Sukiyaki for supper

Tonight, we invited a Chinese student for Christmas Day supper. She's not a Christian, which is not to say, of course, that she's unchristian. From her hometown across the bay from Shanghai, the occasion of the holiday is enjoyed as more of a chance to enjoy time with family and join those silly Engrish in a celebration.

I asked her what religion she professes, and she replied her heritage is Buddhism as those from many Far Eastern (or Near Western) traditional cultures. I considered for a second that some might 'accuse' her of being an atheist, or even pagan. Those words, like agnostic are used in the context and usually insulting manner by those that call themselves Christian as a 'fault' comparatively by those that aspire to call their ownselves Christian, quite unfairly to those that choose to believe in another religion.

My faith is something in my heart not in whether I take Communion as a wafer, or a piece of bread, or a Triscuit, but in my belief system a transubstantiation to the Body and Blood, not rituals but acceptance of God’s love within me and my life and can not be taken away by deliberately changing my belief as a result of someone elses' persuasive abilities.

I wonder at the evangelization goal of Christians for those that already passionately believe what they believe. It is unfortunate many Christians believe that those not of a particular religion nor choosing a Christian affiliation, might consider other cultures primitive, equating their own Christianity as the highest form and most civilized of religious belief systems. Christmas is a good time to reconsider ones' personal beliefs.

I choose to continue to believe what I've believed from my childhood upbringing, perhaps, as testament to pragmatism, or refusal to update confirmation in early adolescence. I've come to realize that the church of my childhood has many fundamental beliefs reflecting rational utilization of universal truths. And, much of the religion builds on dogma expressed in symbolic concepts and terminology which underlies an intent of speaking for all across the spectrum as a set of catholic beliefs.

I could no more deny their entirety as deny my heritage, than think that wishing is a rational way to do business. It might make things easier if we were all to believe Jesus Christ as the son of God came to lead and live with us, but that is an acceptable Western tradition, no greater or lesser than any other belief system that advocates for equality, order, respect, a time before and afterwards, and striving to live for a higher purpose.

Tonight, we had sukiyaki for supper. Not Chinese cuisine, but a pleasant alternative. From the night before, slivers of beef had been marinating in brown sugar and shoyu. Cubed tofu and konnyaku, shirataki strands, sliced bamboo shoots and mushrooms awaited the deft hand of a chef, and the hokusai (or napa) was set out for my husband to cut when he cooked the meal. I remembered the taste of gobo root other times we'd prepared the dish, so bought 6-7 stalks, but realized on the fresh smell when peeling it that we only needed a half a store-bought root cut into matchstick pieces for flavor.

While watching a movie set up on the dining table, my husband cooked a meal in the wok on the electric wire, cabbage leaves overflowing the top as the liquid of it and the other vegetables were released in a flavorful blend at the bottom the wok. Sukiyaki served in bowls over hot steamed rice and the 'soup' ladled in. It was delicious. Mango ice cream and a strawberry for dessert. Three color Jell-O of green lime, vanilla puddington, and red raspberry layer on the top. Our Chinese friend learned to cook a very simple Japanese dish, and how to make gingerbread cookies for a traditional holiday custom.

Older son showed a movie about a train trip from Shanghai to Tibet on Discovery Channel which was quite impressive because of the landscape the route traveled. It seemed as if passenger could look out their windows to see Denali within shouting range passing by on the way from south to north, or say, observe antelope and moose of northern Colorado on a train trip paralleling the Trail Road to the Snowies.

So, these pseudonyms I've used altogether might give an idea of who I am in the way of Shakespeare with his analogy to a rose; opinionated, for sure. Coming up with a false name is as creative an exercise as anything else possible for an older person who hasn't time to devote to writing poetry, nor wherewithal to retire and reinvent oneself as a composer of music. If I were to retire now, I doubt at age 65 --in 13 years, I would be anywhere close to approaching the musical genius of Felix Mendelssohn, a child prodigy who took less than 15 years to develop expertise in providing outward musical expression of his innermost inspirational muse. His sister Fanny didn't take too long, either. Of course, Wolfie took less time than F. M-Bartholdy. There's no accounting for true genius. One cannot expect that the idea of even a sniggle of genius will come into play after 50 years of 'life experience', without the fresh egotism, fortitude and invincibility of a child.

One of a favorite anonym used is Mabel LeBeau; first at age 10 or 11 years old, just to have a nom de plume for an alternate identity. Alternate identities such as virtual identities have evolved into an entirely different concept than that of my childish imagination. At the time, Mabel was an old-fashioned name that sounded grown-up and mature, and easy to roll off the tongue. Unfortunately, over the years it's evolved into a allonym not easy for me to look at without any degree of irritation at the obfuscation it engenders, entirely devoid of any hint its user attempts to hide a flibbertigibbet personality.

Perhaps, if Mabel was spelled Mable, Mabyl, Maebelle, Mabol, Mabyll, or even Maybo, the name mightd seem less plain and utilitarian. However, the alternate spellings would probably throw off a spurt of enthusiasm every time I saw it in my mind, distractingly to refocus on what a person with the name 'Mabol' could stand for. It's far easier to work with black and white persona, when trying to fit into the image of Mabel rather than Mabo, to imagine a person named Mabel wearing plain blouses or polo shirts of polyester, Tencel(R), rayon, or poplin with 3/4 length sleeves, worsted wool skirts, and cotton underwear or that the opposite, 'anti-Mabel' prefers traveling to faraway places wearing paisley silk shawls, and simple chartreuse Ponte Di Roma dresses and leather heeled mules.

LeBeau is a throwback to a French Canadian heritage. With a meaning 'the beautiful' in French, it's more a nod to the commonality of anglicized 'Bo' as a surname in cajun country, an ancestry one cannot deny even as it's never been researched or specifically developed.

New year, another chance to look at things differently

It's interesting to consider previous posts at this blog. They were headed with 'Cinnamon, Nutmeg, and Allspice' using the related moniker: Cinnamon. Because I do not identify myself as 'just' a pharmacist, this post was a catch-all for domestic and eclectic interests as well as a typical feminine-type of identifer. Cinnamon was chosen for several different reasons. One reason is that it is an alliteration of my initials CMN. Another possible pseudonym, Chameleon, might be appropriate but whenever I've attempted to use it usually has already been taken. Other monikers I've used include, The Pharmacist, Jade (for my favorite color), Zircon (for a word I missed in a State Spelling Bee), and LD50placebo effect (for a bit of joviality), as well as my real maiden name RPh. Once I used, 'A Concerned Pharmacist', and have used Territorial Babe to express an unpopular opinion of a woman who tried to treat the role of vice presidential candidate as a high school popularity contest in an attempt to discredit the value of having rational personal integrity outside of being a 'tool' even for her husband. My son uses his real name for his blog, but I couldn't risk possibly embarrassing my family if I expressed an opinion that seemed out of sync with the image projected as their mother or wife, or even sibling.

I found several identifiable attitudes when using Cinnamon as a pseudonym. The two women I knew as Cinnamon were quite different; one was a vivacious upperclassman in high school. She was smart, and also a member of academic, social, and sports-related activities. Her hair was brown as I recall. The other Cinnamon was in pharmacy school, again, smart and sociable, as well as a country-music singer who played gigs on the weekend as others might wait tables, or wash dishes for college funds. She might have had blond hair, not a cinnamon strand.

These women were typical of who I'd anticipate having Cinnamon as a birth name. I didn't know anyone with Cinnamon as a nickname, yet when signing myself as 'Cinnamon' several males called me in not so many words a 'whore'. I have never known any nightclub strippers, let alone one named 'Cinnamon'. I also knew as Ginger, a woman who had dark hair and was as warm and friendly as one might have as a younger sister--well, that would be my younger sister.

Ginger, the pharmacy technician, was a woman I met in a small farming town Wal-mart Pharmacy. Ginger had not a ginger bone in her body. She was sweet, quick, and empathetic, and training to be a kindergarten teacher. She had infinite patience. She was the only tech on duty working with me, the agency relief pharmacist that day. Not an employee of Wal-mart, but as a principled primarily hospital pharmacist working agency jobs for experience as well as extra income. By principled, there were certain things that once I had the hang of being in the retail setting would or should not get past me unlike previous agency workers or even the regular pharmacist.

When I first started out, as I recall the first day at a Wal-mart at a shop in a major city 60 miles away, I think I nearly frightened the two technicians to death or gave them a good scare about what might happen on their watch. The two technicians I'll give as their real names because I don't anticipated running into them anytime in the future. They are pharmacists, by now, Adrian at Philadelphia College of Pharmacy, or maybe it was St. Louis College--anyway, a big name pharmacy school, and the other guy whose name I never can remember right off the bat because it's an unusual ethnic name as he seemed to be second generation. He graduated Purdue, another big name pharmacy school, and I recognized his name right off when looking over the list of new grads.

The foibles that first day working for the agency would nearly unnerved one never to return, but I justified the adventure of it as the first day as a retail pharmacist ever. Not letting on to Adrian and the other guy that probably was a good move on my part. They probably thought I was just a ding-bat and hopefully that was it. Adrian seemed a genuinely laid-back individual. He was tremendously organized, and greatly effective in his attempts to set my anxiety index lower so that I could think straight. The other pharmacy tech tried his hardest to be everything he could be, also, tremendously smart and organized but he once or twice let his anxiety slip out and I could tell that he wished he had not signed up for this particular Saturday morning.

When taking the assignment, I was given the store phone number, but not told that I needed to extract important information from the pharmacist on duty before the assigned shift. I located the shop using MapQuest online and estimate the time of the commute and prepared for the drive. I knew it was a weekend shift with weekend hours and I was the only one assigned, so I'd have to open up and close, but it was also a national holiday which meant its share of special issues.

I started out in plenty of time, but there is only so much time one can make up when the first thing that happens is that my car quits. I don't remember the scenario, but I was able to rent another quickly and started out again only 15 minutes later than planned so I figured that if I as the one closest to being on duty, there'd be no need to cancel, and try to get someone else at the last moment. So, I just increased my highway speed a little.

Normally the store wants the pharmacist to arrive 15-30 minutes before it opens, and I arrived to the store with minutes to spare before the door should have opened, but had no codes to open doors or start the computer. Even when the floor manager was able to contact someone to get them, it was difficult to unlock a combination lock on the first try if too many attempts sets off the alarm. Most locks I've been responsible for unlock for the first time, end up requiring a call to the security company or police department to ignore the warning the place is being broken in and possibly vandalized.

Besides, this pharmacy was part of Wal-mart's remodeling project. When Wal-mart remodels, I've noticed, they make a mini-pharmacy inside a locked cage with light and pressure-sensitive security warnings all around the cage. So, I'm trying to get the pharmacy open and there are sirens blaring all around from tripping the wrong code input and tripping the electric eye. Fail too many attempts or try to get in a circuitous route and alarms go off, too. So, the other tech whose name is still not coming to me, arrived to work and first duty is to help the agency pharmacist get the shop open.

Meanwhile patients were lining up, dropping off scripts, asking questions. I try not to get noticeably panicked. Techs are not supposed to know codes for getting into the shop, and generally they do not, but students might find it in their best interest to know things to keep things running smoothly, as someday, after graduation they will be in charge.

Then, when we opened the shop, the next undertaking was to get the computer system up and running to process prescriptions. The pharmacist sign-on was required first before the store prescription could be dispense.That was another dilly. It required a call to another Wal-mart pharmacy. Eventually this hurdle was cleared and we began processing scripts waiting from the patient request queue, the 'auto-refill' program, and urgent matters of patients waiting in line.

The patients didn't seem particularly upset at first, but as time seemed to stand still for them, and they had to be other places at certain times on a Saturday morning, there were a few sharp words. When patients started calling to see if their prescriptions had been called in and showing up, again a call to another shop was necessary for the codes to listen to the voicemail message, then there were additional steps to take when patients requested they have their prescriptions transferred.

So, the day progressed. Running back and forth checking what Adrian and the other tech had filled, trying to answer questions. I recall only two incidents in which the other tech seemed visibly lose his 'cool'. One was when a patient, an older gentleman, quietly questioned the number of refills originally entered in the computer system. By this time I was familiar enough with the computer to access facsimiles of the originals, so I told the patient to stick his head over to the screen and see what it said. The presence of a customer in the pharmacy upset the tech greatly and he nearly ran from the other side of the cage to shoo him out quickly, explaining that customers were never allowed in the pharmacy. I could see the logic in it, and have never invited a patient into the pharmacy since. In my hospitals, I was never shy about inviting the physicians in to wait while I made up their Abciximab drip STAT. Some pharmacists found the presence of the doc unnerving, but it always made me work more accurately, unless of course I had to do other things distracting to the matter at hand. But, a doc's behavior is probably more predictable than a patient.

The second matter that I went over and over with the other tech, was when a patient came in with no refills on her lisinopril prescription, and the only record we had in the computer was an enalapril filled a year earlier. In the meantime she'd been enlisted in a mail-order prescription service and since the doc's office was closed until the next Tuesday, and I didn't have a 'feel' for the local physicians, I told her I needed for her to bring in her bottle. She had it in her possession but it was out refills. No matter how hard I tried to imagine a patient out of her blood pressure medication for three days, the greedy 'what if I get in trouble' gremlin showed its horns. And, I did not fill any even at no charge. Years later, I still feel bad about not filling even a few days to help her get by until the mail-order supply arrived in her mailbox.

That day was only the first of the fill-in pharmacist adventures. Since then I've worked at many different kinds of shops and with many different kinds of people. Inevitably, however, if someone forgets that the pharmacy cannot remain open without the pharmacist on duty, I'm not hesitant about taking the keys and saying the pharmacy is closed for the day. Techs do not run the shop. The pharmacy buyer doesn't run the shop. Patients do not run the shop, and neither does the store manager. I am licensed and every state I'm licensed required a licensed pharmacist on duty to perform the job of a pharmacist.

Baytril, Warehouse floors, VetaMeg and Cystorelin

Cystorelin® and Fertagyl® are brands of injectable gonadorelin used for treatment of cystic ovaries in cattle. Available as prescription-only on a licensed veterinarian's orders, Cystorelin® is manufactured by the English and Welsh company Merial.

Cystorelin^® is a sterile solution containing 50 mcg/mL gonadorelin (GnRH) suitable for intramuscular or intravenous administration. Gonadorelin is the hypothalamic releasing factor responsible for release of gonadotropins (e.g., LH, FSH) from the anterior pituitary. Synthetic gonadorelin is physiologically and chemically identical to the endogenous bovine hypothalamic releasing factor.

Fertagyl^® is manufactured for Intervet Schering-Plough by Intervet International GmbH of Unterschleissheim, Germany.

I wonder if the gonadorelin manufacturers hold T.V advertising duels touting benefits of Sister Ellen vs. Fergie Girl.

Baytril ^®manufactured by Bayer of Germany is a fluoroquinolone, enrofloxacin, an antibiotic for veterinary use and its range of applications in companion animals such as dogs, cats, exotic animals and food animals such as poultry, cattle, pigs and sheep.

VetaMeg ® flunixin 50 mg/mL is a prescription-only veterinary non-steroidal, non-narcotic anti-inflammatory analgesic agent with antipyretic activity, funnily listed as more potent than 'pentazocine, meperidine, and codeine' as analgesics as demonstrated in the rat yeast paw test.

What is funny is that the drug's mechanism of action is non-narcotic yet the analgesia effects are compared to narcotics and not very effective ones at that, specifically pentazocine and codeine. Maybe, pentazocine and codeine work better in relieving inflammation in sheep, but they don't do a darn thing for human animals.

What do the three drugs above have in common? First, they are used exclusively in non-human animals, and second, they are prescription-only drugs that must be ordered by a veterinarian, and dispensed only by pharmacists, the profession legally allowed to fill prescription medications in the US.

Guess. What was I doing last week in my job as an agent pharmacist? Dispensing the drugs listed above; I found myself working for a animal health supplies warehouse filling prescriptions for herds of dairy cattle and pig farms from all over in the mid-eastern cornfields. Walking up and down concrete floors of a large warehouse in my dress shoes, climbing ladders, pulling boxes of drugs from shelves high above my head; checking product names of drugs I'd never heard of before, ripping open cardboard boxes, verifying expiration dates and lot numbers of product to send out; slapping prescription labels on bottles of cyanocobalamin, ceftiofur and dinoprost.

I dreaded the called-in prescription: 'Hello, this is Dr. Heffer calling for Ladonnabella Dairy Farm in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Please dispense Excede (ceftiofur) 200 mg/mL # 3 x 100 mL bottles. Label: For treatment of foot rot. Give to the lactating cow 1 dose of 6.6 mg/Kg or 1.5 mL per 46 Kg body weight, subcutaneously at base of ear. If no improvement after 5 days, call back.

Animals as customer are quite different than human customers. For one thing ... the quantity prescribed might be somewhat different doses seen in humans, but the amount dispensed is quite a bit larger considering drugs are dispensed to similarly aged animals in herds. Vitamin K (phytonadione) doses for human adults come in 1 mL ampules of 10 mg/mL For dairy herds, the stuff comes in 100 mL bottles. Another thing, though the injectable medications come in pint-size quantities, there is no sterile rubber stopper.

It is a sobering thought that perhaps the vet or tech administering the vaccines probably does not carefully shave and swab the site of injection with antiseptic and the rubber stopper with alcohol using aseptic technique to mass immunize the herd.

Another thing, the pharmacist dispenses drugs to human herd owners, so there is no foot-stomping (hoof-stomping?) displays of temper tantrums when the prescription is not filled in 5 minutes or the patient's health insurance plan doesn't cover the cost of the drug.

For veterinary use, amoxicillin still comes in bubblegum flavor, and sulfamethoxazole-trimethoprim is still a cherry-flavored suspension for cattle, but I have my doubts about how palatable or patient-acceptable is VetaMeg which is labeled for use in animals only.

Flunixin, a fluoroquinolone... do the same limitations exist about using the antibiotic in pregnant animals, exposure to the sun, and avoiding co-administration with multi-valent cations as humans?

There are a number of adverse reactions we pharmacists counsel our human patients about the fluoroquinolones, are a highly effective broad-spectrum antibiotics with a unique mechanism of action; interference of DNA-gyrase in replication of the bacteria. Broad-spectrum refers to a highly effective mechanism of action providing potent antibiotic effect on a broad range of different types of bacteria including both those with and without cell walls.

This broad range of efficacy provokes several public health issues; emergence of resistance crosses with highly effective ciprofloxacin considered a major agent for inclusion in disaster preparedness for anthrax and other public health menaces, and in comparison to other antibiotic classes rank amongst the highest for risk of causing colonization with methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus and Clostridium difficile infections, both highly resistant to conventional treatments and difficult to treat inexpensively and completely and highly transmissible.

I have seen prescriptions for these types of drugs for urinary tract and upper and lower respiratory tract infections because it often covers the likely pathogens that might normally require administration of two antibiotics. When it first came out, it was of interest that concentration in prostate tissue approached concentrations in the blood, a viable alternative to the highly polar aminoglycosides remaining in the bloodstream, and providing a serious contender in hard-to-treat male urinary tract infections.

Dependence on a singe antimicrobial agent for serious infection pushes usage patterns to maximal public exposure. When resistance emerges, the micro-organism involved is a more formidable to recognize as well as treat.

The potent fluoroquinolones must be used judiciously. And, they are not without possible adverse reactions. They are not innocuous antibiotics. This type of drug is often classified as category C because no adequate and well-controlled studies have been conducted in pregnant women, and therefore should be used during pregnancy only if the potential benefit outweighs potential risk to the fetus, however, at one time when I dispensed the drugs I advised against use in pregnancy as well as in pediatric patients less than age 18 because of effects on birthweight and delayed calcification in rodent trials.

I recall one little old woman who'd been seen in the E.R. two days prior and prescribed levofloxacin once a day for a urinary tract infection. By the third day, she had no idea of who or where she was and was found wandering in her neighborhood; altered mental status was the reason for admission to the hospital medical unit. It took several days for the drug to be fully eliminated and the central nervous system effects to diminish.

Use of fluoroquinolones may be associated with central nervous system toxicity including peripheral neuropathy, sunlight sensitization with sunburns on exposure to light through windowpane for some fluoroquinolones, effects on heart, joints and tendons. Human children and the elderly are at greater risk. These adverse effects may show up during the course of therapy, to sometime after the drug has been discontinued. Doubt the human administrator will be so picky about adverse effects on animals. Pre-tenderized veal may be a marketing gimmick.

I thought it also interesting to note what kind of vaccines were available. One product that I dispensed quite a bit was Newport Salmonella. I went to PubMed to find something about this particular vaccine. Following is the synopsis in PubMed.

"Hermesch DR et al. Effects of a commercially available vaccine against Salmonella enterica serotype Newport on milk production etc. American Journal of Veterinary Resarch. 2008 Sep;69(9):1229-34.

Objective: to determine effects of vaccination with siderophore receptor and porin (SRP) proteins derived from Salmonella enterica serotype Newport on milk production, somatic cell count, and shedding of Salmonella organisms in 180 female dairy Holsteins.

Procedures: cattle were randomly assigned to receive Salmonella Newport SRP vaccine or control solution. Vaccine or control solution was injected 45-60 days before parturition, and cattle received a second dose 14-21 days before parturition. Milk production was monitored for the first 90 days of lactation. Feces for isolation of Salmonella and blood samples for detection of antibodies against Salmonella Newport were collected at day of first injection and at days 7-14 and 28-35 of lactation.

Results: cattle inoculated with Salmonella Newport vaccine produced significantly more milk (1.14 Kg/day), compared with cattle injected with the control solution. Cattle administered vaccine had significantly higher concentrations of circulating antibody against Salmonella Newport SRP proteins at 7-14 days and 28-35 days of lactation. Salmonella Newport was not recovered; however, Salmonella enterica serotype Agona was recovered from 31 (20.3%) cattle, but likelihood of recovery did not differ significantly between vaccinates and control cattle.

Conclusions and clinical relevance: administration of a vaccine against Salmonella Newport SRP proteins to healthy dairy cattle prior to parturition increased milk production, even in cattle without detectable shedding of Salmonella Newport or clinical signs of salmonellosis. Additional research is needed to clarify the mechanisms by which productivity was improved. PMID: 18764698 [PubMed - indexed for MEDLINE]

DONNA, DONNA or (Secunda/Zeitlein/Secunda)

On a wagon bound for market, there's a calf with a mournful eye. High above him there's a swallow, winging swiftly through the sky.

How the winds are laughing. They laugh with all their might. Laugh and laugh the whole day through ad half the summer's night.

Donna, donna, donna, donna, donna, donna, donna, don, donna, donna, donna, donna, donna, donna, donna, don.

"Stop complaining", said the farmer, "who told you a calf to be? Why don't you have wings to fly with like the swallow so proud and free?

How the winds are laughing, they laugh with all their might. Laugh and laugh the whole day through, and half the summer's night.

Donna, donna, donna, donna, donna, donna, donna, don, donna, donna, donna, donna, donna, donna, donna, don.

Calves are easily bound and slaughtered, never knowing the reason why, but whoever treasures freedom, like the swallow has learned to fly.

How the winds are laughing, they laugh with all their might. Laugh and laugh the whole day through, and half the summer's night.

Donna, donna, donna, donna, donna, donna, donna, don, donna, donna, donna, donna, donna, donna, donna, don.

Sukiyaki for supper

Oden, curry rice, and sukiyaki are wonderful meals reserved for cooler days.

Nothing like a the whiff of slow-cooked supper of shirataki, enoki mushrooms, bamboo shoots, napa, tofu cubes, chunks of konnyaku, and slivers of beef in shoyu broth to greet the hungry and tired at the end of a chilly foggy day.

Oden is not widely appreciated in my home, especially by the kids, but the boiled potatoes and various pieces of deep-fried delicacies announce the season has changed and we're now in a colder venue before it'll will be warmer. A little wasabi wakes things up. Did you say you'd been having some upper respiratory or sinus issues?

Curry rice. Mmm. Carrots. Don't overcook the potatoes.

Autumn and rippling piano keys at NPR

A soft, melodic piece of music is picked out on the piano keys; softly hammered, almost seeming as if plucked, on stretched steel wires in the piano case. Tones continue to resonate through the sounding board as the dampened vibrations are deftly evoked at the pianist's touch. There is no discordancy. Reflective, not determinedly marching along, and delicate against the sounds of a muted orchestra. I am listening as I compose this. I guess it was composed in the classical way, with beginnings and endings conforming to the concerto form. Even, may be an English or German composer, no doubt more recently from the last century.

Unlike the repetition of centuries-old drawing room entertainment, it is modern in rhythm with a few syncopated beats. It seems to meander along like a brook after a soft rain early in November in temperate regions. The notes pick out colorful leaves; some damply desiccated with a mildewed underside, ground cover in a oak and elm woods. Perhaps one can smell the musty liveliness of the fungal spores perched on stumps, and the rotting vegetation when scuffled along the forest floor.

But, mildew in itself is a form of life that takes its sustenance from once-living concepts like leaves, and re-creates life in another form.

Then, the composer changes the mood, and the tune scurries along like a little field-mouse lugging acorns, and seeds of maples to an underground den. Quickly now, chipmunks and squirrels are out also, still looking to increase winter stores. And, then the piece is over and audience clapping.

The radio announcer the name of the piece. By Dmitri Shostakovich, piano concerto no. 2 was composed in 1957 for a son's 19th birthday. What a marvelous use of talent. Wouldn't it be wonderful to possess such skill in creating the lasting artistic expression in honor of one's child?

Presumably not an example of Shostakovich's typical heavy stuff, it seems even a bit cheerful in my imagination for Russian music. Despite the birthday celebration in May, the piece is a tribute to naturalism and well-suited to a day in November. Maybe, I'm thinking so as the heater has just kicked on, and it's threatening to rain on this November day.

I'm not a music aficionado. I love music, but the notes go in and out my ears, and nothing is retained. Merely the memory of enjoyment in the moment. However, I am not totally clueless. I can recognize a piece of music I've heard before despite not being able to recreate the tune without a 'cheat sheet'.

I have a friend who says her husband knows the words of all the popular music but sings it all in the same the tune...something like 'Old McDonald'. I am fortunate to possess a somewhat similar talent, but more oftenly there it is a tuneless rendition if the words are in front of me.

I was a member of my church choir to help lend support to my sister's singing talent. Although she sat next to me, she was careful not to get too close. We were altos, and sang right in front of the tenors, and in back of the sopranos. Because Martha Hall, and later Mr. Shirey played the organ so masterfully, I don't think anyone caught on that I sang everyone's parts at the same time, until I was 'promoted' to the position of page-turner for Ms. Hall.

I guess the special ability doesn't need to be held to such high regard and threateningly over my head--as I cannot recreate the Mona Lisa in great detail either from memory, and consider myself artistic to a degree. For that matter, memorization skills elude me. I cannot remember poems beyond snatches of the onomatopoeic elements.

Throughout my life there have been school memorization assignments.

In second grade, there was the childrens rhyme about squirrels, "whisky, frisky, hippity hop, up he goes to the treetop, whirly, twirly round and round, down he scampers to the ground, dadedada dadeda .... broad as a sail, and that's it! I could not and still to this day cannot recall another word.

In primary school I backed out of performing Robert Louis Stevenson's poem about swinging with Mary Edith Kallenberg, instead dancing the Mexican Hat Dance with another group. Mary E. had no problem memorizing the three poem verses, but my mind stopped after " How do you like to go up in a swing, up in the air so blue? Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing ever a child can do". That's all that I could accomplish with recalling words in a particular order.

Mary Edith took the brunt of memorization of that poem and if there was a prize for a solo project, surely she deserved it. Later, in leaving for college, marrying, and moving far away I did not keep up with her or any other childhood contacts, except for a best friend who moved to Georgia. I wonder if Mary has remained a single career woman all these years, perhaps a lawyer, or writer, or historian. As an intellectual, if she did marry, it's hard to imagine her potty-training toddlers and attempting to reasoning with her own teen-agers.

My sons have the ability, especially evident in the younger one, to retain aural conjectures and transmit them accurately as memorized snatches. Heck not merely snatches. I've heard my younger one practice violin concertos as he wanders from room to room, pausing to look at a picture in an open book, gaze out the window, and put on his shoes (an exaggeration!). The music can probably be compared to that played on stringed extension of the human voice. After all, people can shower and sing at the same time.

Sometimes I wonder if the musicality is something inherited from their father, and other times I imagine the skill is an ability to clothe oneself in a particular musical experience, so as to make it part of one's persona.

I recall when my little one was playing a solo at 5 or younger. In the audience front row, I was so nervous for him that I was tapping the rhythm with my foot audibly to him. During a break, he whispered, 'Mom, don't tap your foot, I can't hear myself. Besides, what do you think about how it would look when I am in a concert hall, and my mother is in the front row tapping her foot?"

When I used to encourage my younger son's many musical performances, I tried to give him good advice, advice that held a reliably generic truth not to set him up for impossible standards. (Over the years, until he played for gigs in high school, his only monetary reward for playing was the reception afterward sure to have some of his favorite sweets, although that was not an incentive after his symphony debut at age 9!). My advice always was to relax and play the piece from his soul or being, and not worry about notes. After sufficient exercise, rehearsal and a good nights rest, at the moment of performance, in that slot of time in all the world it was his piece, to do with as he willed and express it in his own way.

I know it's personally selfish, i.e. for my own enjoyment, but no doubt others would find comfort and beauty in his music performance. I hope that someday this young musician finds a way to contentment and returns to performances, if only for himself, family, and friends.

My older son's interests are in other fields, and his great talent is summarization of difficult topics for teaching others. Someday, he will find the perfect way to use that skill and enjoy his work. I am confident in that. Sometimes, it takes more time than anticipated, as each of us travel our own time-lines.

August came and went, and I was there all the time riding the bucking bronc, reins in one hand and the other outstretched trying to maintain balance. Nahh, it wasn't that wild. Just unpredictable to a certain degree. Several times I thought about mentioning something of importance but the opportunities quickly slipped away.

It's somewhat astonishing, about the autumn months. All throughout summer, there's an inner anxiety to enjoy the long days of summer, so much so, that in cramming as much as possible in the daytime, it seems nothing is fully accomplished which is depressing and leads one down the path of 'why bother?' That little list so that nothing gets missed; just seems the items don't get checked off quickly enough. Perhaps, the old trick of breaking goals into doable tasks, and ticking those off one by one.

Actually, we did accomplish quite a bit.

We tried to change behaviors. We attempted convalescence and we took a week-long trip to the land of birth, a different place altogether from where we now live, and for which we'd not been back for more than 20 years. We tried to establish some new self- and other-person valuing behaviors. Not without sinking to some of the depths, and there's quite a way to go for reaching another plateau 'up from the ashes'.

Time marches on and our little dog's health is one measure of life well-spent, the time of a life-span. She came to us as a spunky 10-month old pup, but by dog years she was already 6-7 years old and her third home. A little girl. Adorable. An American Eskimo, not unlike a Japanese spitz in appearance. Intelligent and loyal. Already fiercely instinctual in her duties of protecting her latest family.

Teaching her feral owners some of the niceties of civility and basic lessons in self-pride, honor, and respect. Intensely loyal to those whose actions showed themselves a caring and considerate. The vet described her temperament as 'high-strung' not unlike a pediatrician would describe her younger 'family'.

Always ready for a romp, a walk, a run in an open field. Until her owners took obedience class, she was allowed to run ahead investigative nose leading the way to the right and left this way and that. Poor vision, but excellent sense of smell. A rabbit could fool her easily by standing downwind.

She is still a fierce rabbit hunter. At the corner of the front yard near the street a brazen female bore her litters of bunnies year after year under a bush just 2-3 feet beyond from where our little lady's leash extended from the pear tree knowing that she could provide warning and illusion of protection. But, it was always a roulette when the bunnies were learning to hop. If they strayed too close to our little dog's territory, they were fair game. Unfortunately for rabbits.

Her hearing phenomenal Her vision poorer at certain times than others. Bright lights, moving objects, but she could always appreciate Saturday afternoon opera. Singing along with the best at the Met, and joining in with Jacques (Brel), Luciano, and Jussi, and the male tenors in the household...o sole mio, and ave Maria, songs about love, loss, and yearning. Totally into musical expression. Understandable with a resident violinist.

Then, the humans she was in charge began a series of fracas at night, evolving in confrontational and loudly unloving interactions which upset her greatly for a period of time, disrupting her sleep and equanimity, causing surges in corticosteroid production and riling circadian rhythms.

First, she was thirsty, and barking for water, then when sated, left puddles, and had to stay outside at night. And the cycle continued for months in her reaction to her human's behaviors. Stress. She developed cataracts which cause her vision blindness. Running into low-hanging branches damaging the surface of her eyes. A thorn on her front pad took a long time to heal, and required gram negative treatment with gentamicin ointment. Very shortly after was diagnosed with diabetes.

The diabetes means her diet is strictly detailed. One cup of prescription food in the morning with her 2 units of N insulin and one cup at night with 2 more units of N insulin. She's doing okay. But, now, we take note that she seems as if she's older and frailer with the weight loss and drowsing all curled on the living room floor, all the windows open and whole-house fan changing the air, with NPR in the background.

A twist on the phrase, 'My dog has fleas' for tuning a four string guitar, comes to mind, with 'my dog has diabetes'. But, her current state of health makes mockery of the old poem 'Sunning' as she's not got a lazy bone in her old body, and deserves any measure of rest and pleasant dreaming.

From James Tippett, "Old dog lay in the summer sun, much too lazy to rise and run. He flapped an ear at a buzzing fly. He winked a half-opened sleepy eye. He scratched himself on an itchy spot, as he dozed on the porch where the sun was hot. He wimpered a bit from force of habit while he lazily dreamed of chasing a rabbit. But old dog happily lay in the sun much too lazy to rise and run."

Grand July has arrived

Covering for friends at work, along with the heavy-duty humidity of this landlocked mid-eastern cornfield country, has left me pr't'near worn out. Well, it was the work and weather, and now I find some degree of obstructive sleep apnea--not just being wery wery wicked. "There's no rest for the wicked."

July arrived with heat and sunshine (corn stalks nearly five foot high) and another birthday. And, aother chance to redeem my soul for the wickedness of the past three or four or five decades.

Little brother and his son went climbing the 'big one' turning back at 17,500 feet. Smart guy has kept himself fit and enthusiastic all his life. Says the snow and ice got boring after a bit, sunburns off the glare. Imagining peeling facial skin and his prominent nose. But, so much relieved that was it. Summer climbs always have the danger of melting snows and slides, though storms might be less than in winter climbs.

In any case, there's a special angel in heaven who succumbed 22 years ago during a mid-winter climb. How I wish she were here in person to meet her nieces and nephews. Sometimes, it's enough to say one's belief in heaven exists in legacies of loss.

Younger son was reluctant to enjoy the fireworks, so 'went out for pizza' and he got to view the magnificence in the skies, something of beauty, beyond his control, and a wonder to behold, taking him beyond 'himself' if for only a few minutes. Older son took videos, and it was wonderful, as it took him out of 'himself' as well, in an effort to think of others and their enjoyment.

Fireworks, invented by the Chinese, and such an ephemerally short occasion of beauty and grandness, a nanosecond of the blossoming of the stargazer lily, evoking summertime, often considered a state of mind; a time to be looking forward all the cold times of the year when an icy wind blows, but a time to curse the lack of sleep it engenders. Summertime is a time of grand enjoyment of everlasting green lit by fireflies, cold watermelon and symphony fermatas echoing in the trees of air-conditioned evenings, far far from mosquitoes.

June, wonderful June--ne'er a rare day in June

June arrived within the last week, and already the first firefly sighted in the heavy evening air. We record the first firefly of the season as well as last sighting when the evening air is less heavy with warm humidity---

At this time I do not like to recollect cold-tinged autumn air fraught with molds and decaying deciduous leaves set against the brilliant clear azure blue. For many years, the chill of an autumn afternoon evoked the ancient rhythms of life playing out in the havoc of blood flow through slightly constricted vessels and bringing on an increased heart rate of anticipatory school assignments. This feeling of thinning air could also come about even on an evening stroll in light twilight at 11:30 PM up the local mountain at a time close to the longest day of the year, to view Fourth of July fireworks on Point Woronzof.

Here, the fireflies flitting in the grass of the backyard, drone of cicadas, and waning light of evening dusk bring to mind a time of 'lazy' summer. No agenda. Just a bowlful of ripe cherries or cold wedges of watermelon to enjoy and engage in seed-spitting competition off the back stoop. (I wonder why we never see emergence of baby cherry trees or a watermelon patch.)

end of May

another end to another month...hard to say whether am on the way to or from...summer's on the way in
getting ready to grill beef like shish kebabs for supper...corn on the cob's been great so far...maybe baked potatoes and grilled beef...maybe just the baked potatoes and beef with onions and mushrooms...Kikkoman shoyu seems to dress up meat whenever it's used...a little brown sugar and bonito flakes
gotta get motivated

And so we come to the end of April

It's not the last day or even the last week, but it is fairly coming to the end of April after the first blush of pinkening magnolias and the chromium yellow of the forsythia, just after the crocuses, then the pink blossoming, and yaller daffodils, purple hyacinths and wind flowers. My second son's magnolia, his because he used to climb it and sit in the crook of the first branching boughs, catches my eye every time I look out the kitchen window as if a new coat of snow has blanketed the trees, and by the time I get used to looking past to the green buds, I can see the pink and white of various trees in neighborhood yards: chokecherry, apple, plum, and the Japanese pears out in front of our house.

The pawpaw is even bedecked with the dark purple of its zebra butterfly attractants. When we first read about this home-grown 'exotic local' in the local University School of Agriculture Extension office, we found mention of its very few pests, exclusively the zebra butterfly. This seemed an ideal situation in our yard as a prior decision to use lawn pesticides had made the fruit inedible to us with our super-sensitivities--not inedible to the ravens that decimated the crop of apple-pears the first year. Once the pawpaws became firmly ensconced in their present location currently, even after 4-5 years their trunks are still surrounded by chicken wire because the rabbits gnawed them badly the beginning of their first winter which unfortunately does nothing about the moles which seem to somehow have caused the death of rhododendrons--no flowers, brown buds, and limp stems and branches--and, furrows which could only be made by an active mole family, only to be plagued by another unmentioned pest. The pawpaws survived as small grafted plants shipped to us in coffee-can sized plastic containers as they find it difficult to transplant. Five trees survived the first year, only to attacked by relentless Japanese beetles. This thought of the Japanese beetle campaign my husband will have to wage all summer is daunting. He has to be out with the beetle smasher as soon as the sun rises, even climbing on a ladder to reach the tallest branches, in order to result in those delicious fragments of a mid-eastern summer close to the heartland. I mean there's pawpaws in Happy Hollow Park growing as wild as one would ever please. Looking forward to better times when we're all getting better!

March and Spring Break from School

My first brush with textbooks were the ones my father kept on a high shelf in the house from which he developed his school lesson plans for his junior high kids. (I remember a spanking for climbing precariously on a stool placed on a trunk to reach them at age 5. )

When little, I remember the intensity of discussions in our home. There were four of us girls only two years apart in ages, and throughout our elementary school years we were often enrolled in each others' classes in various combinations and in high school in years which electives were only held every two years, we ended up competing with each other for the highest grades in the class.

Truly, we girls were uniquely different from each other, and we absolutely never could study with each other for anything except if when we taking turns giving each other spelling words. But, there was always the intense concentration to do better than each other.

Anything we read, we had to give an opinion. I remember our discussions on biblical passages, religious themes, shortest way to Kasilof, who could curl their tongue, the validity of Kon Tiki, and Amundsen's trip to the South Pole, alternate routes up McKinley (before the more poetic Denali), Black Like Me, Up the Down Staircase, Dante's Inferno, Cartoons from the New Yorker, and Charlotte's Web.

One recurring discussion was whether or not it was wise for kids to learn to read early. Sisters argued whether we were stunted by having to wait to learn to read or not, and what would've happened if we'd attempted to figure it out on our own. As I was the eldest, our parents insisted I wait until I joined the other little Bluebirds in first grade, but there was no holding back anyone else once I'd mastered it. Pretty much we four girls all learned to read that year, and moved quite quickly beyond Dick, Jane, and silly Sally and their trip on the train to Chicago. Heck, in '64 we rode the Mooser Gooser along the coast, and would never have gotten except that the ride was over and we're going to the Old-Fashioned Ice Cream Parlor. I guess Pa didn't want us touching his school textbooks, because he was afraid that our schoolteachers might be stymied by the time we were in school.

And, indeed, as a teacher's kid I spent a lot of time before and after school helping the librarian put away books, running off tests for class on the hectograph copier or ditto machines. I think there was a mimeograph machine, too, one could use if the copy was typed. (But, I was happy to use the new Xerox for pep band parts when it was installed in the office.) Yes, I once rolled my thumb under the revolving drum of the ditto machine to elicit a red-purple color where the blood spurted out from under the cuticle.

When there were 3 minute timed math combination tests, I was the one that got to watch the clock while the teacher stepped out Yes, after the first one and half minutes, I often lost concentration and gave an extra one or two minutes. (I was too proud to tell anyone I had no idea of how to tell time and to me it was either the long or the short hand, not that there was any difference between the hour and the second hand--which was the first and which the second hand was beyond me, and for that matter after 1.5 minutes, actually if I stared hard enough the hands started to revolve the opposite way, and so got mixed up how many times they had gone around.)

Yes, but by sixth grade, I was the one that got to stick my chewing gum on the blackboard with my nose sticking to it while everyone else did their classwork. By that age, I could not sit still at the desk if Henry and Ricky and Charles were whispering in back of me while working to finish assignments from the previous day.

Anyone remember the darkened classrooms and teacher writing on an overhead projector? Nap time. If there was reading at the desk, I had to ask permission to barricade myself in a corner. Nor, could I focus on working on the next day's assignment in class after the lecture. Math classes were usually scheduled last period. Meredith Mills and Cindy Adams always finished geometry homework during class, so they could skip off to basketball practice without a heavy rucksack and assignments to complete. Adele Powell always finished analysis assignments before we left for the day. I could never sit still long enough to do math in the presence of others.

When I brought the book home, I never remembered the way it was shown in class, and had to come up with some more intuitive way to solve the problem. For a few years before I started having brain problems, I could actually solve problems without knowing how I did it, just by letting my head do its thing. Later, after surgery, math was meticulously deductive.

Homework went home in a big cloth bag. But, after a certain age, it was difficult to even study in the house. Brothers and sisters sat around the living room table. I have pictures in my mind of one of the twins helping younger brother with math. Some times I could not even concentrate to study in the house where there was a sound. Sometimes, I had to follow the moose dropping out to the big rock in the woods (for the first could weeks after school started anyway), and other times, it was to the radio shed before Pa got home where he had all his ham operator equipment and a nice quiet if only staticky background noise, and sometimes, in a houseful of kids and parents and cats, I had to make a fortress behind my sister's bed and study in the quiet there. I still remember dry eyes after hours under hot incandescence of a study lamp.

Later, ..in assembling summer math work-outs for my children when they were in elementary grades, (had to be fun and challenging) I picked up old textbooks at library jumble sales. These old books often had a theme; practical math, technology-based, or consumer math, etc. It was a bit of a challenge to plumb the depth of 4-5 textbooks to come up with different problems illustrating a similar concept for different reasons using each different book, to provide in-depth variety and challenge on a certain theme.

English texts in the 60's were pretty standard grammar references, and the information hadn't gone out of date when I snapped up at library sales. I remember 6th grade grammar, past tense, present, future, and the complexity of different parts of a sentence. We hit the basics pretty hard in Mrs. Hildeman's class in 4th grade and everything after that was merely a different fancier layer, sometimes more esoteric than conceptual. Actually, many of the content of the study was not applicable until studying a foreign language.

Geography, yes, a terribly boring subject, best studied under the guise of non-fictional references consulted for National Geographic magazines! My husband would pick up books or videos about children in other lands, and we could often make that the focus of our learning. I think, as a blanket statement, people from other countries that move here often have a sense about a cultural place in the world and certain common themes from history than we do.

As for science text...my house as I was growing up was full of them. Since my learning style could at best be called Bohemian, I found all types of basic science discussions to the learning. I could only focus on one topic at a time, and study of any topic--started with checking out books and books, starting with beginner simple books to as in-depth as as possible to learn all about a topic such as with muscles: calcium ATP, bones, blood, Krebs cycle, voltage, potentials and electricity.

Studying science from a textbook was too lightly scattered. The encyclopedias and references were oftentimes much better than trying to read paragraph after paragraph in a science book. I remember another way we would study was to look at nature and try to find out as much as possible about it. For example the abalone shell on the dresser resulted in discussions about life cycles of mollusks, bottom fish shrimps, lobsters, and oyster beds along the East Coast, grading pearls and forming nacre, makng pearl buttons and trading on the lower Manhattan, barnacles, shipbuilding, the Theme from the Pearl-Fishers, reading The Pearl, Venus in the scallop shell and Three Graces, Shell gas, dissolving eggshells in vinegar, fluoridation, and pearlescent lighting. I think we even talked about the lustre of opals.

And, that was the way my children easily learned, too.

I don't really know how kids can stand to learn anything at all from textbooks.

In college, I tried to sell the texts back as soon as possible if it wasn't referential. Remember the data is at least 5 years old by the time it's published, and older by the time some school contracts to purchase it.

What I always had in the back of my mind for a good class textbook was a collection of pamphlets, leaflets, or journal articles to assemble in a loose-leaf folder. That style of education, is probably too labor-intensive, though, and requires a standard lecture.

Mid-February in year 10

In my attempt to capture the glassiness of the clear dripping icicles this morning long after sunrise, I felt the nip of arctic chill. I could see the brightness of winter sun shining, glaring in the clear-glass ice, but like a sundog, only the ultraviolet rays bouncing off atmospheric crystals suspended in the stratospher, there was only light, no warmth. (This is the kind of day when Hans Christian Anderson's "Little Match Girl" freezes to death outside the plum bun shop in Tromso.)

Growing up in the far north country, in my mind I return to a 15-20 mile cross-country ski trip with the Nordic Ski Club from Eagle River passing by Ft. Rich and Elmendorf AFB to Russian Jack Springs. Cold nipped then, it bit, it snuck under the top layers and penetrated the dermis, and whatever skin was exposed had to be continually oxygenated by warm moving blood or turned pale and without feeling. But, several miles along, and the outer layers had to come off for a breather, at least!

The last time I was back during winter was a winter vacation the boys and I stayed alternately with the folks in Rosemary for Remembering Christmas, and the time before that was when sister Sov died of exposure on a mid-winter climb. I went back home for the funeral with Shimp, her godson and cried every day. My husband had opinions, he always has opinions, but he was gentle this time and told me to try and not let Shimp see me so distressed and breaking down, because our boy is sensitive and it would affect him negatively and make him weak. I spent a lot of time with my head in the pillow while he was out, the first grandkid, helping understand the grief of his grandparents.

Well, it was cold today, just like February can be at Fur Rendezvous time, except generally when we were kids, we dressed for the bone-chilling weather, but here in the mid-eastern cornfields, this type of cold weather is not anticipated year after year, and I lief as soon throw on a jacket and wrap the scarf around my neck but forget a hat, and crunch in the snow in street shoes. But, unlike years in which we saw only the tan of dead grass in the yard, this was a cold year, and my husband confirmed that he saw Bambi's hoofprints when she came up from the ravine to cross our yard in the back.

When I sat down at the computer on nights earlier in winter my hands would feel like little chunks of ice. So cold. I tried to double up on the levothyroxine sometimes, thinking I'd missed a dose or maybe my metabolism was slowing, going into hibernation mode with the sunlight deficit.

I had a few plans to begin the year; plan a trip with Shimp, and possibly Jonnio, make sure husband had his visa and passport renewed so he could visit Mama-san, finish an account of our last trip, work on pharmacotherapy certification in an area of unfamiliarity, as well as organize and re-arrange our lives by swimming every day, concentrating on meals of unprocessed foods, and working to earn more money.

Well, the organisation idea took precedence, and so far, there have been a few items that have left the house in boxes for recycling, to the newsprint and aluminum can waste facility, to Goodwill, the flowershop recycles vases and could use about eight that overfilled a closet, a fish tank and filter to a school, magazines and the short pencil collection to the donation center at the public library, etc. It's been rather fun to plan a recycling run and drop off items here and there. Sometimes, it doesn't look like much has been accomplished, but with me the most of it is the organizing everything that needs to go together in one spot.

I've been trying to become more involved in the local community, too, outside my professional interests. But, I expect sometime later this summer, an opportunity will arise in which I volunteer with the county disaster readiness organization (just please, don't ask me to obtain credentials in immunizations..., just yet.)

A Church group asked just before Christmas about participating in the annual medical mission to Haiti in February, and on such short notice, I considered it and bowed out for this year, then they didn't end up going in February because it would have meant crossing the Dominican Republic by bus, and no place to stay, etc. so decided to go a little later when things are more settled. By then, I may have saved up the airfare and living expenses and received the requisite malaria and Hepatitis A. With my training and employment I've received most series, and I did get a Hep A, but doubt if I had the 6-12 month booster. I heard dengue fever was a problem, but saw no mention at a WHO website, so just will go to the local international travel clinic, a month ahead of time.

I saw big packets of flower seeds in the garden section at the supermarket. February is when thoughts turn to love, and planning for a garden. I've received several bulb, corm, and seed catalogues; Breck's among them. I like to look at them for dreaming. The reality is often a hurried chilly night in October, with the outdoor patio lighting only as I cut little holes in the compacted soil at the end of the garden and struggle to open tough plastic bags with blue flag and daffodil bulbs. And, oftentimes the reality in springtime is looking over at the edge of the ravine to where the bright yellow of my daffodils should be appearing and cursing the squirrels that seem to have found the tasty supply in fall.

Mid-February in my youth was often when Mother was baking George Washington cherry cupcakes for sibling school parties, and I was at home miserable with an earache or strep throat, staring at the hoarfrost, and gazing at long shadows on the evening wall. Cold. Nose-dripping damp. The sounds of low-volume talk radio (back then there was no MIGHTY MEGAPHONE RUSH yelling out the radio), humming and sizzle of heaters and humidifiers, and a tuck-in for warmth at night. Fur Rondy, and Arctic Winter Games, Orange Julius, and dreaming of warmer days. Remembering warmth of family times.