romanguy

HAPPY HALLOWEEN,  it is that spooky time of year again, and have you noticed, as you get older, holidays and other silly celebrations seem to be closer together than they used to be?  What I really don't understand is how Halloween and the World Series can be at the same time.  It seems like a violation of the natural order of how and when events should occur.

Grandson Max and his mother were here for a few days last week.  Vermont teachers have state conferences, and that allowed for a rare visit.  We went to Iron Kettle "Spooktacular" Farm near Candor, NY.  It certainly has a surplus of pumpkins, piles of orange Cururbits surrounded by a combination petting zoo, amusement park, nursery rhyme land and farm stand  Being a bit of a curmudgeon,  I was glad we were there on a Friday afternoon while other kids were still in school.  Luckily none of them came on field trips, either.  The size of the parking lot was alarming, and the thought of it being filled with acres of kids would have been scary indeed.

Max picked out one tiny and two large pumpkins and we headed toward home.  We stopped in Owego on the way back, because Owego has the kind of stores Max's mom likes, and because we had time to kill.  I had mentioned to her that the Tioga County Historical Society museum  had a show called "Dearly Departed--Women and Mourning-1680 to 1918."  I wasn't sure it was appropriate for Max, but our daughter Susan was very interested, and she raises Max as we raised her and Karin--If it is a museum, it is good for you.  She got Max searching for weeping willow trees--a classic mourning symbol--and skulls and crossbones on jewelry  and other mourning pieces.  I think he had a good time.  It was an amazing show and we had the museum and the curator to ourselves.  Marti and I have been fortunate to visit many of the great museums of the world, and this show was so astounding, since it could have filled a couple of galleries in any museum.  It was like bringing several rooms from the Metropolitan or the Louve to a small museum near you. 

I'd have told you about it earlier, but I just heard about it last week.  Alas, the show closes today! 

Saturday was a rotten day with more than ample rain, and Max was coming down with  H1N1, since that is what they discovered was hitting his part of Vermont when they returned home on Sunday.  When the rain finally stopped, we ventured onto the back porch to carve one of the big pumpkins.  Several years ago, while visiting our other daughter Karin in North Carolina, we went malling, a common activity there, where each new mall is greater than the mall just created months before.  In a modern mall with hundreds of stores there may be half a dozen stores that appeal to me.  One of them is William-Sonoma, which is like going to Kitchen Heaven.  Of course, everything is so expensive, even Food Channel chefs can't afford to shop there.  I always check out the bargain table usually filled with stuff I don't recognize, and I wonder why it is even offered for sale, or why anyone would buy it. 

It reminds me of the time my parents went shopping for new furniture, and I was dragged along.  There was a really awful looking orange sofa on display, and I asked the salesman why they would even put it on display.   He gave me some advice I've always remembered, he said 'If someone will make it, someone will buy it."  I fear that is true.  Fortunately, we did not buy the orange monster.

So you might wonder where all this is  going and so do I, but on this display was a pumpkin carving kit, marked down 75%.  It was originally $28.00, and now it was only $7.00.  Naturally I snapped that bargain up, it has sat in the cupboard, and we never used it until last Saturday.

Once we had the chance to use it, we found it pretty neat, with several wooden handled pumpkin saws, round punch tubes, a jewel drill, a poker, a wooden dowel, a scraper scoop and V-cutter.  It also has stencils, glittering jewels and honey-spiced pumpkin seed recipes.  We debated for awhile, and finally settled on a classic arched cat design.  It turned out nearly perfect, and with those special tools, Max was able to safely do most of the carving.  That pumpkin got left behind for us to enjoy, and the uncarved one traveled north, where pumpkin crops were sparse.

By Saturday night it was time to relax with a good old fashioned western.  Max, like his grandfather, likes a good, or even a bad one, and The Magnificent Seven is  one of the great ones.  It does make you wonder why there are no westerns on TV anymore, especially when you consider all the programs that are on that feature people who think they can dance or sing, but can't.

Soon it will be November, but we still have the rest of the last day of October to get through, and soon small masked creatures will be at the door seeking tiny candy bars and other treats.  Keep the Jack-o-lanterns burning to light the way for all spirits, the current ones and ones from the past, for their annual visit.

It is hard to believe, but supposedly a 23.5 degree tilt makes all the difference in the world.  It seems that is what our old planet does--tilt at that degree as it orbits the sun, and as a result, autumn, fall or harvest time starts, and we will spend the next six months in more darkness than light.  It almost seems unfair, until we think about it.  Considering what we've done and are doing to this orbiting oasis, we deserve more punishment than darkness and cold.

Tuesday, about dinnertime, the autumn equinox occurred when the sun crossed the celestial equator from north to south.  Now it is time to locate the rake, and get the flannel sheets out!  It is all downhill from now, until sometime in March of next year.  It is about time--just about everything reached its peak a while ago and all the plants are beginning to droop and sag, exhausted by the exuberance of spring and summer.

If you look closely you can see liver spots and old age smudges on the deciduous leaves.  Some have already fallen, and others are just waiting for the grim raker and the mechanical muncher.

Before they give up the ghost, a kaleidoscope of chromatic color will paint a hillside mural.  While I believe all living plants are ready for their winter rest, they won't go without a struggle--a final dramatic exit.  The plumes of goldenrod have set the scene, covering the flat areas that weren't saturated with corn.  Right now the corn is awesome, bravely swaying as it awaits its execution.  All winter we will watch the decapitated stalks scar the fields in silent protest.  The wild asters, small white New York asters, the blue Pennsylvania (i.e. New England) ones, with the gold centers, will dot the areas between the goldenrod. 

In the damper areas the orange  jewel weed hangs like ear rings from the fragile green foliage.  One area near the barn has blue asters surrounding the goldenrod, against a changing sumac background.  They often say, as pretty as a picture.

Often the hills in the distance have a smokey haze that serves as a veil to cloud the complexion of color that is beginning to form.  On the hills that are nearer, the dark greens of summer are fading into amber yellow, pale red, and dark bronze, as if some artist is mixing oils on a giant palette.

Even closer, at the edges of the roads and yards, a view that is often disregarded in favor of the grander panorama, the colors are  better.  It is a more magnified view with refined detail.  Fallen maple leaves have curled up waiting for a breeze to lift and carry them across the yard.  The reddish nut grasses look like tiny grape clusters.  Queen Anne's Lace have formed fists of curls that weave and bob like a featherweight fighter jabbing at the air.  The brown thistle towers tall above with pale cream puff seedpods, ready to release next year's prickly bounty.  The blackberry leaves have stains like randomly applied rouge.  Nearby, the milkweed leaves, elongated and heart shaped, sway beneath the the green pods that are not yet ready to release their silky seeds.

I don't know if it is a word or not, but degreening seems to be what is happening all around us.  Perhaps it a combination of factors, as the misty morning fogs that slowly burn off when the sun rises over our hills.  Often the air is crisp, clean, and sharp and on other days it is smoky, sort of stale, and holds the previous day's scents.  Wild seeds hitchhike rides inside on our clothes.  Wood smoke will soon fill the morning air.

I could learn to love the fall  and winter if it were only 6 or 8 weeks long, but six months is overkill .  As beautiful as autumn is and as pure as a frozen winter day can be, they will never equal the first crocus of spring.

We had the distinct privilege and high honor of taking care of our grandson Max, the last week so before school in Hinesburg, Vermont resumed.  By late August his parents are out of cash and days off to fill in the last gaps of the endless summer vacation, far too long a period of idleness for modern times. 

It is challenging to find interesting, not especially educational, experiences to fill in those last precious days.  Probably the most interesting activity was the trip to Quebec suggested by his mother, our daughter Susan.   When you are only an hour or so from the French speaking part of Canada, it is a shame not to visit.  Most of Canada is rather like we are, except cleaner and less crowded, but Quebec is a bit more exotic--almost like a real foreign country.  After a few minutes on the other side of the border, I could even remember a few words from French class.  Our goal was a place called Parc Safari, part of it a drive-through zoo.

I don't believe I've ever touched the nose of a Grant's Zebra before, but it was pretty hard to avoid, when it stuck its head inside the P T Cruiser, seeking another animal snack.  We were just starting our tour of Parc Safari near Hummingford, Quebec.  Marti and I have been to countless zoos, but this was our first drive-thru zoo or car safari.  I was somewhat skeptical about the whole idea, but it proved to be a real blast, in many ways more fun than a normal zoo.

Shortly after paying a fairly steep fee to enter, we purchased five small boxes of nouriture pour animaux (creature chow) and it was a good thing we did.  A warning sign cautioned "les animaux peuvent morde" --all animals can bite--and that is even more true if you offer a hand without any food in it.  For extra emphasis several signs said in capital letters-- "NE PAS NOURRIR LES ZEBRES",  do not feed the zebras.  The zebras did not read the signs, and soon there were dozens them, surrounding our car and demanding food. 

Fortunately they did not bite, nor did any of other animals--they just gobbled chow as fast as we could remove it from the little blue boxes it came in.  It looked like dried dog food, and I guess it was tasty--I didn't sample any.  The zebras were joined by addax (creamy colored antelope with curved horns, Arabian oryx with three foot long horns, Bactrain camels, reddish brown Cape elands with sharp pointed horns, llamas and guanacos, onagers (African donkeys), Pere David's deer from China, Prezwulski horses from Asia, wapiti or elk, and wildebeests.  Adding to the menagerie were various cow like beasts such as red Scottish cattle, humped gaurs, yaks, and zebus all looking for free handouts.  Scattered among the multitude were flocks of birds large and small.  The flightless rheas, emus, and ostrich demanded their share of the snacks as well.  At times we had to coast past groups since our suppy was not endless.

We were limited to the lumps of dry zoo approved chow, but people who had been there before brought what appeared to be bushels of carrots.  Some of our furry friends rejected our meager offerings, and sped off for orange treats in other cars.  Often the animals, no longer wild, blocked the roadway, creating traffic jams that could rival downtown Burlington at noon. 

A female elk was able to put her head far into the back seat and after grabbing several snacks left a dab of drool on the edge of the seat.  Before our safari was finished we all would be oozed and slavered on, with patches of saliva and drivel on us and the auto upholstery.The outside of the P T Cruiser would be dabbed with animal graffiti from mud spats to mucous prints.

We had our windows down and the moon roof open, and those with vans had their sliding side doors and tail gates open, often with children hanging precariously outward, dangling temping carrots to the creatures.  Soyes Toujours Prudents was rarely follow, caution be damned--there were animals to feed.  Thankfully no one fell, and no one got out of their cars, or they might have been trampled or more likely, run over if they had.

There was also a regular zoo with an elevated walkway that bisected the park and allowed an amazing view of the huge collection of big cats, obese black bears, playful monkeys, white Arctic wolves and other creatures too dangerous to drive past, or hand feed.  Apparently in the past monkeys and their kin had been part of the drive through part of the zoo, but proved to be too destructive to automobiles, and too difficult  to remove form auto interiors.  There is a fine colony of monkeys, several white lions, normal colored lions, huge tigers, the aforementioned white wolves and many other creatures, all pretty free to roam around .  Running diagonal to the elevated walkway was a glass tunnel at ground level.  Inside the tunnel you get an eye level, nonfenced view of the animals.  The lions and tigers can and do walk on top of the glass tunnel, and you can walk underneath them.  One of the lions was sleeping on the roof, and we could stand in lion shade beneath him.  In another tunnal, a  tiger paced back and forth above our heads, only about an inch away.  It certainly gives a different perspective on that long, lean, hugh pawed cat!   We shot dozens of pictures most of which only caught part of the cat.

While there was a water park, miniature golf, a huge pool and other attractions, we settled for burgers or pizza and poutain (french fries, cheese curds and brown gravy).  Poutain is a good reason to go to Quebec by itself.

On our way home we had to wait awhile to get through customs, but once it was our turn we sailed right through, after all, we had nothing to declare except good memories.  A ferry ride across Lake Champlain, as the sun was sinking over the peaks of the Adirondack Mountains concluded the trip.

It was time for some people chow.

Some people claim that the best thing about traveling is coming home to your own bed. After spending six nights on a sofa bed at our daughter's house in Vermont I tend to agree.  The hide-away, sofa bed is a mixed breed of each, not pure enough to be either or very comfortable.  Still, they save a lot of space in a room, and are good enough to offer to a guest relative or a temporary visitor.

The sofa bed we have is in the back bedroom which we call the snuggery because, on a really cold winter day it is the warmest room in the house.  We got tired of walking around the full sized bed which was old, but not ancient enough to be an antique--plus it was kind of ugly and I thought, too lumpy to sleep upon.  Quite often when I had difficulty sleeping, I would try that bed out and, after an hour or so, I would sleep walk back to the real bed, and lay awake there in relative, sleepless comfort.

A cousin of Marti, one of our rare overnight guest would rave about how great that awful old bed was.  I wanted to suggest she invest in a new pillow top mattress and discover what nighttime luxury is.Anyway, the whole experience of trying to sleep on a sofa bed got me to thinking about sleeping surfaces and other places that may be the cause of my insomnia.  

I remember as a kid that I greatly desired bunk beds, even though I was an only child and had a room of my own.  There is something special about sleeping on the top bunk that beds, at normal elevations can never match.  At least, that is true when you are a kid.  There is also something kind of awful about sleeping on the lower bunk when someone who tosses and turns is in the bunk above you.  What if the slats give way and the mattress falls on you?  Still, that bottom bed could be made into a good blanket fort or a supersized shelf.

After a few years, the novelty of climbing a ladder to sleep loses some of its charm.  Eventually ,the bunk bed became two single beds and they faithfully followed us around the country as we moved from place to place. In my teen years I would spend a few weeks every summer sleeping on a old 'fold them up army cot' in the breezeway between the house and the garage.  For some reason, a sleeping bag and a canvas cot seemed more desirable than a perfectly good indoor bed.  From there I could smell the Wisconsin River, and hear the nighttime sounds, almost as well as sleeping in a tent in the woods. 

There was a time when sleeping in a tent seemed desirable, even though, in truth I never slept well in those conditions.  There is nothing that quite matches a rain soaked weekend in a tent with a air tube mattress, and a Sears and Roebuck sleeping bag.  Misery takes on a whole new meaning after enduring that. 

It has been a few years since we've camped out, and now I'm like Uncle John was when he came back from World War II.  He told my Aunt Marguerite not to even mention camping and, in fact he wasn't even interested in eating outside at a picnic table--he had done enough of that on the battlefields of Europe.

Dorm beds at college were another nocturnal experience, as they were not as wide as a single bed and sort of crammed into the desk and bookcase.  I guess the reason they were so narrow was because they were also required to serve as a couch with a hollow headboard designed to store the stuff that would not fit anywhere else.  I remember that you were allowed to change one sheet a week, and often we forgot to even do that.

After many years of marriage we moved from a hand me down double bed to a queen sized one with an expensive 'pillow top' mattress.  We purchased it at a mattress sale, not realising that there is always a mattress sale going on.  It just sits on a simple metal frame and we sometimes think about acquiring a nice headboard created by a skilled craftsman, or getting an elaborate four poster bed like some of the ones we've had in various Bed and Breakfast places we've stayed at.  This happens when we stub a toe on the metal edges.

The nice thing about four poster beds in B and Bs is someone else makes them up, just like Mom used to make up the top bunk.  She believed that beds should be made up as soon as they were empty, maybe a little sooner.  While I was glad to let her make up the bunk bed, it  instilled that notion in my brain that beds should be made when they are not being slept in.  We are not the neatest people by a long shot, but you rarely find an unmade bed in our house.

The best bed in our house is the antique cherry bed that is rarely used, because we almost never have enough overnight company to fill two extra bedrooms.  It is a great piece of furniture, and there is also a fantastic cherry dresser, a cherry desk, and a couple of cherry end tables--so for some reason we call it the cherry room.  The bed has a fine tall headboard and a fairly tall footboard that could serve as a headboard on most beds.  My father restored most of the cherry pieces, and no doubt stripped them of the fine patina that Antique Roadshow experts rave about.  I don't really mind since the thought of the hours he spent restoring the furniture is much more important to me.  The only problem is that the bed is a few inches too short for normal sized modern people--if it were only queen sized it would be perfect.

My only other thoughts about beds take me  back to those rare occasions when we would visit my grandmother in the winter.  The unheated upstairs metal beds had feather ticks under layers of blankets and quilts.  Getting to bed would be like climbing into a soft refrigerator until the body heat warmed the frosted nest.  By morning it like a warm oven and you  would be like a fresh muffin, almost done. and very reluctant to be taken out.