Way to go, Mr. President.

I

n line with that, I have a confession to make. Last week, I wrote a piece for witsendmagazine about a problem I had with a colony of honeybees that decided to take up residence inside the roof of our home. The article, called “A time when no drone Is safe,” attracted a lot of readers, and  some very respectful  and sensible comments about my use of an exterminating company to get rid of the bees.

Worker Honeybee

“While I understand your need to do something about your invaders, I wish more time could of been given to your bees,” one anonymous writer said. “They may have left behind a bit of a mess but each single bee is a world treasure and a wonder to behold.”

Indeed, bees are world treasures, and one of the most important pollinators for farming and wild plants.  And they face many of the same problems that threaten our planet – loss of habitat, pesticides, changes in climate that put them out of sync with the flowers they, as well as the flowers, need to survive.

Colony collapse disorder, in which the female worker bees abandon the hive and their queen, is yet another threat, which scientists  still  can’t explain.

Maybe the worker bees just heard about Trump’s climate stance, and decided to give up.

I do know one thing: If we ever have another invasion of bees at our house, my first call isn’t going to be to a pest exterminator. It’ll be to some resource like the University of Arizona’s Carl Hayden Bee Laboratory. Maybe they can help me find a beekeeper to remove the hive, maybe not.

But at least I won’t feel like my closest friends are Donald Trump and Syria.

  

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