Switched At Birth

Oops. Sometimes the finger is quicker than the brain. I was trying to add a site to the blogroll and accidentally obliterated at least a third of it. Shoot.

The Blueberry Bliss Connection

binnacle:  a case, box or stand containing a ship's compass and a lamp (definition from Webster's 3rd New International Dictionary)

How do we know when a string is plucked that will send a vibration through the tunnel of time to knock on our door one day? Or that we will recognize the stranger and realize an old friend has come to visit?

I received word recently that I've been named an honoree for a 150 word essay, "Glove," submitted to The Binnacle's Sixth Annual International Ultra-Short competition. The Binnacle is the literary and arts magazine for the University of Maine at Machias. Fifty-seven were selected out of more than 900 entries from 21 countries and six continents.

 

Robert Cohen, President, Video Monitoring Services of New York,  and Elizabeth J. Westmark, President, Aladdin Communications, Inc., sign contracts selling Aladdin to VMS.

Nineteen years ago almost to the day, Buck and I closed on the sale of Aladdin Communications, a business we created together.

We ran that little business from a condo on the beach to the home we built in the country; from more than a year before we married in 1984, until that happy day in 1990 when Bob Cohen and his associates came and took all the files away.

Early the morning after the closing, we hopped a plane from Pensacola to Bangor, Maine. We rented a car and drove toward Canada until we reached Machiasport. We stayed there for ten days on a remote blueberry farm rented from Ken and Betty Maker, in-laws of one of Buck's corporate colleagues.

Our Maine sabatical opened new windows of possibility. For the first time in our married lives, Buck would no longer greet six employees coming in the door as he was leaving for his job as regional public affairs manager for a major corporation. The multi-line phone system was cancelled, as was the 800 number.

When we returned from Maine, we would truly be home alone, and that was an exciting turn of events.

On the blueberry farm, we wandered amidst tidal pools, drifted through waist high fields of wildflowers, feasted on Mrs. Maker's "Blueberry Bliss" jam, and toasted our good fortune.

Compass and lamp at the ready, we began to dream new dreams. They continue to this very day.

Cicadas and "A Dry Year"

This remarkable video is courtesy of "Iowa Todd." He has compressed about an hour of film into 20 seconds of animation. Check out Todd's Flickr photostream here. I'm sure there is a biological reason for the leg drumming on his abdomen as he emerges, but it looks like celebration to me. (Think Roger Daltrey and The Who's "I'm Free" and hum along.)

Seventeen-year cicadas provide the soundtrack to Richard Gilbert's essay, "A Dry Year," in the current issue of Chautauqua (Issue 6, the story and storytelling issue).

The hot, dry weather is almost a character itself in Richard's descriptions of that year in Ohio when he was bound and determined to have a pond built at his family's newly purchased sheep farm. His reflective, direct writing speaks truth to me. In its self-revelation, I learn more about my own self.

I've been seeing empty cicada shells everywhere the last few days -- even stuck on the side of an outdoor garbage can down by the gate. The photo below is one I took of a cicada shell on a pine tree in 2004.

 

Memory Diet

Mayo Clinic's Women's Healthsource July newsletter reports that the Feburary 2009 issue of Archives of Neurology suggests a Mediterranean-style diet will help keep our brains sharp.

That means plenty of fruits, veggies, fish, whole grains, and unsaturated fats (think olive oil).

It's pretty strong stuff. The study found that participants with a "mid-to high-level adherence to a Mediterranean-style diet were significantly less likely to develop cognitive decline when compared with those with a low adherence to this way of eating." 

Marie, over at Blue Ridge Blog, wants the recipe for the grilled veggie photo I posted a couple of days ago. Just so happens, it comes from a cookbook called The Mediterranean Diet by Nancy Harmon Jenkins.  (I'll post the basic recipe at the end.) Timely, eh?

The grilled veggies are not as big a pain to prepare as you might think. I did a whole pile of them on my old indoor grill, layered them in a shallow pasta bowl, poured on the marinade, covered the dish with plastic wrap, and went swimming. 

Buck and I used "leftovers" of the grilled veggies and tuna from dinner the night before to make our lunch yesterday. Tasty way to amortize both cost and effort! And there are still some veggies left. They will go great with grilled chicken tomorrow. The white blob on the plate by the tuna is wasabi mayonaise. Looks bland, but it's got a nice little kick.

 

There are lots of recipe variations for grilled veggies. Nancy Harmon Jenkins's recipe, "Grilled Vegetables with Oil and Vinegar," calls for 2 eggplants, 2 red peppers, 2 yellow peppers, 3 zucchini and a little olive oil for brushing on the veggies. I only used one eggplant, and one red pepper to go along with the 3 zucchinis.

Her marinade calls for: 1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil, 1/4 cup red or white wine vinegar, 2 garlic cloves, chopped, 2 oil-packed anchovy fillets, minced (or use a little salt to taste if you don't want to use the hairy fish), and one tablespoon of minced fresh mint, thyme, or oregano (no contest here, for me -- I pulled a few sprigs of oregano and thyme from the weed patch).

Jenkins says to cut lengthwise 1/2 inch slices of the eggplant, put them in a bowl with salted water to cover (1/4 cup salt for every 2 quarts water is her recommendation, but I didn't measure either one), weight them down with a can of tomatoes on top of a plate (just so they don't float to the top). Leave them to soak a couple of hours, then drain, dry off with paper towels, brush with oil and grill.

Slice the zucchinis on a deep diagonal, brush with oil and grill. Jenkins recommend cutting the peppers in half, but since I only had one, I cut it into 6 wedges. Use common sense, and grill them until they're as done as you like them. 

Gotta run. I'm going to go eat another handful of those gorgeous, sweet U-Pick blueberries Harold brought by this morning.

p.s. Blueberries are some of the best brain food around. I'm going to get a double handful!

The Living Words Program: Writing to Improve Lives

The only really terrifying part of growing old, to me, is the possibility that I might lose my mental accuity or my  memories, whether through outright Alzheimer's Disease, MCI (mild cognitive impairment), or some other form of dementia.

Maybe you, too, are writing as fast as you can, just in case something might be gaining on you.

Wofford College, the Alzheimer's Association - SC Chapter, and Hub City Writers Project in Spartanburg, South Carolina have gotten together on a collaborative nine-week creative writing workshop designed for individuals diagnosed with dementia and their caregivers.

They have a blog-style website, Living Words: Writing to Improve Lives. The Wofford College team includes psychology professor, Dr. Kara Bopp, writing instructor Jeremy Jones, and Wofford student Lauren Holland. The first workshop is happening right now: it started June 25 and will run through August 27, for one hour, once a week. They are providing all the materials on their website as a free "tool-box" for people seeking to duplicate the Living Words program. The blog format allows them to update almost daily to allow for maximum dialog.

Lauren Holland's June 15 post, "The What and Why of Living Words," explains the thinking behind the concept of this pilot program, which uses creative writing with a unique approach for the therapeutic benefit of individuals with Alzheimer's or other forms of dementia and their caregivers. 

These folks welcome your ideas. You can email them at: livingwordsprogram@wofford.edu or call them at 864-597-4375.

Longleaf Bar and Grill Reopens Briefly Following Hiatus

The Longleaf Bar & Grill has fallen on hard times in recent weeks. Its chief cook and bottle-washer has been lost in Inner Space, caught between legal pad and Word. 

Two nights ago, Buck and I watched the ivory crescent moon while we swam, back-stroking as we talked through characters and chapters: his, mine and ours. I went to bed with wet hair.

The next morning, when I staggered out before first light as is my practice, I turned on the light in the guest bath where I keep my early morning toothbrush. An involuntary utterance popped out. "Medusa head!"

Medusa, by Carvaggio, on display at The Uffizi in Florence, Italy

 

My hair is growing out from a short cut. It has reached the just-barely-over the ears stage of ultimate awkwardidity (new word, okay?). I guess my fevered brain steamed it during the night, with resultant corkscrew curls sticking out all over my head.

That got me to thinking about the Mediterrean. And food. Hey, I didn't say it was a logical segue.

Thought progressed to action. Last night's menu was a Mediterrean-style feast for eye, nose, belly and heart: grilled tuna, Feta cheese dressed with olive oil, pepper and oregano, Kalamata olives, and grilled veggies in a red wine vinegar, garlic, olive oil, herbs and anchovy marinade.

Street Preacher's Son

 "That's a dandy way to raise a future serial killer," I thought when I first saw them.

The little boy was nine, tops. He was dressed in a pair of long "go to church" pants, a bright white, long-sleeved shirt, a brown clip-on necktie, and hard brown, lace-up shoes. Just like his daddy, who was standing beside him, shouting into a large megaphone.

Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved!

Jesus hates sin!

If you died tonight, would you spend eternity in Heaven. . . or in Hell?

Repent of your sins! Ask the Lord Jesus Christ to save you from Hell!

The party in Hell has been cancelled due to fire!

Warning! You will burn in Hell!

Turn from Sin. Repent!

 

I tried to see the little boy's eyes when the traffic light turned green and we passed closer to where the street preacher had set up. I couldn't. His eyes were squinted shut; whether from the bright glare or embarrassment, I couldn't tell. His thin shoulders rounded over his chest in what looked to me like a protective move, his body language a silent scream that sounded to me like:  "Get me out of here."

 

"If women and children are part of your army on the street, be sure to always keep them in view." (excerpt from "Street Preacher's Manual" by Gerald Sutek)

 

Buck turned into the parking lot at our neighborhood Publix grocery store. Waves of heat nipped at our heels, like surly hounds. We could hear the preacher's shouted exhortations all the way to the entrance, but his voice was blessedly muted when we entered the heavenly air-conditioned space of the market.

 

 

Bucolic Morning Stroll Turns Aerobic

In hopes of getting ahead of the steamy heat, I head out for the woods shortly after 7 this morning.

Too late. I am grateful for the wide-brimmed sun-protection hat with its UPF50+ rating to block most UV rays, (thanks Adele, Richard, Andie, Alex & Julia!), but that doesn't keep me from sweating  glistening. (I read recently that horses sweat, but ladies "glisten.")  I'm quite sure, however, that the quantity of perspiration rolling down my face and neck is beyond any contemplation of glistening. It is sweat, thick and copious. 

These wildflowers with their sturdy beauty don't need cosmetic touch-ups to be photo ready.

I put my camera into one of the slots of my zippered fanny pack and pick up the pace.  After another mile or so, just as I am approaching my turn-around spot, I see some kind of large animal pouncing, cat-like, on something hidden in the tall dry wheat stalks of the food plot we call "Number 5."

I fumble for my camera and manage to take a quick picture before the animal senses my presence, whirls in the fluid power of undomesticated mammals, and disappears into the bordering swamp.

I move briskly homeward. My walk turns aerobic. My logical mind knows this animal would not follow me. Every few minutes I look over my shoulder. . . just to be sure.

 Now that I have downloaded the photo, it almost looks like a house cat. A 30 to 40 pound house cat. Maybe a fox?  The ears are large and sharp, and the tail got brushier when it saw me.  Not a Florida panther. Not a bobcat. Not a coyote. I think I see a large, grey fox face through the grass . What do you think?

Still Unwrapping My Gift

The vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce and walnuts was delicious. The Kaluha was a special treat.  But the man. Oh, that man, the one who said, just last week, "You are beyond adorable," yes, that man, he is my gift. I must have done something really good in a previous life.

A word about writing before I go to sleep:  now that I know what I want to be when I grow up, I'm looking forward even more to the next 58 years.

Sweet dreams, my friends. 

Camroc Press Review

Thanks to author/editor Barry Basden for publishing my piece, A Bed for Drunken Robins, at Camroc Press Review.  It's up today.

Note: Camroc is "looking for micro prose or poetry that moves us to joy or sadness or anger or any other real emotion that illuminates the human condition.

Send us something that's not over 550 words. If we like it, we'll publish it."

Bloggers: start your engines. Click on over there and submit! No kidding. It won't hurt a bit.