Alley Grazer

My Leafy Friends

2011-07-08T07:38:00.000-07:00

My leafy friends are back!! Lamb's Quarters at the leash-free dog park are big as small trees (yes, I wash them really, really well). The leaves are four inches long and they stand as tall as me.

Thanks to Victoria Boutenko and her inspiring book, Green for Life, I'm gobbling them up raw in green smoothies. Amazingly, those quarter inch stems turn into froth along with the chickweed, spinach, dandelion leaves, blueberries, plums and apples I put in with them. If the dandelion tang threatens to overwhelm my palette, I just throw in a little stevia and lemon juice. Voila! Perfection.

Now I finally understand why the raw food people get so excited. Eating raw is not a viable lifestyle for me because me teeth are starting to leave me. But when the blender does the work, I'm all over it. Instead of having to count calories, or change my routine, I just add a morning blender drink and
1. I don't have to cook anything
2. I stop craving sugar, coffee and chocolate. (I still eat it. I just don't crave it.)
3. I feel jet propelled as though it was caffeinated
4. Strangely enough, the extra weight I've carried for years is sliding off me since I replaced store bought spinach with the wild greens in the smoothie.
Yep, those wild greens are my buddies and look, four years later, I still can't stop talking about them. Look at earlier posts for photos to ID these amazing plants for yourself. I bet you have them all over your yard. They like foundation walls, telephone poles, fences and, of course, snuggled up to your beets, lettuce, carrots and tomatoes in the garden.

I planted a bed of Jerusalem artichokes this year in rotted horse doo-doo and guess what I got? Wraparound pigweed! Another excellent blender buddy! I don't know why I waste my money on seed.

If you think about it and really notice the difference, cultivated veggies are a distant second in taste and nutritional power to lamb's quarters, chickweed, pigweed, plantain, purslane, burdock leaf stems, and a host of others too good to believe. I get more produce out of my alley, backyard and the city parks than my garden right now!

This blog started five years ago when the collards behind my former house kept reseeding and growing. Six generations of collards with no-gardener-in-sight were producing bigger and better plants than when gardener assisted. Note to self: they don't need us.

Even when I was sneaking back there (note winter alley grazing outfit) and pulling them out of the snow , all beat up, moth eaten, and winter fried, they were soft and sweet as brand new when steamed.

What I see now is that the most powerful plants announce their nutritional vigor by the way they grow.
1. By being inventive & adaptable, i.e. growing in sidewalk cracks, out of the sides of compost piles, under decks, on roofs, up trees!!

2. By growing to outlandish sizes, those showoffs.

3. By growing really fast, getting way ahead of conventional, garden-bred leafy greens.

In the plant world, they're clearly athletes. Don't they just scream out, "Have I Got a Surprise for You!!"

Do you think maybe they're trying a little too hard to get our attention?
As if they know what's better for us than we do?!
excellent burdock photo by Andrew Williams/CritterZone.com

Spring is Here Gardening Fiends

2011-03-21T14:17:00.000-07:00

This is indeed the first day of Spring. And it follows the largest full moon in decades. That should mean something, though the damp and cold are here today, too.

I celebrated the first spring day by ordering heirloom seed varieties from Azure Standard: All of these varieties, packaged by Heirlooms Evermore, have been around since the 1800's. How reassuring.

The Marvel of 4 Seasons Lettuce was the most prolific (photo above, front row), romaine type lettuce. It was the most delicious, juicy, and long standing lettuce I've ever planted. The Burbank tomatoes did really well too. Under the pink ribbons in the bed with marigolds, carrots and a zucchini. The green next to the bed is chickweed and mallow. In the foreground an irrepressible Manitoba Maple.

So I am sold on heirloom varieties for Montana. Last year was a rough summer on gardens-so people told me. My raised bed kitchen garden raised a bumper crop. My plants get a great start and good care for about six weeks. After that, it is fend for yourself time. In the next week or so I hope to start a hot frame bed to start plants I would normally start indoors. More on that next time.

I recently discovered I have some common food intolerance–dairy, gluten, sugar and yeast. Cutting out most of what I like has escalated my commitment to raw, fresh, local and seasonable edibles. Also, my commitment to exploring websites with cool recipes like living without. Can't wait for my chickweed which should be showing up soon in the backyard. YES, this early we can already start harvesting nutritious greens. You can find them on the south facing walls, along brick or cinderblock embankments, or in protected patios. The race is on.

I like remembering that agriculture started with alley grazing, before there were even alleys!! Women, children and elders with baskets, scouring the countryside. Isn't is reassuring to know that we're still doing it all these centuries later. Only now, men are allowed to do it too, unlike several centuries ago when it might have been frowned on as gender inappropriate. I remember reading that men and women weren't even allowed to use the same tools for the same job back then. Scythes and shovels...imagine

Celestial Seasonings started with grazing, too. Those two hippie guys tromping over hill and dale filling up their backpacks with wild herbs and berries back in the '70's. Their product line was so superior to anything else on the shelves, they eventually grew their little storefront into a multimillion dollar operation. Even after Nestle bought them out, it's still great tea! Plus I think they invented the ethics of businesses giving back to the communities in which they do business. Or maybe that was Ben & Jerry.

Okay, that was a signature digression. Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Happy Grazing!!

Alley Grazing on Steroids

2010-07-07T18:26:00.000-07:00

Due to the incomprehensible amount of rain this year, edible (and inedible) weeds are bigger and lusher than they have ever, ever been. Kerr Dam is pretty photogenic as usual and rafters are having a ball on the Flathead River.

Two days ago, my day job and alley grazing came together at my friend Jen's house, as I pick-axed giant burdock roots out of the ground. We are talking roots that are over 3 feet long. Of course I only got portions of those behemoths. I plan to fix them for dinner tomorrow. Will let you know the recipes. They taste a bit like artichokes. I spent an hour, harvested a dozen roots and I was spent. You win burdocks!!

Lamb's Quarters, Knapweed and Mullein are becoming trees along the canal where we walk our dogs. It is staggering to see our arid Montana valley becoming a rain forest of edibility, an explosion of Eurasian immigrant plantvlife. Oh yeah, you are supposed to use the word 'invasive' when describing these species from across the sea, which, in case you hadn't noticed includes all plants called weeds -dandelions, pigweed, stellaria, mallow, grasses, lilies, irises, skunk cabbage, ad infinitum. Perhaps indigenous peoples of all continents would include our own Eurasian ancestors in the invasive species list. After all, these plants are just following our lead. Can anyone spell karma? I digress...

In my own garden, the peas are trying to set a new record. Pods just now appearing. Weeds and peas this year is taller than I am. What fun.

Has She Gone Too Far?

2010-05-18T17:35:00.000-07:00

Last week, Alley Grazer was seen on Monastery Beach near Carmel stuffing seaweed into black garbage bags. When questioned, she admitted it was for her sister-in-law, Catherine's compost pile. Catherine was ecstatic with the beach grazing which will fill up her composter, the giant rolling barrel named Konan. Probably a first for that Dollar Rent a Car to have a trunk full of sea vegetables. A good time was had by all.

So this proves that the sky is the limit with respect to grazing. The fantastic abundance of mother nature, whether for palate, for composting, basket making, (or in the case of my oldest friend whose wedding I was attending there), pine boughs for the wedding display.

On the property where the couple lived and wedding was to take place, there was a huge stump where Christie placed these pine boughs we loaded into the rental car. Then the morning of the wedding, she plucked scarlet geranium blossoms which were growing in wild profusion nearby and placed them on the boughs. Can you just see it? A spectacular 3 foot horizontal wreath formed a vivid backdrop for the minister and the betrothed couple.

I was only there a week, but the 'grazing' opportunities were endless. In addition to the seaweed gathering, I transplanted some wild daisies from the bottom of Bill and Catherine's driveway up to the flower bed; also, grazing on miners lettuce and chickweed, and the wedding preparations. Today while I was getting my tires changed at Les Schwab, I walked up to the water tank with my dog and discovered three wild flowers I had never seen before. This took me to library grazing where I found a couple wildflower books to help me identify them.

Finding surprises right in the neighborhood like that is so exciting. We walk by things everyday without noticing: flowers, wild edibles, tiny creatures, and even people who would be good to know! In my immediate neighborhood and all over town, I find walnut shells. There is one walnut tree across the road from me, but no others. Yet I find shells all over a 6-10 block area. It's starting to feel like a cosmic joke, especially since there are no squirrels in this part of town. At my feet, over by the side of the road, even downtown, I see them, just one or two at a time. Sometimes just a half shell or a rotted fragment. Who are the clandestine distributors of these hulls and shells?? Or is it a totem, some sign from the gods?

Being a compulsive alley grazer, I also notice cast off appliances, lumber, barrels, buckets, cinder blocks, mechanical parts, bed frames, vehicles, lawnmowers, fencing, firewood, landscaping timbers...well, I could go on. A virtual infinity of discarded items in the alleys of my town.

In another week, it will be time to harvest the lambs quarters, one of my favorites. Sometimes, they are coming up in and around people's rusting car parts or lawn furniture. Fortunately, I have a wonderful soap that is good for making sure there is no extra stuff on the wild edibles. But it is important not to harvest anywhere spray is suspected. I have noticed that I can sometimes tell by the way plants grow-uncharacteristic shape or size makes me suspicious. Also, homeowners tend to spray certain margins. So I watch out for that.

The beauty of grazing (watch horses, goats, cows and sheep for the ambient frame of mind), is the directionless, goal-free meandering, like the breeze, like the clouds, like the sweeping arc of my eyes taking it all in. That moment of recognition when a flower appears like a familiar friend. Oh, there you are. Or the artistry of green vines scaling a washer tub, the spray of grass clippings along a weathered board, maple flowers blanketing the pavement like a coat of neon paint, lavender blossoms ganged up on stems, about to explode, multicolored tulip buds...what an amazing show. Don't miss it. Alleys are the best part of any town, like people when they kick their shoes off, take off the tie and power suit, lean back in the recliner and become themselves again. Laid back...weedy and wonderful.

Oh those cottonwoods and more

2010-04-25T04:31:00.000-07:00

It is that time of year again. The birds are crowding the feeder, daffodils almost done, tulips on the way. And those cottonwoods are starting the mega dump of debris onto the cars, roadways and animals. The catkins are piling up in my neighborhood. I think it is hilarious for something to be so abundant. I covered that in this post a few years ago.

Chickweed/dandelion salad fixings, my 'grazing of choice' are the first delights of the season to add to my

buckwheat sprouts (look left). My friend Barbara introduced me to quinoa sprouts yesterday. Get your glasses on to see those babies. But oh wow what a taste. Nutty, great texture. Eaten raw they are twice as good as cooked.

When I was in California I found miner's lettuce in Carmel Valley and bay leaves by the Big Sur River (above). The bay leaves came home in my suitcase.

Other California tripping...We traveled to Santa Barbara along the coast, stopping in Gordo at what was reputed to be an espresso bar. Not. Hippie, biker dude with a seriously flawed idea of a latte. Of course what would you expect from a hell's angel wannabe on a chopped moped. Al was the unfortunate victim. But we laughed about it for days.

Al with a pocket full of peanuts had no idea how popular he as just about to become with the locals. This bunch was lying in wait for him.

Near Pismo Beach the most classic diner I have ever seen housed was housed in a couple railway cars. Divine eye candy! For those of us who love diners as much as we love trains, this was a find! Good burgers too.

Days of walking beaches puts that tidal rythm right in to your bones. No wonder there are people who must live by the sea, no matter what. Other beach walkers had tips on where to find the best sand dollars and how to clean them up at home. A couple walking the pier in Pismo Beach swapped stories with us. We could hear the waves from our room and watch the volleyball and amazingly school soccor practice from our window.

another exotic alley...we look like we are part of the painting

alley grazing on the coast

2010-03-06T18:23:00.000-08:00

Two weeks of tripping around the California coast, sampling the different coastal communities has been wonderful. I had never been a tourist in my own home town before. We even kidnapped my brother today and took him to Fisherman's Wharf for stroll around with the tourists and lunch over the water.

From Monterey to Santa Barbara on Highway 1, we saw Hearst Castle, elephant seals, Solvang, Big Sur; drove thru rock slides and torrential rains, and a huge casino on the Chumash (pronounced Ca-Hu-Ma)Reservation.

How Come Everyone I Know is Sick When We Have Super Powers?

2010-02-04T18:48:00.000-08:00

Have you noticed it takes less effort to fall sick than it used to? Virtually everyone I know is sick right now: some with the Big C, some with the aftermath of chemo, some with chronic fatigue, fibromyalgia, lupus, Lou Gehrig's, herpes, candida, angina, liver disease, diverticulitis, colitis, kidney failure. How about diabetes? Have you ever known so many people with diabetes?

My interest in the human body began with a fear of illness, which began as a child with a three week hospital stint, flat in bed with spinal meningitis. . It terrorized me into good health. So I started researching what made my body work better in my early 20's, using myself as a lab rat. When I could dial vitality up and down, depending on how willing I was to live right, I started wondering how far we could go with this.

What about the Super Powers? It seems, at times that we have them. Like when people:
1. Leap off tall buildings and survive
2. Lift automobiles off trapped children.
3. Use only air for sustenance-no food, no water.
4. Get buried alive and live through it
5. Get electrocuted and survive
6. Stroll on a 15-20 foot bed of red hot coals and don't burn up

Now I don't know about you, but if only one person ever did this, it becomes, by definition, humanly possible. A human did it, ergo, the human body has this capacity. By the way, I walked on glowing coals years ago, and my feet didn't burn. They looked brand new, like baby feet. All the callouses, nasty cracks , bunions and bulges...gone. Who knew?

So what are the outside parameters of the body's capabilities? Is this a power that can be summoned? Is it a technology to be learned? Is it a talent like music or art? Or is it faith in a Divine Being? Or is it something we all have?

This is the intro to my new blog, Sparkle www.juliewenner.blogspot.com

See you over there!

Accordion Angst

2010-01-28T14:25:00.000-08:00

Well, a friend pointed out that it has been a really long time since I blogged. Three months ago seems like a lifetime. In the past 3 months,
1. my best friend finished the edits on her book, BITING BACK: A NO-NONSENSE (NO GARLIC) GUIDE TO FACING THE PERSONAL VAMPIRES IN YOUR LIFE
2. my friend Wendy produced two of her new plays to rave reviews
3. I enrolled in a grief support group
4. Started working on my book again-draft 3
5. I bought a raw food recipe book.
6. my younger brother, Henry, died

my brother died. That doesn't seem possible. That can't be right. I'm not anywhere near acceptance on this. A perfectly good brother I have known for for 55 and a half years, was maybe a little worn out...well, completely worn out, the warranty was up on those parts. Spirit still strong, body trashed. We used to joke about 'well, if I'd known I'd live this long, I would have taken better care of it.' Yeah, bro...here's to taking care of it.

So I'm doing it for him, taking care of this old bod in the hopes that my parts will last, all buffed up with yoga, walking, herbal cleansing, good nourishing thoughts, and let's not forget, music.

What it must have felt like for him to know 'the big one' was stalking him. It could have been either a heart attack or a stroke. Cardiologists couldn't figure out how he was still walking around. I'm sure he worried about harm to others, like if he was driving when it happened. I didn't get to talk to him about it. I didn't want to believe it was imminent.

Anyway, speaking of accordions. Brother Bill's joke: a guy wanted to get rid of his accordion so he took his car down to a bad neighborhood with the accordion in the back seat, left it unlocked, and when he came back the next morning, there were two accordions in the back seat. Ha ha

Bill's good friend Sam gave me his father's accordion, An Anderson System Dallape, purchased when his Dad was a kid. The box says 1936 on it. It is smaller than a lady's medium, made in Italy. No plastic anywhere. The following photos just show how much fun you can have without even playing it. I am in accordion kindergarten presently, but I love the sound which is somewhere between an organ, a calliope, and a train's moaning call.

See what I mean? This looks like the sound coming out of the accordion. Whoa.

Okay, Back to my brother...clearly part of getting over such a huge loss is time, but maybe also some effort. So Bill sent me half of Henry's ashes and the first installment entered the Flathead River last week by Buffalo Bridge.

Some of Henry's best moments were spent in, on and around water: kayaking Hawaii's coastline and running wild rivers in California, Oregon and Idaho. Kealakekua Bay on the Big Island can't possibly be the same without his kayaks sliding into the bay, helping tourists paddle over to the Captain Cook Monument, dodging dolphins, snorkeling crystal waters, and rocking on the tidal swell. Also bothering Fern Pule, at the heaiau which has been caretaken for centuries by the same families.

Henry's first wild river ride had to be the Carmel River. A memorable and hair raising rafting trip had twelve year old Henry and his friend Michael Bull in a rubber duck careening toward the sea, virtually airborn from the roiling swell. The frightened parents were racing to bridges in the car, screeching to a halt just in time to see this yellow missile flying under the bridge carrying their darlings alongside cartwheeling trees, dead animals and tidal waves of white water. It became part of family lore, how those two boys didn't die in the massive water spout produced by the collision between the flood level Carmel River and the Pacific Ocean at Monastery Beach. He was hooked after that.

So our plan is to sink Henry bones in all the rivers we can think of. Bill and I already visited the Carmel River in December with a deposit. Then when I came back to Montana, Bill took off for Yosemite and in all the wild rivers Hen used to dip into, buck through rapids, and have near death experiences, Bill placed those ashes. Henry taught me so much over the years about how you rise out of the ashes of your own life again and again. He did it with some style and grace, honesty and humor. It was a life.

Fall Grazing

2009-09-29T20:35:00.000-07:00

This year, the plum trees along my alley started firing their missiles early. Last year, I remember plucking plums out of the snow some mornings. But this year each morning, I get to fill my basket in my T shirt. When I get up, I tippy toe out my back gate, past my friend BJ's RoadTrek, which is her home on wheels, soon to be heading south, past the 2 immense, leaping dogs across the alley (see below), , past the abandoned camper with the cat on top, to my destination-the 3 heavy laden plum trees.

For some reason, each year, the fruit on the trees is far from ripe until it comes tumbling down into the grass, gravel or cement. When I look up at the branches, I see bushels of fruit still airborn, so I will be busy for awhile when they decide to come down. The hint of purple in the grass reminds me of Easter egg hunts. They are even the same shape. I don't know until I pick it up whether it will be a perfect ovoid or a slimy gob of fruit goo, half gutted by hornets or ants. I bring a separate bucket to pick up the goo so that my finger tips don't keep re-visiting the same bummers. They go in a special compost pile. Those pits will make great soil, but it will take time and llama manure, I suspect.

Under one of the plum trees, I noticed a fresh crop of stellaria, my 2nd favorite salad green after arugula. It looks just like it does in the spring, little blossoms sparkling out of the grass, all ready for picking. I wonder if chickweed pesto would be a wonderful taste treat? Chickweed and mint might create a zingy sauce for rice or pasta. Inventing new foods from grazed ingredients is like a riotous collaboration with Ma Nature in the kitchen. It makes me giddy just thinking about it.

A brand new breakfast cereal I think I invented: Get out your iron fry pan and roast brown rice that has already been sprouted and dried (soaked in water for a day, then laid out on a tray); then grind to a powder in an electric coffee grinder (I keep one for only seeds, spices and nuts). Add 2-3 Tablespoons of the rice powder with 1 cup water, simmer for about 15 minutes (be sure to keep stirring and adding water), and voila, cream of rice on steroids. With some plums, almond butter and maple syrup thrown in, it was amazingly filling. that has to be the most economical breakfast in the history of the world (or not).

I am thinking about Plum Chutney. This is my haul every morning, until the frost and then watch out; it will be snowing plums. Other grazing earlier this year took Al and I to a friend's cherry orchard where we picked 15 gallons of cherries. A plum, peach, cherry cobbler is certainly in my future. Speaking of which, the blackberry peach cobbler at East Shore Smoke House is not to be missed. they have a unique yellow bisquit that perfectly complements the fruit. Also, their Cherry Chocolate Bread Pudding with Vanilla Sauce is exquisite.

I can't believe I was fasting just a few weeks ago. Imagine going 8 days with no solid food and not being hungry. That story will star in a future blog in October. But for now I am eating with gusto and enjoying every wildcrafted bite. Remember find something insanely fresh for your mouth every day!

It is just the best feeling to know that morsel

you are chewing came directly from the earth or from God or angels or All That Is; whatever you want to call it, and it is traveling like a rocket into that other piece of earth/God/Angels/ATI which is You! Something so neat & tidy about that. Freshness and wholeness are the essence of that transformation. I am biting into an item that is whole unto itself. Nothing quite like that. Produce is really the only thing that is still in its original format. If all the non-whole products were vacuumed out of the grocery store, there would be only one aisle. Guess which one?

When our bodies were being perfected about 10,000 years ago, that was the only kind of nutrition around, things whole in themselves. Now almost everything we eat has been taken apart and put together, assembled from parts. I suspect that is confusing, if not debilitating for the average physiology. Everything from french fries to pudding to bread is a conglomerate of substances that would never come together without human aid. Maybe a simple health regimen would be to eat some things that are whole everyday. That's where grazing comes in.

Freshness and wholeness is a given with alley forage. Especially when you yank it right out of the ground or off the tree (giving thanks of course). Elapsed time from harvest to table = 15 seconds instead of 4-10 days. It's harder to feel the resonant spirit in a box of cake mix that has been parked God knows where for half a year.

When does that mouthful stop being chickweed or plums or blackberry cobbler and start to be me, I wonder? In my mouth or stomach or later? Or is it always me..and you and earth and sky? These are the things a girl gets to ponder when she doesn't have a day job. More about that next time.
As Julia Child always says,
BON APPETIT!!

Let The Alley Grazing Begin

2009-05-25T10:00:00.000-07:00

As those of you who read my blog know, alley grazing refers to both kinds- eyes on the ground and head in the clouds. Wandering the byways and back alleys of my mind is more productive with a specific earthbound goal directly ahead. Just ask any fisherman (woman), huckleberry or asparagus stalker, or mountain rambler. As each of you also browse the rich forage of your thoughts, either occasionally or constantly, so I find myself drawn to the harvest of thoughts and weeds when spring erupts. And it is, finally, erupting.

This year, a quick trip to California to pick up my Mom's furniture made me miss my favorite seasonal event, the scent of cottonwood. By the time I got back, my dog was covered with the sticky little bud scales, and the scent had been carried far away on prevailing winds.Here in the Mission Valley, we have had a long, teaser of a spring with the promise of sun, then with a few warm, languid days followed by snowy nights and visa versa. The warm and cold have been so seamlessly sandwiched together that everyone has been going loco with the ambivalence of it. Ah, not to mention the confused tomatoes , pussy willows and cherry trees.

For the month of April and most of May, I believe it snowed on the mountains everyday. That has to be some kind of record. I was on my knees rummaging in my under-the-bed summer/winter storage box daily like a nervous squirrel checking the cache. First, grabbing summer stuff and replacing it with winter togs; then grabbing the jackets again and putting away the shorts, with each new blast of cold.

Now, Memorial Day is upon us, the official opening of summer, and it is a tad frosty, but when the clouds part, it gets steamy and warm. The mountains produce the most interesting weather, if not the best for gardening.

Speaking of gardening, in a rare burst of enthusiasm, and with Al's help, I now have a raised bed garden, bristling with seedlings-lettuce, arugula, cilantro, some broccoli and basil plants and a few tomato seedlings. In the foreground are bunching onions and a 'lawn' of tiny collard volunteers.

I am currently reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, published in 1974 by Robert Persig, a cultural classic and metaphorical masterpiece of its time that sold 4 million copies.

He shows the error at the very heart of western thinking that creates most of the confusion and misunderstanding of our times. It is brilliant and sometimes difficult to follow as the author shows the errors in thinking through the narrator, a former philosophy professor who we understand goes mad tracking down an idea to some horrid dead end, has electroshock treatment and emerges as the current narrator. This narrator writes technical manuals and is attempting to trace the journey to madness of his former personality (without following him into the abyss), while taking a motorcycle trip with his son. Wow. That book covers a lot of ground both vertically and horizontally; like a non-fiction inquiry wrapped in a fiction story wrapped in an enigma? See for yourself. But does it ever start you browsing through your ideas and assumptions.

As for the earthbound alleys, chickweed is blossoming and spreading; lamb's quarters is up about 6 inches. Just the right size for picking. And, oh those collards! Once again, I have to rhapsodize about them.

Two years ago, when I threw some collard seeds into the soil here, they grew into trees with two foot seed stalks. Then those trees had babies the following season and I saved seeds from them in my garage and thrashed/winnowed them a month ago.

In the magnified photo below, they look like Montana river rocks. These seeds in my jar had siblings that fell on the ground and are now 4-5 inch seedlings. Within a few months, their gigantic leaves will be blanched, frozen, and put away for winter nutrition. Third generation. The beauty of non-hybridized seed, is the exact genetic vigor year after year. Bugs don't eat them and they withstand drought and flood. Collards, like chickweed, lambs quarters, dandelions and burdock (root & stems), contain stellar vitamin/content and are very tasty. I just love how that works. This year when I finally got around to making raised beds, I didn't have to buy anything but the seeds. Been avoiding it as too much work, but it wasn't. With scavenged wood, digging the paths, and shaping stakes to hold up the side boards, and screwing everything together, I was done. Oh yeah, and a great helper. Let's not forget that. A special place in heaven for garden helpers. Then Glacier Gold compost folded into the soil completed the job.

It wouldn't win a beauty prize, but I think we'll get some good eating this summer. I thought the long pea bed (foreground, 2nd photo from the top) was a stroke of genius. Sometimes I think we just channel the plants wishes, because the whole template just stamped itself on my brain and I started building. The vigorous little plants to the right are arrugula. I plant thick, then start thinning for salads. Looks like good picking right now, only two weeks after planting!

What's all this white shit???

2009-03-31T12:44:00.000-07:00

Today is my mother's birthday. March 31, 1926. She who died July 1, 2008, nine months ago.

She who made every birthday into a national holiday with home crafted cakes and presents galore. Or in later years, a big check. We started sending checks on her birthday and she absolutely loved it. Alan, whose mother also died recently and whose birthday was the day after his (how brutal is that?), buys a cupcake identical to the cakes his mom used to make him, and has a birthday party each year.

I was so glum today that sounded like a great idea. I had to stand up in front of thirty people and do a presentation at noon, but I really wanted only to lay down in the snow and bawl like a baby.

Today I got a poem in the email from my notorious poet friend, Eugene. It sums up quite nicely and expresses probably the emotion of the whole town:

where's the season's cotyledon

why is springtime not-a-heedin'

all the critter's calls for it

why's there more of this white shit?

Yes, waking up yet again to the imitation blizzard which stops and starts again all day. Yesterday the cloud was over Polson and no where else. I came down over the hill from Pablo into a snow shower. We're having one now. This late season snow is putting a serious cramp into my pre-season alley grazing. Those poor robins what are they doing today? They were so optimistic showing up three weeks ago! The lilac shoot buds are greening up, irises poking up. Anyone have crocuses? I wouldn't be surprised to see some surprised pussy willows. I saw stellaria making a bold come back last week...some tiny seedlings popping up through the dirt.

But winter has no teeth now. And the snow could be our insurance policy against August wildfires. You just never know.

Back to my mother. There was only one time that I know of that my Mom honored her own birthday. She was coming up on 80. No one including her thought she would EVER live that long. She had just been diagnosed with metastasized lymphoma, was bewigged following aggressive treatment, and she figured this was it. Last Birthday. So we called in the troops: her long lost brother and adorable wife came in from Florida, my cousins rolled in from the south, my brothers and I were there with bells on, and we had a ball for 3-4 days. She was the center of it all and loving it.

The funny thing is the cancer just went on holiday for a year, so she ended up having the birthday she didn't think she'd have: # 81; what an anti-climax it was for her. Then some other medical problems started edging up on the cancer, which muddled the diagnosis when it came back. During that hiatus, she said, "Shit, I thought the cancer was going to take me out."

Really, she talked about her eminent demise that way...with such a cavalier, in your face directness, she had us undone most of the time. Looking at her calendar one time, she said, "Maybe I won't have to have my teeth cleaned next time!" Have you ever known anyone to look at the bright side of dying...as a way to get out of an unwanted appointment?

Today I will follow my dear one's advice and get a cake and have a birthday party. Turn around is fair play, Mom!

What some people do for a living

2009-03-18T18:19:00.000-07:00

So here it is, almost the Ides of March again. I remember my first 'ides of march' post last year, was a trip down memory lane detailing mid-March catastrophes.

Now I see the pre-spring bursting-at-the-seams energy as a good thing. Me, I'm out of my mind as usual. But the good news is that I am enjoying the insanity rather than fighting it. So one crazy thing is that my job is really two jobs, Executive Director and Administrative Assistant. Since we tightened the old belt and cut out a position, there are only two of us. My Program Director is already doing two jobs, so I can't complain. But I began to notice that I am a mean boss. I flog that poor Admin. Asst. like a government mule.

Now that we are putting the fundraisers together, it is especially intense. If you want to check it out, don't say I didn't warn you! I sent a fundraising letter to all my friends and God Bless the darlings, they started sending $$.

My friends have the most varied occupations as I'm sure yours do too. Many of my friends are writers in addition to the following. I have 2 psychologists, 6 carpenter/contractors, 2 tile setters, 1 communication cable installer/engineer, 3 nurses, a computer geek, 3 store owners, 2 restranteers, 1 chef, a classical musician, several authors, one judge, a medical transcriptionist, a transitional housing job coach, a peer counselor, a business consultant, 2 graphic artists, 2 online business entrepreneurs, a photographer (and hermit), a former school custodian, a dentist, a doctor, and a dozen massage therapists (lucky me!). One of my high school sweethearts was a famous illustrator for Disney before he died a couple years ago. The thing is you could put all these people in the same room together and you would have a party. Simple as that...they are all stellar humans who happen to perform the current job description of their choice.

A man I once worked for was a carpenter before he decided to go to medical school. He had a rich Hawaiian auntie who paid his way and he became a surgeon. When we started the remodel on his medical office, he was so happy to throw his stethoscope on the desk and strap on the tool belt again. You have to love a guy like that. My friend Shaun, a petite lass, was a dump truck driver, became a nurse, then private detective/insurance adjuster and finally went back to school for her Masters in physical therapy. Wow. Her husband was a nurse anesthiologist, became a master tile setter, and now is back to his original profession.

We have so many opportunities to express who we are. I jumped from college to massage in a sleaze joint, to phone soliciting, to recycling center worker, to pre-med, to truck gardener/tree planter to house painter/carpenter to self-employed masseuse, to job coach at a sheltered workshop, to cabinetmaker to landscaper, to domestic violence shelter advocate, then shelter Director, to Big Brothers Big Sisters Director. What a surprise. It never occurred to me to go for a career.

I had a short little attention span that quite forbade that type of thinking. So here I am...having a ball, my confidence running just ahead of my incompetence most days. My learning curve is always steep. I must like it that way, because I can't seem to stay with what I know. Some days I am so exhausted, I wonder why I have created such a life, where getting through the day feels like a marathon.What I figured out is this: like many folks I have a hell of a time asking for help. Guess what? I am so freaked out most of the time-working these two jobs in one, shouldering more responsibility than I thought I could, crashing my computer with my manic energy, making hellatious accounting blunders and still managing to have it all turn out okay. Why? Because I have to ask for help a dozen times a day.

Like Sandra Bullock in 28 Days, with the sign around her neck, 'Confront me if I don't ask for help'. I was handed this weird combination of qualities: a tough little body, a galloping mindless energy, ferocious ambition, a dose of ADHD, and a clown's gift for klutzing. Most days my mind is like a catfight in a burlap sack. So asking for help hits the restart button and off I go again. Another thing that happens, is like I mentioned in an earlier post, self doubt comes blowing in with gale force to try to topple me. When it doesn't work, when I laugh at how nuts I seem to get, instead of cursing it, I get another opportunity to restart the day.

A lot of my friends also design their lives to be maximally challenging. My cuz is the head of a huge women's homeless shelter. Because they believe in the women, empower them to make their own choices, and stand out of the way, some exciting (sometimes horrible) things happen, some huge disasters ensue. But these gamblers on human potential never stop expecting the best. I love that about my friends. If they aren't racing around the next bend to see what new thing they can learn, what new person they can meet, they are betting the ranch on someone coming through and not worrying if they don't.

This cobbled together life that found me, that nailed me, even though I was too distracted to settle in for a long time, came with great friends, a splendid man who really sees me and still sticks around, and my brothers and cousins who have loved me so well all my life. When I was a little tyke, the stupidest things would upset me, like having to share a bathtub with my brother and cousins. It never occurred to me that it might get a lot weirder than that.

I may even retire sometime from the exhausting day job. I wonder what will happen then?! The friends are for life, and who knows maybe even after that!

Getting back on the horse

2009-03-01T17:39:00.000-08:00

I finally got back on the horse and headed for the slopes last weekend...and then again this weekend. Once you start, there is just no stopping. It turns out my old friend/new love, Alan, who had never skied Blacktail (and never let on that he was a skier), looked like a slalom racer blazing down the hill. The first time I saw him in action, all I could think was, "Yikes".

So, yesterday, I did buy myself the promised helmet. My ski outfit is almost complete with only the poles to go. I went without last year, just because, skiing without poles felt very free. My skiing went to hell but it was worth it with less equipment to wrap around the lift chair or catch under my ski. Noting this deterioration of my skiing ability, and having a ski buddy that looked like a pro, I rented poles and took a lesson last week. Voila! Was I ever doing it wrong.

When I headed down the first run yesterday, I worked on my 'homework' of practicing hands out front ("like you're holding a tray") and shifting my weight from the uphill to downhill ski before the turn and keeping my weight forward. It was feeling pretty good after awhile. I didn't biff all day which is a personal record I will probably never beat. Usually, you can recognize me by the amount of snow I'm wearing. Skiing with Robert and Maddie, Terry and Dave and their grandson, Shawn Michael, or waving to them going by on the lift, is just a great way to be with friends.

photo of Flathead Lake and the Mission Mountains by Janice Myers

A bus full of school kids arrived from Browning and they were having a blast chewing up the slopes on boards and skis, some of the younger ones getting lessons on the bunny hill. I thought about what a trip that was for them across the highline, up through the passes and down along the park. They must have left in the dark. That is the obsession for you...to go through anything to get to the ski hill. The bus driver looked as though he was getting a much needed rest to make the drive back, probably also in the dark.

That 14 inches of new powder up there drew us like flies to honey. And sunshine. Nothing beats a place like that in the sun. The valley was shrouded in damp, soupy overcast when we left Polson. Talk about mega depressing. Driving up Blacktail Road was like ascending into heaven, with the hush of whiteness, pine boughs bowed under the load, and a dazzling panorama of non-stop mountain ranges in the distance.

cell phone photo by Al 2/28/09
Up there in the clean, blue air it was hard to imagine a single problem in the world. Can't you tell by our happy little faces!

The Mother of All Vampires

2009-02-17T08:30:00.000-08:00

When I started this blog a few years back, all I was interested in was schlupping around the margins of town, the alleys and byways that snake around largely unnoticed in our little berg. But then I noticed how that physical alley grazing was mostly an excuse to roam around my mind at the same time. So today is my day to mentally graze. Amazing what shows up!

So this morning, having recently embarked on a new and delightful relationship with a man I have known for some time, I ran into the hulking monster of SELF DOUBT. When I doubt myself and my choices, I also doubt every right and wonderful thing that is happening in my life. Self doubt is the ultimate robber baron, plucking the numinous and joyous, the splendid, the sublime, right out of your fingers, then throwing it down and stomping on it.

And it was right there, lying in wait for me when I woke up. Of course it took quite a while to recognize the beast for what she is. She dresses up in all kinds of disguises like 'my protector', 'intelligent inquiry', 'critical thinking', 'no one's pulling the wool over my eyes'...

It's not like this is a new realization about self doubt and the power it has over me. No, I come by here every few months, but each time it seems brand new. Maybe because I take the scenic route through new depths of despair, through the annihilation of what I know to be true, to finally recognize the she-bitch, once again.

Since one of my best friends has been working on a book about metaphorical vampires, The Practical Vampire Slayer, we have been having a lot of fun using the tools she proposes. Anything that sucks your vitality, hijacks your concentration, and/or compromises your great personality might be a candidate for vampire of the hour, day, or month. For me, that is mostly my crappy thinking. Any downturn into bitterness, criticism or despair needs a second look for what is driving that. So now it's almost like coming across a familiar face in a crowd. Oh, you again.

According to the practical vampire slayer and all vampire literature, the vampire needs an invitation to come in. So I think about how did I invite this in? Why in the world would I want to take an uzi to my dreams and hopes, my fondest assumptions about my future (even if only momentarily)? That is masochism to the nth power.

For me it always comes back to the Marianne Williamson quote that Nelson Mandela delivered to the world in his 1994 inaugural speech,

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure..."

My terror of that power within, could that be my invitation?
"Ah, excuse me, Miss, could you take the edge off that power I'm so freaking terrorized by? Oh, yeah, thanks, now I don't feel powerful at all, or even connected to anything powerful. Thanks, now I feel like a whimpering cur. That's much better." Or something like that. The invitation, I didn't hear myself make, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen.

From what I understand, Spirit responds to all our requests (which must be quite a trick, considering the completely contradictory nature of desire and the non-stop attempts to fulfill it), so the invitation could have been issued in the intake of a breath, in an instant of fear or doubt. So having looked it over, I revoke that invitation to SELF DOUBT and reclaim my God-given power to have a great day and a fabulous life.

For me, as I imagine it is for you, at times each day, there seem to be vigorous wrestling matches between opposing thoughts. Today, I just happened to listen in, and boy, was I surprised. Other days, maybe I just experience the malaise and wonder what's going on. Am I getting the flu? Or I attack someone, maybe only in my thoughts, because this churning is making me so uncomfortable. Taking time to graze inside, especially when it gets nasty in there, is always a revelation.

Ultimately, when I expose the false assumptions, the self doubt, or the desire to attack, for what they truly are, I find nothing much. A bunch of smoke and mirrors that clouds the truth and throws me off track. Self doubt tells me that 'this isn't going to work out'. But it says it about everything I really do care about. It is a one-size-fits-all, shop-worn slogan that just doesn't fly anymore for me. I can't tell you how many perfectly good jobs, relationships, and situations I have left over the years.

No doubt these escapes were prompted by this exact thought, "this will never work". Now the familiar whiff of negativity in my thinking is a dead giveaway. But still, I get led around by the nose for a couple minutes, maybe an hour or a day. Throwing the laser light of clarity and positive beliefs onto this 'boogey man' does the trick.

Another way of looking at Self Doubt is the concept of the predator in Clarissa Pinkola Estes classic, Women Who Run With the Wolves. The predator is like a wolf that prowls around the edges of your thoughts and gobbles up all your half baked plans, the dreams you ignore, those great intentions.

So in terms of "I am woman hear me roar", If I don't put some mojo behind that belief, it will just get chewed up and swallowed by the 'predator' along with all those new years resolutions, plans to travel the world, to-do lists, and other calves too weak to keep up with the herd. If you think about it, its kind of ecological to have something sweeping up all the beliefs and half-baked schemes that would otherwise be cluttering up my mind like debris along the highway.

So whether I see my self doubt as 'the mother of all vampires', the human condition, or a community minded wolf, the fact is that I have incredible choices:

1. I'm not my thoughts
2. I can discover what is making me unhappy (hint: it is always a thought)
3. I can throw light on whatever it is, because I have that power
4. Or I can wallow for as long as I like!

This is the beauty of grazing for me....
I look around in the weeds
and broken bottles,
the rusting auto parts,
that greasy shadow where
motor oil slumped into the weeds
and there , off to the side,
almost hidden by a plastic grocery bag, the
wild viola shines, with snow on the leaves.
or maybe,
a poppy in a traffic clogged corner of Seattle's University district

Drama Dweeb

2009-01-23T07:42:00.000-08:00

So after I created the drama around losing my wallet (last blog), I opened the passenger door of my little red car and there it was peeking out of the door side pocket. Little buggah! Little pink wallet with the Trader Joe's sticker on it. Oh yeah, I laughed so hard. Like finding an old friend playing hide and seek standing on her head in your closet hours after the game ended. The things it takes to get me to post.

Snow is coming down like its heading to a half off sale. Snow is one of those things I can't imagine having too much of, though I've never lived in the Yukon. Here along the lake, we sometimes get snow deprivation because of the banana belt effect. However, we did get a bumper crop in December. Wasn't that impressive!

So back to the wallet. By the time I cut up all the credit cards I had to cancel and replace, I had a pile of colorful plastic confetti that looked like the aftermath of a hamster chewing its way out of a lego set.

Sort of a warm fuzzy to see your former ID mangled. Sort of liberating. Now I start fresh. Howboutchu?

Little Gal with No Name

2009-01-07T18:08:00.000-08:00

Losing a wallet is not something that I have done often in the last couple decades. Before that, however, it was a frequent event, at least a couple times a year.

So this time, I canceled my credit & debit cards, knowing the bright pink wallet will show up under a pile of clothes or in the pocket of a winter coat that fell behind the couch. I went to put my hands on the passport, which I recall being in a drawer with the birth certificate. Ah, wouldn't that have made it easy. But it was not to be found. My house eats identification!

The dilemma started to dawn on me. No credit card to order a new birth certificate, no birth certificate to get a social security card, and no ID of any kind to get a new driver's license. Whoops! I became the gal with no name.

The good news is that I found some tracking slips for three packages of my Mom's possessions, one of which never showed up. I couldn't find the slips so I couldn't track down the missing box with irreplaceable treasures. Instead of a passport, I found these after 6 months. A good trade.

Losing and finding is a major theme of my life. It all started when I was about seven, right after I came out of a several week hospital stint with spinal meningitis. Yowza. Don't get that one, folks. At that age, I wasn't sure if they were trying to cure me or kill me, but it all scared me into being a very good little girl.

The following year, I would go to school with all the stuff-books, sweater, lunchbox. I would arrive home with nothing.
It was disheartening for both my Mom and me. Mom even asked my doctor if it could be residual brain damage from the meningitis.

We laughed about it years later, but at the time it wasn't that funny. As I recall, arriving home from school with empty hands involved lots of yelling. It didn't seem to matter how hard I tried to remember. I would get past the key moment, i.e. boarding the school bus, and it was all over for another day. So really, just losing a wallet now and then is a huge upgrade for me.

Another major lost item was my senior college thesis. My procrastination writing it had cost me three years on my diploma. When I finally went to deliver it, I hitched 3,000 miles to my college and lost it en route, when the suitcase was set on the ground during some reorganizing of the trunk. So a wallet is really small potatoes compared to that.

Because I've been reading about the structures that contain our lives but have nothing to do with who we really are, I 'm wondering if this 'wallet losing caper' might be a lesson plan with my name on it. Every scrap of my ID vanishes in one week- the paperwork that proves I live in this body, have a right to operate a motor vehicle, have a credit history, collect paychecks, get library books, work toward a free latte. Being without it does free me up somehow. I found myself dancing today for no reason. Slipping on the icy parking lot became a little soft shuffle boogie. Walking up the stairs got a dance rythym going. Just because my purse was lighter? Or was it something more?

Yeah, I'm getting used to the idea that all that paperwork really is not me. At least not the me I seem to be becoming. I mean, the absurdity of stuffing an infinity sized spirit into this little human body...
and then pretending that the body is who I is, you is, we are.

I am little, too, only 60 inches even if you stretched me on the rack. So why do we do that? When the evidence points toward large spirits capable of remarkable powers, we try to convince ourselves otherwise. We treat babies and children as though they are inferior little people who intentionally interfere with our plans, instead of the spiritual giants they are.

So perhaps Marianne Williamson hit the nail on the head when she said (and Nelson Mandela so eloquently quoted),

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others. "

So I have shed my outer identities (or maybe the elves stole them) and am reveling in the essence that I find outside of all that. There is something liberating about not having a wallet. I go into the gas station to write a check, and actually talk to the salesgal, instead of letting the machine just munch my card number. I stuff bills all over the place instead of having them tightly corralled in that little slot inside my wallet. It feels really disorganized, but it's just different. Maybe it's a good thing to get booted out of the comfort zone, no matter how trivial; just for a while to have to wing it without all the little cards that tell me who I am and how much credit I have.

T.S. sure had a handle on this...

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
is that which was the beginning;
As the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between the two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always-
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding" in the Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, ed. Richard Ellman & Robert O'Clair, 1973

Fellow Travelers through the Seasons

2009-01-03T10:33:00.000-08:00

My friend Jan took this photo of her log home outside Polson, Montana a couple days ago. Over New Years, we had several inches of new snow falling like it was getting paid for it. This is more snow than I've seen any winter in 14 years. Yee Haw. My friends are enjoying the slopes and lifts but I haven't pulled out the skis just yet.

In an older body, I find myself weighing the pros and cons of exposure to speed and ice, enjoying my current euphoria of mobile joints and the absence of concussions, wrenched muscles, or torn ligaments. I'll give it one more week. You might recall last winter's post about the final run down the mountain at Blacktail, complete with a 30 foot cartwheel, whiplash, and a mild concussion. Skiing back to the lodge that day after my 'yardsale', I promised myself a helmet before next season.

Yes! Snow dresses up a little town like nobody's business. Gazing up at the mountains today, it looks like this could be Switzerland or Germany. The roadways are paved with vanilla frosting and the trees, buried under a limb bending load, look like splendid decorations. When the setting sun sparks the snow draped mountains with a peachy glow, it is all you can do to keep from shouting for joy. Here is another Jan Myers work of art taken from her house, I bet. Montana is the quick change artist of the world, going from summer to winter, and back again, in the blink of an eye. Or as my friend, Sailor Bill, puts it so wryly, "If you don't like the weather, just wait 5 minutes and you still won't like it."

Attempting to tackle my 'big guy' yesterday on a snowy slope at the dog park (in a moment of pure winter driven madness) I ended up face down in the snow, while he was still standing. But it was worth it, because somersaulting, frolicking, and making snow angels was the inevitable next thing to do down there.

For Christmas, my friend Mary gave me a photo from five years ago of the two of us hugging a snowman. We had built it the day before when the world was white. By the next day, everything had melted except our giant snowman with the crazy hat. He was listing to about 45 degrees and we couldn't get him upright, no matter how hard we grunted, but it made for a great photo and yet another memory to share.

This past year, my maternal cousins-Martha, Matt, Cody, Mary & Lucia- have become beloved friends as we recently supported each other through the deaths of our two mothers, only months apart. Martha and I (the oldest) were already like sisters from decades of shared experiences. In the tub, she and I are the two on the right, with my brother Bill and her brother, Bo.

So strange how these little kids (Mary, Matt & Lucia) grew up to be the absolute coolest friends, not just to me and my brothers, but to their older sister Martha and to each other, as well. Wouldn't our recently deceased mom-sisters, Tony & Barb, be happy about that.

On the left is Barb & Jim (Mom's brother) on their wedding day.

Tony and Barb had ridden the school bus together when they were twelve and thirteen years old. They were there when each of them met their future husbands. They didn't know at that dewy age what agony their lives would hold and what it would take to survive it. Nevertheless, they each moved through over 80 years with a lot of grace and a devastating sense of humor-right up to the end. On the left, Marth & Matt are imitating our dog, Sam, instigated by Mom, (though she looks a lot like their mom in that photo).

Let's face it, the friends & family we treasure are what make any season memorable. Aging has taught me one thing. The things I thought mattered over the years are Nothing compared to the value to me, of each of my friends, siblings, cousins, and many of my acquaintances.

My youngest cousin, Lucia, had a dream the other day that Mom and Barb were bicycling together in that yonder place, like when they were kids. That thought put a giant grin on my face for the rest of the day!

So Remember...
Tell them how important they are
how beautiful they are
And keep them laughing!

Jumping Back In

2008-10-11T08:16:00.000-07:00

I dedicate this post to Jo Ann, who just by the simple act of commenting on my blog, asking about growing Simpson Lettuce, got me jump started again. (She left her comment on the previous post. Jo Ann, check this link.)

Amazing how little it takes. Of course my friend Francis has been sending me his special brand of healing energy too, which is called The Reconnection. So thanks, once again to friends I know and ones I don't know yet.. I thought my alley grazing and blogging were history. Turned out I was wrong

There is no way to calculate the way my Mom's death gut punched me into paralysis. I kept going to work but I didn't really care what happened. When a key person ceases to be in the familiar house, by the familiar phone where you can see her, call her... trade stories, annoy and amuse each other, it is like somebody moved the furniture around in my brain. I keep bumping into things. So now that my Mom is not in her house doing her thing, she seems to zoom around, showing up here, not where I can see her, just bringing the joy and deeply familiar feeling of connection. My friend Barb thinks she is living vicariously through me, getting to do things she would never do.

I even started alley grazing again. Some yellow chrysanthemums for a bouquet, ground picked plums from the alley behind my house. Some great apples along the bike path behind Super 1. Yum. Do you realize this town is covered with walnut trees, two different kinds? I never notice until fall, when the fruit looks like a deviant avocado. Not quite ready yet.

Of course this time of year is also a feast for the eyes with show stopping colors. And rainbows. I hope you all caught the rainbows last week during the peek a boo rain and sun.

Speaking of the leaf colors, my friends and I went to Hot Springs to soak at Rose's outdoor pool on two consecutive weekends. There is a mid size ornamental cherry tree (possibly a purple leaf sand cherry) that guards the pool. I have the exact tree in my front yard though mine looks like a dwarf next to Rose's. The leaves were vibrant, several shades from crimson to mauve in a dense canopy. Enough were sailing into the pool that I could scoop them out in handfuls.

A week later, that dense foliage had thinned to half. The remaining leaves like a transparent shirt, were revealing the tree's winter silouette of branches and twigs. In six days, the Purple Leaf Sand Plum's juicy leaves were transformed into paper shreds the color of leather, hanging on for dear life.

Two mornings ago, in Riverside Park, the wind had whipped up the waves on the river so that they appeared to be dashing along the concrete wall like writhing snakes, or a whiplash that exploded into the shore wall.

My dog Sam went totally bananas (technical term) when he saw that. He raced the uncoiling wave as it barreled along the lip of the wall. When the wave unloaded, like crack the whip, froth roiled up over the wall, and he got a faceful, which just made him redouble his efforts. I wish you could have seen it; in the predawn stillness, a blasting north wind, standing waves, and my dog zinging along the river edge, barking his head off.

I doubt if he has ever had the opportunity to chase sheep or cattle as his breeding dictates, but he can put the fear of God in seagulls, cats, cabbage moths, yellow jackets, elk, deer, squirrels, and the occasional cargo van or tractor trailer. There is also a terrible story about his previous owner, before I got him, adopting him out to a ranch. The ranch wife was doing dishes, looking out the kitchen window when she saw their horse galloping along with Sam at the end of his tail like a flag. Needless to say, he was returned to his former owner that day. Lucky for me. He was kind of a maniac until Karen Duty's doggie manners class tuned him up, or I should say, tuned up the dog owner.

But this 'wave runner' frenzy might have been his most inspired, Australian Shepherd/Blue Heeler moment, barreling along the shoreline at Riverside Park, herding waves.

Alley Grazer Farewell

2008-08-07T19:25:00.000-07:00

To my friends and friends of friends who have encouraged me with your comments, and harangued me to keep on blogging, I thank you and salute you. Many of you are stellar writers in your own right and I am honored to be among you.

This summer I have not tasted a single lambs quarters stem or chickweed leaf. I did not wander the byways of my town in search of dinner or trundle through alleys to the lake. This year, my alley grazing was confined to my imagination. This year everything changed.

A visit to see my Mom in June turned quickly into a bedside vigil and then hospice at home, as the health problems that had plagued her for a couple years turned into the knock out punch.

I grazed in the land of the dying as I sat by my mother's bedside to watch that gradual withdrawal from this sphere to another. The day I told her she was dying, she seemed more surprised than anything. "Huh," she said like I was telling her that someone had moved or gotten a dog. But once she got the word, she moved into her pro-active mode and asked, "So what's next...how can we speed this up?" Even though she seemed too lively to be heading to the tunnel of light, she hadn't eaten for weeks, except a bite of yoghurt here and there. Because of the pain.

In a situation that most people would find terrifying-bedridden, drugged, in pain, in diapers that need changing, with legs that didn't move, and strangers heaving her around like a sack of taters-she summoned an uncanny sense of the absurd and made sure that we all got to laugh with her about it. Her comedic tendencies reached full flower on this unlikely stage. Because she could barely talk and her hand and facial gestures were in slow motion, and because she was fully aware that she was entertaining us, her comments were funnier than anything I'd ever seen or heard.

At one point, discouraged at her inability to communicate with us, she reached for the Kleenex box and started talking into that. She got so much mileage out of that box as a prop that all she had to do was start reaching and we were falling down, almost crying with laughter. When communication shifts from verbal to visual, to charade like gestures and the subtlest facial expressions, you enter an entirely different world of possibilities. Mom seemed to plumb this mother lode for every nuance of expression. To say we were blessed by this unexpected bounty doesn't even begin to cover it.

She was open, vulnerable and sublime as I had never seen her in her able bodied life. Her grace under fire was breathtaking and reassuring. She showed me that going out in style could be done with diapers on. It could be accomplished with words falling from the tongue like little chunks of wood. It could happen when she was wrapped in drug induced delusions and the fragrance of death and decay. What a gift my mother handed me on her way out the door.

The extra large gift for me was getting to know my two brothers all over again, to know them in the face of what none of us wanted, and to be able to receive their abundant caring for me and to realize how important they are to me every day of my life. Our cousins got in on the act too, showing up just when we needed them. Leaving the cocoon of that family connection was really hard...for all of us.

In closing, I ask that you check in to stay posted on my next project. My novel is getting some attention from me again and I will certainly be writing about this last adventure with Mom. Again, thank you for your comments and your beautiful presence in this world. All of you!

Rescue Unlimited

2008-04-11T16:08:00.000-07:00

No one blogs without a reason, right? Three years ago, my reason was to have an outlet for my excessive enthusiasms other than my friends, who could grow weary of my love of alley forage, or the epiphanies from my nighttime wandering. It seemed downright miraculous what I was seeing a year or two ago on my rambling journeys around town.

So we're back to my favorite topic of, ‘It’s amazing what you see out there’ when you cruise the byways of your little town or countryside. Ten days ago today I was heading east on 7th Ave, driving the few blocks between Polson Animal Clinic and my house. Up ahead, I spied a procession of four or five vehicles barely moving westbound. What I couldn’t see until I got closer was the leader of the parade, a pint-sized "Benji' proudly dashing up the middle of the lane like he was getting a prize for it.

I pulled over and jumped out and did the excited puppy speak which got him close enough to grab. We drove around trying to find a vet who recognized him. After leaving my number with veterinarians, Polson’s Animal Control Officer, Lake County Dispatch, KERR Radio and both newspapers, I did a photo shoot and put up some wanted posters, I waited for the inevitable phone call: a harried mom or dad of heartbroken children crying with relief. Or an older dog owner telling me how the collar broke. Nine days of silence, folks.

Then yesterday a call that resulted in a visit today; a young man who slumped against the fence when he saw this one wasn't his. Benji junior was the fourth dog in a month I encountered in the middle of a busy road. One was too fast to catch, and the other two were galloping Main Street in Ronan on consecutive days. I carried the puppy into the Ronan Police Station and tippy toed out while everyone was petting him. The Rottweiler cross I had to unleash as Ronan has no dog catcher. As I was talking to the officers, I said, "I'm letting him go now. He might cause and accident..." As far as I know he just wandered home again after chasing a few cars down the road.

Last week, a barely weaned Shar-Pei puppy ran under the tires of a young woman’s car. She loaded him just like I did and took off marveling, “I guess I’m the owner of a Shar-Pei now.” Of course, she will do the same thing I’m doing, which is go to heroic lengths to find the original owner.

I even came across a velvet black, domestic rabbit in my neighborhood, so tame it started to approach my dog. That was so far from a good idea, I can’t tell you. But it told me that the bunny had been gently treated so far, and maybe had signed a truce with the legions of local cats.

Speaking of coots, which of course we weren’t, I see the north end of Sacajewea Park looks like the aftermath of a giant pillow fight. Bald eagles have returned to Polson for their favorite winter and spring delicacy. Most of that bird ended up being dinner. Only the fluff (and a head) remained.Like I said, you're really missing a show if you sit inside morning and evening and don’t allow yourself to be part of the silent pagaent being played out each moment. Eugene and I were dining in Ronan City Park a couple weeks ago and spied a seagull who had a stout 3-4 inches of string coming out of his mouth with a red clump of something attached to it. This made eating corn chips or anything virtually impossible as the string kept getting caught and winding around his beak. When he flew, it whipped around and nearly drove him to ground.

We explored the possibility of capturing him and at least cutting the tiny ‘ball and chain’ from his beak, but we couldn’t find any equipment nearby. Obviously humans have to be careful what we leave laying around outside. Birds are curious and attracted to odd things that can ultimately kill them. Depending on what was on the other end of the string, that one’s chances of becoming a lasting part of the gene pool had probably become almost nil.

Back to mini-Benji who has taken up residence here and shows no sign of missing his former digs...As each caller who has lost a dog calls, I try out the name they give me and get no response. It made me realize that there are a heck of a lot of dogs roaming far from home-from Post Creek to Clarice Paul to Polson Town. Lucky for this one, everyone who sees him wants to take him home. Right now it looks like a showdown for ownership between two families.

My life time best rescue however, was a loon trapped on Skiff Lake, New Brunswick by faulty oil glands. She got waterlogged and couldn't get airborne. That yarn will have to wait for my next post wherein you learn of the ill-advised trek onto a newly frozen lake in December that ended much better than anticipated. As I recall there was a good deal of hand wringing on the shore. My reputation among locals as a risk taking wacko dates from that time.

Alley grazers, don't forget to check out those dandelions. Great eating. The roots, boiled or roasted, taste like asparagus, sort of.

The Ides of March

2008-03-29T09:29:00.000-07:00

Apparently, before Julius Caesar was slain, March 15th was just an ordinary day, sometimes mid month being the time that debts came due. Before our current calendar, the 'ides' just meant the middle.

I'm not normally a superstitious person, but there have been some rather harrowing Ides of March(es). The most memorable was a freak late snowstorm that churned itself into a blizzard as the mercury plunged below zero. That Saturday night, snuggled into our cozy cabin with city friends visiting, we had no idea two drunken snowmobilers were racing past our driveway. One of them plowed into our visiting friend's car in the blinding snowstorm. We took turns staying with the body until the Mounties arrived. Since that night, I've never felt a wind that brutal. I began to not take March for granted.

My morning epiphany let me in on a secret about mid-March. Each year, when the sap starts rising, I come unhinged for a couple weeks. I only noticed because it eased off today with this nice skiff of new snow. All my thoughts get let out of their cages or leave their comfy contrails and mix it up. For two weeks I have shit for brains. It is impossible to focus on the simplest most elementary motion. I have to walk myself through brushing my teeth.

I binge read, which is the only thing, other than anesthetic, or driving too fast, that helps. At work, it feels like bees buzzing inside my noggin. My 'hard drive' freezes up and there's no restart button. Simple tasks like answering email or making a list become impossible and I lose whole hours in a stoned haze. It feels like witnessing a bar fight but muted as though my head was stuffed with novocaine soaked cotton.

Lucky for me, I have perfected the look of normalcy even when I'm having a stellar meltdown. Now that I'm through it for another year, I can look back at the past two weeks with (almost) nostalgia. And, I've never been able to get any sympathy when I moan about my discomfort. Friends nod and murmer the right words, but really they think, how bad could it be? One friend even said, "I think you're exaggerating".

Even if I'm miffed at the time, they actually help me keep the 'crazies' compartmentalized. Now that I'm working on a novel, I see that I'm eventually going to make money off this drama that roils in my thought bubble 24/7 but only gets revved up during the sap rising, Ides of March. I decided those conversations and characters are all just scrambling around in there trying to get out. No problem dudes. You'll get your own page one day.

It's great in a way. My friends have always helped me to not compound the interest by wallowing. Because I look so good doing it, my angst doesn't register on the Richter scale for me or my friends. I mean, how bad could it be?

I only know that when the storm passes for another year, I feel so good it should be illegal!!

You Have to Start Somewhere

2008-03-25T18:16:00.000-07:00

I guess you could say my grazing career began shortly after we moved to California. It was a rough start, but luckily didn't do permanent damage. I was nine years old and felt sort of like Dorothy scratching her head and saying to Toto, "I guess we aren't in Kansas anymore." We most definitely weren't in Michigan anymore. Our post war, brick bungalow neighborhood with one inch diameter crabapple trees was a thing of the past. Our new house had an old weathered shed with spiders and biting insects hiding in the corners. We looked up at pine trees so tall they blocked out the sunlight.
My grazing started innocently enough one summer day in the woods behind my house where Monterey pines, live oaks and tick bushes created a child's paradise.

That summer, before I had found kids to play with, I wandered in the woods pretending I was a wild animal, or an Indian warrior, or person who lived outdoors. While sneaking behind trees and outrunning imaginary enemies, I spied a wild iris in a shrubby copse under the pines. It was divine. It shone with an inner light. It erased all memory of the game I had just been playing. Never had I seen that color...indigo, before. Time stood still as the color seeped into me. Indigo. Hell, I wouldn't even hear the word indigo for another decade or so.

In that moment, under the damp mist that blanketed the Monterey Peninsula for two thirds of the year, I was transfixed by a beauty I had never imagined to exist. Of course I had to eat it. I had to have it inside me. So I picked the flower and chewed it up, noticing that it didn't taste that good. That was the first shock. That color should have tasted like heaven. The second shock was the pain. Almost immediately my throat began to burn. It was a fire that kept getting hotter, but not a normal hot like burning your mouth, and the pain was loud like a noise.

I stomped away from the house, heading purposefully toward relief, I hoped. I clutched my throat and moaned, so focused on the pain like you do when you're a kid, that I was too tied up in it to be scared. The thought briefly crossed my mind, "Go in the house. Tell Mom."

However, that scenario was instantly discarded as too risky. Kid logic has it that death might be preferable to letting your Mom see what an idiot you are. So I didn't have much perspective on my viable options. I was dizzy, disoriented and at certain points couldn't have told you where I was.

Hours later I went in the house and said hi to Mom. The pain had eased down enough that I could pretend like I dreamed the whole thing. In my family, we pretty much handled all our problems like that and it seemed to work pretty well when I was little. Not so great later, but that's another story!

I never ate another flower until was 30- something and I saw it in a cookbook. Now, I eat calendulas, violas and of course my favorite, dandelions, just the leaves, though.

I learned my lesson that day. It certainly didn't cure me of roaming the woods, alleys, city streets or country lanes where I've lived or from appreciating the treasures I found there. That lesson all us wild kids have to learn eventually, is what goes in which hole. No food in the ears. No jelly beans or peas in the nose. And keep those irises away from your lips!

Happy Hunting Out There
Alley Grazers, Forest Foragers
and all you Country Mice
Trapped in
Town Mouse Bodies!

Easter Gymnastics

2008-03-23T11:57:00.000-07:00

My day of skiing yesterday came complete with a memorable last run: a couple of aerial cartwheels followed by a back of the head bonk and minor whiplash. I decided to stop by the First Aid room at Blacktail and had the first aid tech, Emma, check my pupil size before I left.

You haven't lived until someone half your age asks you what day it is, what year it is (!) and what your name is. Anyway, I passed the test and drove on home, feeling a little beat up. But it was worth it. Sun warmed the ski lift chairs so the ride up the mountain felt like a benediction. And the miniature mogul hogs in their dayglow ski outfits were putting me to shame, as usual. One tiny tot had a pair of bunny ears on her helmet. At the end of the day, stowing my skis, I watched a giant red-haired poodle harnessed to a plastic sled whiz by, giving his little passenger the ride of her life. That was the happiest, goofiest looking sled dog I ever saw. A day on the mountain to be remembered and probably my last until next year.

It did seem strange yesterday morning, leaving the springtime ambiance of the valley for 10 degrees F and several inches of fresh snow on the mountain. Back to my previous post, this is the delicious fact of Montana in March. Crocuses are showing off, daffodils are barely breaking ground, robins serenade at dawn, and there's still nine feet of snow mid-mountain.

Today, my Easter service will take place in the Missions, only ten minutes away, which yield both snow free and snow covered paths to traverse. At 4,000 feet you can wear regular boots or Crocs and at 5,000 put on cross country skis or snow shoes.

I suspect our bear friends will be showing their groggy faces soon. There is certainly plenty of elk and deer sign where I go, rabbits and turkeys are finding lots to eat. A couple of white tails scattered last time I drove up there and they look almost too fat to run! I guess it's been a good winter up the hill and they'll be having their babies soon. These three does are so used to humans, they let me take their picture today, though they were quite a distance away, and me with no telephoto.

After I came down off the hill, I noticed crocuses fully operational and looking fresh and full of mischief. They also let me take their picture up close. What a treat for the winter weary that crocuses come when they do, long before anything else rears up out of the winter soil.

These ones seem to be dancing under the Mission Bay sign on Highway 35.

I see it's snowing on the mountain right now. I can watch from my dining room window which is where I write. Usually, Easter brings with it images of springtime. Because it's so early this year, we can probably expect another couple weeks of snow on the mountain, maybe a snowfall or two more in the valley. That's the fun of living here, I tell you. You never know what's going to happen next. Or as my friend Bill says, "If you don't like the weather here, just wait an hour, you still won't like it."

Me, I like weather whatever the flavor, especially if it's cool or coldish.

I hope you all had a wonderful Easter, celebrating in the fashion that is closest to your heart. I certainly did. Letting my feet lap up the dirt trail, mud puddles, and snow pack included, while I harvested thoughts from my thought bubble and felt thanks for every tree and shrub. That was my Easter blessing.

The only wildlife I came across besides the deer was a bicyclist, who seemed as happy to be up there as I was. It's so rare to run across another human up there this time of year that I had to stop and chat. This one was riding a mountain bike along the trail and though he was headed for mud and snow, seemed to have the perfect rig for it. He said, "So you're the one who drives the other red Honda." It turns out that we drive identical cars, blood red Honda CRVs.

Is that odd or is that God?

A Season of Firsts

2008-03-17T20:04:00.000-07:00

Every year, at this time, something happens to me. Maybe when the sap begins to rise in the trees, there is an answering rise of sap in human bodies as well. This human body feels it acutely and so the counting begins. What do I count? The appearance of each new, fresh as dew, phenomenon. First Crocus. First Robin. First Dandelion. First Picnic Tables in front of Ace hardware. First sound of a lawnmower.

You psychologists out there will be having a field day with my OC symptom of counting. I've been doing it so long, it's worn a deer trail of neural pathways into my grey spongy stuff. So let the counting begin.

Today marks the first whiff of my personal favorite 'first', the dreamy, aromatic scent of cottonwood trees. More specifically, within the woody terminal buds, the inner bud scales are saturated in an ambrosial resin.

This resin exudes a scent that is beyond description. Usually, I have no problem describing things...slathering a sizzling string of adjectives in front of some hapless noun. Not this. Nope. No can do. But you want to take a shot at fitting a handle on cottonwood scent, check out this wonderful resource for perfume descriptives.

When these buds first open, this perfume spreads like an invisible mist over the whole town. Up in the woods, it is positively intoxicating. Every time I open my front door, my nose smiles. It feels like an oceanic blessing. Yet, strangely enough, every year when I rhapsodize about this experience, I'm usually greeted with a cavernous yawn of indifference. Aside from the precious few, who like me, fall helplessly under the spell, it seems the rest of my compatriots are immune to the dreamy rapture wafting from Populus deltoids occidentalis.

So today I noticed the first whisper of a scent that I have been trying (unsuccessfully) to describe for 20 years.

What a tree! In the spring, a harvest of perfume . A few weeks later, bud scales cascade to earth like a mahogany snowfall. A while after that, the male flower catkins finish blooming (see above) and rain down like a plague of dead caterpillars, spackling cars, sidewalks, bicycles, garden boots, lawn furniture, garden tools, and especially pets.

Then comes the cotton, great rolling whisps like angel tumbleweed auguering sidewise along pavement in little spirals. We wear it in our hair.

I remember one day last spring, frisky breezes started unloading the cottonwoods like teamsters. Then the roiling spirals of fluff started filling First St. by Riverside Park. Like a low flying cloud layer it hovered, drifting indecisively this way and that. Albino cotton candy taking a leisurely romp through town. Surreal as an alien life form.

We won't even talk about the leaves that eventually make their way earthward. In sheer tonnage, cottonwoods put all other trees to shame. But that's too far in the future to worry about. I think the prodigious output of cotton, catkins and especially leaves, is what causes some folks to curse cottonwoods like they do burdocks and dandelions.

Two weeks ago, the cottonwood buds began to swell. They're still pretty tight, but as of today, they're just starting to leak their woody incense. In another week, I'm betting on them popping open, maybe a week after that they fall...and so on.
I'll let you know the day when our town gets hosed with that melifluous, resiny sweetness, so if you live where cottonwoods grow, you can run outside and take great snorts of this heady treat and be glad, oh so glad, you're alive in your cottonwoody city, burrough, or mountainside retreat.

Look for other firsts that will be appearing daily in this springtime extravaganza of sensory exuberance.

I can hardly wait!

Spring is Sprung

2008-03-15T20:23:00.000-07:00

What is amazing about this time of year is this overlap of seasons, like two seasons for the price of one. It makes me feel like I have a lot more recreational choices. Within a few mile radius, I can either bask in the sun, rake leaves, or cross-country ski . If I want to venture further, Blacktail Mountain offers downhill skiing. I'm a couple miles from bowling, and two blocks from the skateboarding park. Wow!! Winter and spring seem to play peek-a-boo for several weeks here. The crocuses came up last week, did you notice? They are so picturesque, sometimes coming right out of the snow.

Today, I was gliding along the glassy surface of 'cornmeal' snow, three miles up Hellroaring Canyon. Meanwhile, my friend Eugene was capturing Stellar Jays east of St. Ignatius, on his mountain. His strategies for schmoozing birds are as irresistible to them as his photos are to us. His quest for suet to entice the birds is another story altogether. I had never seen blue jays looking so photogenic.

My friend Mary said that last weekend when she was over by Mission Dam, she heard (but didn't see) a bear on the slope, as some scree came tumbling down ahead of him (or her).

No bears today where I was. Just a couple feet of snow, sun pierced clouds, a stray snowflake or two, and chickadees ghosting through the branches. My dog, Sam has used up all his free passes chasing the wee, furry creatures in the woods. So he and I are tethered together for any woods roaming. That didn't work out so well on skis, I can tell you. That dog had me wrapped up like a bundle of newspapers.

Reminds me of roller blading with him a few summers ago. Yes, I had a helmet, elbow and knee pads on. I looked like the Michelin Man. He played sled dog and got me rocketing along the sidewalk until my life started flashing in front of my eyes.

Like his owner, he's an old dog learning new tricks. In any case, we survived that experiment, as we did again today. But Sam had to park by the stream while I went on without him and his leash. That snow was too heavy and deep for any creature without skis or snowshoes. He was still heavy breathing from the exertion when I got back from skiing without him for twenty minutes.

When I lived in Canada, we spent whole days behind Skiff Lake on snowshoes one winter, building a snowmobile trail. It was great fun. At noon, we started a fire and cooked lunch. But the long days in the woods, with 6-7 hours of silence, except for the shush of snowshoes was both exhausting and rapturous. Breathing fresh air all day changes you in ways you wouldn't expect. Spending all day on the ski slope does that for sure. All that oxygen!

This is the first Saturday in a while that I haven't hit the slopes at Blacktail Mountain for a day of skiing. Today they got four inches of fresh powder. Can't beat that. Watching the tiny tots fly down the mountain in long lines like colorful beads, is one of the high points of skiing there. Then there are views and more views.

My biggest problem these days is to decide what to do next. Even when I didn't have the money for a ski pass or a car to get up the mountain, I had these three magnificent parks, all situated on the water, which felt like country right in the middle of town.

What an incredible place to live!

Dead Coots

2008-02-24T10:36:00.000-08:00

Over the past few weeks, as I cruise the streets, alleys, and parks in my lake hugging Northwestern Montana town, I notice an occasional large dead bird. They turn out to be coots. American Coots, white beaked, black water fowl that I rarely notice the rest of the year. Yet in winter, they create massive flotillas on this end of the winter lake that seem to stretch for miles.

One year when the lake froze over during a sudden mercury plummet, hundreds of hapless coots became trapped in the ice. Later that day, a convention of bald eagles converged on the spot right on Highway 93, near KwaTaqNuk. They settled on the ice to eat coots, leaving a good distance between themselves and neighboring diners. Also converging on the site of this quiet massacre were bird watchers with the longest telephoto lenses you've ever seen.

So back to the dead coots. This year word has gone out on the eagle telegraph and these massive birds of prey, symbol of our great land, have been spotted in treetops around the lake and river. Apparently, they are back to supplement their diet with more American Coot. My friend and avid bird photographer, Eugene says that the dead birds on the ground are the ones that the eagles couldn't manage to carry all the way to the treetops.

Think about the logistics of this. An American Bald Eagle weighs ten to fourteen pounds and a coot weighs in at about one pound. Add some ice and water clinging to feathers, a hundred pounds of survival instinct, and some disproportionately large, dragon-ugly feet aiming for your eyes, and coots suddenly don't look like such an easy lunch. Add to that an aerial, 'water pluck' with major eagle competition on your flight path and making it to a high branch still in possession of edibles becomes a real long shot. So much easier when they are stuck in the ice.

My other photographer friend, Janice Myers, took this photo a few Saturdays ago looking downriver from Riverside Park. Jan pursues photo ops from one end of the valley to the other, in her lemon meringue VW Bug. This magnificent American Bald Eagle might have just finished off an unlucky coot or be about to go find one.

When you venture outside into the byways of your little town, you just never know what you might run across. Who knew this high drama was taking place right under our noses.

Just this morning in Riverside Park, three or four plastic sled carcasses appeared. They could have been under the snow that just melted off, or were flung there when they couldn't cut the mustard any more. I imagine they gave their last polypropylene gasp on a heart bouncing race to the bottom. Now sliding days will be at a premium since the hard packed base coat has given way to greening grass blades and warmer weather. We're not fooled, though. We have lots of winter left for slip sliding down alleys and watching those clouds of waxwings and starlings that have been ravaging winter wild cherry and mountain ash trees.

If you happen to notice one of those dead coots on the ground near the river or lake, check out their legs and feet. Talk about weird!
Photo credit for American Coot: Peter S. Weber copywright

Happy Hunting, whatever it is you're after!

SlipSliding down Winter Alleys

2008-02-10T11:31:00.000-08:00

I was going to title this, Beware Winter Alleys, but what is there to say? Fall down, go boom...end of conversation. I was one of those youths who had a legion of well meaning folks ever cautioning me to avoid his or that. The conversation started with "Don't you dare... as I recall. I always did, dare that is. I snuck out my window and roamed at night as a pre-teen. From the same window, I hopped into friend's cars as a teeny bopper, which we then had to roll down the street with lights out to avoid detection. Later on, when the DO NOT list started with boys, I knew if I ignored that advice, there was something great awaiting me, and I was right. I biked 2500 miles alone across Canada one time, which was the topic of much advice. So now I'm more sensible and the temptation list is really short.

However, even I know I should heed my own advice and avoid winter alleys buffed to a high gloss. Alleys in spring are a salad buffet, in summer, the miniature countryside of fragrant foliage and good eating, in fall a comforting, quiet get away (mind the garbage bins, stray cats and back yard mechanics).

Winter is another story. It can be either a skating rink or a geography of icy ridges, lightly covered mounds of dog poo, light powder on glass, like sawdust on a dance floor. I have lucked out so far in that all my spills have been benign and I do keep meaning to buy those ice traction get ups for boots. I see the tracks in my neighborhood of the sensible walkers who stick to the main streets and wear metal cleats.

Speaking of tracks, one clear January day, I saw a distinctive running shoe track in the snow way over by the city dock and as my course took me back several blocks to my neighborhood, I picked up the exact track along 5th Ave. W, followed it through this alley and then let it go, since it was just curiosity pure and simple. I had figured out it was a woman based on shoe size and stride. When I lived on the edge of 10 miles of mixed deciduous, conifer forest in Canada, tracking was our winter fun! What creatures we 'spotted'-bobcat, mountain lion, bear, deer, rabbit, porcupine, moose, weasel, ferret- if only by their footprints.
As these photos show, there is not a bleaker landscape than a
winter alley, and yet because this is only one aspect, albeit an ugly one, I know better things are in store. Like your beloved in winter, who is a decent sort of guy or gal, but who is cranky and out of sorts at this season, the winter alley is just biding its time, seeds snoring softly under the frozen earth, thousands of buds lining the bowed branches, poised to bust open, just awaiting the wake up kiss of spring.

Happy Alley Sliding!

February Under the Big Sky

2008-02-07T19:48:00.000-08:00

Winter in Montana is not the time you would associate with alley grazing, though as you may have read in earlier posts, my friend Mary and I did dig collards out of the snow a couple winters ago. My morning and evening jaunt is more like alley crawling, stomping, slip/sliding or even skiing. Most winters, Polson doesn't have enough new powder to do anything except...sledding. That most ancient of winter pastimes happens with a vengance at our own Riverside Park, only four blocks (and one alley) from my home.

And that my friends, is a sight to behold. Grab your little red sled, toboggan, or old fashioned Red Flyer (remember, the one with runners) and the thickest coat you have, and head to the park. Riverside Park overlooks the swift running Flathead River, Polson Bridge clicking under a steady stream of cars, and in the water, Canada geese, coots ganged up in flotillas, maybe even a Bald Eagle or two. My friend Jan took this at the park last Saturday with an extremely long lens.

The slope from 1st Street down to the playground is steep enough that, with some new powder, and a little push to start your sled, you go like a blue streak, pushing your heart rate into triple digit arythmia. Little bumps engineered into the hill give your tail bone a thrill as well. However, the local snowboard set has upped the ante with a rock hard snow ramp ending in a picnic table that launches the erstwhile snowboarder into a free fall of about 8-10 feet. Yowza.
So from the bucolic peacefulness of early morning and late
evening alley strolling, I am but a few blocks from the break neck wildness and hilarity of Riverside Park. The few times my dog, Sam ever escaped during the summertime, I found him at Riverside, chest deep in the river, where he was invisible under a couple dozen hands caressing his waterlogged body. If a dog could purr, he would have. His favorite companions are the sun baked kids who swim away their days like otters. Even the dogs in town know where the fun lives.

photocredits: winter Fotosearch.com copywright http://www.fotosearch.com/CSK398/ks95544/

Fun is always just around the corner!

Garden grazing

2007-06-10T13:31:00.001-07:00

In the previous post, I mention the greenhouse surprise of non-stop chickweed. This is what it looked like up close. You can detect broccoli plants adrift in this sea of chickweed. This truly is a stellar crop. Sorry, couldn't resist the pun on stellaria, fancy name for chickweed. When they blossom, hundreds of tiny white stars appear, hence the name. This photo by Patrick J. Alexander captures stellaria's namesake flower and it's perfect symettry.

At the time of my last post, that is mainly what my little greenhouse was growing-chickweed. A grow- it-themselves frenzy of green. Left to their own devices, Stellaria plants will climb up fences and buildings, and grow where no plant dares to go, like under the cottonwood tree out back that shades out everything.

I made a power drink by pulling up these very chickweed plants and stuffing my blender full. I just added some water and tamari. Yum. Talk about turbo-powered. Funny how world class nutrition thrives in the forgotten places, the unplanted wastelands, the gravel byway where someone threw their used motor oil, around fence posts, garbage bins and telephone poles.

The alleys and fence rows are currently full of lamb's quarters ripe for the picking at about 12-18 inches. They have big arrow shaped leaves that are slightly fuzzy. Their appearance doesn't do justice to the succulent feast contained therein. They are much better eating than cooked spinach, in my book. I steam them in a little bit of water. Later in the season, when they're bitter, I boil them in a lot of water. Lamb's quarters are particularly partial to growing around telephone poles on this side of town.

After I peeled the greenhouse off the garden, those broccoli, lettuce, and onion plants started to take off. To that I added more lettuce seed, peas, both sugar snap and edible pod, a couple tomato plants and pansies.You can see me standing behind broccoli surrounded by lettuce, both Simpson Seedless and Red. With all that rain the past few days, the broccoli really shot up. The white backboard to the former greenhouse will hopefully be covered with scarlet runner beans sometime in the next month or so.

Yep. It looks like the grazing has moved from the alley into the garden.

Not only that...Since I signed up for weekly delivery of locally grown organic produce, I'm buried in baby greens, lettuce , spinach, green onions and radishes. This has been nipping my alley grazing right in the bud. I probably will have to turn in my alley grazer credentials and just poke around my own garden and collect my weekly bale of greens from Julian. That is until the plums start coming. Then you will see me out there with my baskets and Super 1 bags loaded down. Hope to see you then!

Photo credit for Patrick Alexander's stellaria flower: USDA, NRCS. 2008. The PLANTS Database (http://plants.usda.gov/, 18 March 2008). National Plant Data Center, Baton Rouge, LA 70874-4490 USA.

Salads-R-Us

2007-04-10T22:19:00.000-07:00

A month ago, I opened up my tiny greenhouse that had not been heated since early February. Lo and behold! The seeds I had planted in January and abandoned in February, were thriving. Lettuce, onions, and a forest of chickweed volunteers. I built a large salad and planted more seeds. As I mentioned in an earlier post, chickweed cut fine with scissors adds an amazingly wonderful taste and texture to salads.

Now there are collards, spinach and new lettuce coming up from my recently planted seeds. In three weeks, I will peel the plastic off the green house and replant. By then, the alley foraging should be getting off to a great start. Between the greenhouse, garden and alleys, I get to fill up on fresh greens for free.

For me, there is something so incredibly satisfying about the ease of growing things when all you have to do is add water. Oh sure, there are a few bugs munching the tender lettuce. But, unless they are hogging the leaf, it doesn't seem to hurt the taste or aesthetics. I like to think of it as sharing.

The steamy ambiance of a greenhouse on a blustery spring day when the wind cuts you like a knife is sublime. A great place to hide out, meditate or dream.

Last fall, I hung a piece of 2x4 on my fence with holes for the PVC pipe ribs , attached some uprights, threw plastic over it and called it a greenhouse. Oh yes, I added a little door (it's behind the tree).

It is an amazingly simple and affordable home project for around $30, counting the seed. A little $30 ceramic heater keeps it warm through the brutal cold. I call it "going to Florida" when I open that door in an icy gale and tuck myself inside for a spell. It somehow makes winter seem more optional, being able to take a break from it. And the salads, oh how they melt in your mouth and lift your winter weary spirits.

Itching to Browse the Byways

2007-03-20T14:37:00.002-07:00

Now that March is sliding toward April, my alley grazer instincts are being reawakened. If you read the original entry, you know that I got excited about all the free food lying around my Montana lakeside town just waiting for harvest.

While alley grazing might not excite everyone I know, food that is local, fresh and free, just about sends me into a rapture. I do love to garden. I garden with gusto, with a greenhouse. However, the pure joy of taking a walk and coming back with groceries, is not to be missed.

I had a few winter months of blogger angst when I couldn't post. In the meantime, I was feasting on the fruits of my fall plunder. A quick turn in the cuisinart turned those back alley plums into ambrosia for toast or waffles. Apples from the seemingly owner-less orchard up the hill became pies and apple-plum sauce, and collards gone wild in my two years previous garden nourished me as soups, stir fry, and steamed greens.

In March here in the mountains, gardens are still slumbering, while the alleys begin thier explosion of spring growth. Some brave souls plant their peas now. I start looking for dandelions and chickweed (stellaria). Every couple weeks, another edible green comes along ready to pick. Eulle Gibbons step aside. This smashing photo of stellaria is provided courtesy of Patrick J. Alexander (USDA, NRCS. 2008. The PLANTS Database (http://plants.usda.gov, 18 March 2008). National Plant Data Center, Baton Rouge, LA 70874-4490 USA.)

Last February, I was heading over the hill to work when I spotted a stellaria crawling up the hospital wall. I couldn't believe my good fotune! I swung the car around and pirated the works before the maintenance people had a chance to poison it. Best salad green there is. I just cut it up with scissors and splash on a lemon-olive oil vinaigrette.

A south facing fence or wall will be the best bet for March munching. It is a bit early yet, but a warm stretch like this, complete with pussy willows, usually means wild greens in our very near future.

To identify what you find, check out kingdomplantae.net or ask your gardening friends. They usually know a weed when they see one.

Happy munching alley grazers!

Winter Harvest

2006-12-03T10:10:00.000-08:00

Here it is December in Montana, 20 below and all that. Not today, however, in the banana belt. In previous posts I confessed to my passion for prowling humble back alleys of town for the wild edibles that might lurk there.

Yes, I was out today with a fair snow cover of about four to six inches. Would you believe that on this very Sunday, attempting to take the edge off a caffeine buzz, I wandered back to my erstwhile garden. Yes, the very same collard patch about which I previously rhapsodized in the Sectet Life of Collards (below). Would you believe I reached under the snow and pried up several frozen, green leaf stalks. I am going to cook them up for lunch and report back.

If, by now, you wonder about the mental stability of someone who openly admits to being a collard fiend, I can't blame you. Until a few years ago, I would have agreed, as I am a recent convert.

I marvel at the pure good fortune of finding three of my favorite foods within arms reach of my home in town! Exactly a month ago, after two snows and several freezing nights, I picked a couple bushels of plums just a stones throw from my back door, off the ground. Several cooperative plum trees had dumped their bounty. The ones that passed the touch test became freezer plums and plum-apple sauce. Yum!

My dog Sam (see photo) fully appreciated the outing today. On the nine block journey up the hill, I saw four ravens harassing a seagull over the pines, deer tracks down a major thoroughfare, and the snow covered rubble of a burnt down apartment building that once housed neighbors. There is much to see on foot on a quiet Sunday morning, not to mention a wealth of unexpected nutrition.

By the way, I am munching on those long-in-the-tooth collard greens I just picked and they taste delicious. I confess, they needed to cook for at least seven minutes, not the usual three. Even the stalks are good.

Secret Life of Collards

2006-10-28T20:04:00.000-07:00

These collards are up to something here in Polson, Montana and I intend to find out what. Even for a slightly renegade, outlaw sort of plant, these collard plants were doing something unexpected. This is what happened: I had to move from my perfectly good house, garden, and neighbors to a house down the hill in March, 2006.

But, like a house cat, I kept coming back. At first, on the pretense of making sure the house was okay without me. Then, over the fence, I spied some edibles now and then. In June and July, August, and September, I grabbed the odd bunch of collards just because they were there. But last Sunday, I came with the full intention of pirating what was left of the summer bounty.

My former neighor spied me and yelled, "Call the police!" with a big smile. I told him the collards were calling me. Apparently, that siren call has no temptation for him, a meat and potatoes guy.

Let me say here that I love collard greens. I am collard crazy. Not the store bought kind. No one could become a collard fan on greens that are bitter and stiff. Like with tomatoes, there is no comparison.

Here in my former garden was a collard patch the size of a queen size bed that held plants as thick as pencils in a jar. Now what is amazing about this...I didn't plant collards there. No, I didn't even plant any the year before. The mommas of these prodigies were planted in 2004, overwintered until 2005, then dropped seed. When I left this house, there was a shadow of green under the matriarchs.

With no gardener, no water from the hose, no cultivating, no thinning, no fertilizing, and scorching summer heat these collards, packed like asparagus in a can, THRIVED. That is quite an achievement. That's almost scarey. They are 2-3 feet tall and loaded with leaves. Now, I'm not going to lie to you, the leaves were uglier than sin, some with more holes than leaf from the cabbage worms. They would not win a prize at the county fair.

But here is the kicker. Even the ugliest, most cracked, curled and deformed doily of a leaf when cooked up was blissfully tender and sweet. Even the half inch woody stems defy description as fine cuisine. HOW CAN THAT BE?

After I picked a bushel from the prodigies last week, blanched and froze them, I had a basket of stems and gross leaves pulled off the freezer stock as recommended by the blanching website. I cooked that ugly throw away stuff and guess what? They were so delicious, I raced up the hill for more. I was hoping my former house didn't sell before I peeled all the collards out of there.

All the leaves I had left behind the day before as too moth eaten, raggedy, or crusty to be palatable, I greedily loaded into my bags. Once they were blanched, they were impossible to tell from the 'melt in your mouth' ones. That is some kind of magic. Try that with old spinach, kale or chard and you want to spit them out!

Did I mention that collards are in the highest recommended category for all blood types?

In conclusion, for sheer durability, drought resistance, reseeding genius, tastiness , palatability, and nutrition, these collards are unparalleled. Garden grown surpasses store bought by leaps and bounds. Or is it our Montana 'banana belt' soil here along Flathead Lake that adds something special? These leaves from my former garden are tender and sweet, every one, more so than I remember from past years.

Another scenario in this 'what are they up to' business is that maybe plants I have cared for, neglected, observed, watered, failed to water, and appreciated, develop differently than factory farmed plants. We gardeners have always suspected so. Perhaps when the next generation gets seeded directly from the parental pod, genetic vigor increases. These plants are profoundly resilient and persistent by anyone's yardstick. Monday they had a quarter inch of frost on them and today they looked totally unharmed.

Other gardeners have obvserved the connection between plants and gardener. Collards in my garden have done things I had never seen plants do before. They planted and raised themselves. They beat back the weeds. They partied through long stretches of 90-100 degree weather without a soaker hose or sprinkler. They manufactured seed true to type over 2-3 generations. They withstood parasites with minimal damage, and under all this duress, transformed their leaves into something infinitely more edible than the norm.

Did it have anything to do with me cheering them on from the sidelines? As Dr. Masaru Emoto revealed in The Hidden Messages in Water, molecules are literally re-engineered by the emotional intention of the viewer. Gardeners, even absentee, are the ultimate observers and witnesses of this amazing process of sun, water, seed and intention.

What happens when we charge our food with these positive intentions and are in turn charged by eating plants so entrained? A powerful spiral of wellness with unlimited potential seems possible. It gives the term food chain a whole new meaning. It turns gardening into some kind of sacrament. Like me, you have probably already noticed there is something strange and wonderful going on out there in the garden, the forest, and the weed patch. Let's share some stories about plants and foraging. I look forward to your comments

Happy grazing and fun foraging!

photo credits: collards on basket www.potomacvegetablefarms.com

collards and nasturtiums http://www.veggiegardeningtips.com

Foraging for the Weird and Wonderful

2006-10-28T15:34:00.000-07:00

My very first experience with plant weirdness occurred when I was 7 1/2 years old. I was with my Mom in the backyard. She was working the flower bed. I noticed a dandelion, really noticed it or did it notice me? The yellow flower was SO YELLOW. The more I looked the bigger and yellower it got. Seemed like we were almost talking. Wow.

I ran for the shovel, dug up the roots and flopped this great muddy lump right side up into a bucket . That flower was coming with me, in my room, forever. As I headed for the basement door, glowing with anticipation, trailing dirt and grass for sure, my mother gave the universal stop sign. Imagine my surprise. I learned right then that dandelions were considered outlaws, and even a talking dandelion was not going in the house.

I never got over that glorious dandelion, even if she couldn't live with me. They seemed to blossom for me alone. First flower popping out of the snow, spawning multiple generations within one season. Now that is relentless, foolhardy overproduction. Not only that, after decades of poison sprays, beheadings, and uprootings they thrive, fairly flaunting their immortality to wannabe perfect lawn owners. Walk on them, drive over them, even mow them and they pop up eventually. When I spent summers mowing and tending flower gardens as Handy Ma'am, I cursed them bending under my mower blade. Later that same day, up they would pop on 3 inch uncut stalks. Now that was a neat trick.

With astronomical nutritional content in their leaves, roots and flowers. dandelions weigh in as a first rate survival ration. That might be why we can't kill them even with the most sophisticated weaponry developed by modern chemical manufacturing. Same goes for the other muscle bound botanical wonders like burdocks, collards, chicory, thistles, dock, coltsfoot, and countless others

98% of the time, if you find a rugged, fast growing, tough-to-kill, prolific plant specimen it will be packed with mega- nutritional and/or medicinal properties. Often these non-indigenous plants emigrated from Europe, Asia or South America. Hitch hikers looking for new territory to exploit.

My belief that big and burly equals helpful got a thorough testing in rural Canada. Invasive garden pests-chickweed, mallow, dandelion, chicory, burdock, pigweed were all delicious if you knew how to fix them. Large nutrition, too. So far the only examples of ferocious foliage that haven't lived up to this promise are Montana's dreaded knapweed and Californias curse, genesta. One day they may reveal redeeming properties as plant allies.

Alley picking my first season in town yielded lambs quarters, burdock stems, and chickweed with an occasional viola thrown in for color. I still missed the hardy delicacy we wild harvested every year in New Brunswick, in the hardwood forests near my home.

On Mother's Day, months before anything else, the quest for fiddlehead ferns sent families running for the woods. Folks guarded their fiddlehead spots like prize fishing holes. The locations were passed down within families to the succeeding generations, never to be revealed. If you tasted those curled discs with vinegar and butter, you would know why the secrecy. They were better than anything imaginable.

Future posts will explore ways of expanding the growing season, some ideas for projects with kids and a look at my low tech 'growinghut' for winter produce. It is more modest than a greenhouse and easily assembled and heated. Hopefully you will share your thoughts and links, help correct my errors and expand my horizons so that we can all be alley grazers together, getting happier and healthier in the process! And spending less for more, which is why I started foraging in the first place.

Alley Grazer

2006-10-28T09:42:00.000-07:00

After moving to town twelve years ago, I missed the wild abundance of country greens. For many years, I had slaved to plant, tend, harvest and process a garden. Simultaneously, Ma Nature was lavishing the countryside with super nutritious stuff that grew wild everywhere. The irony was not lost on me. 'Weeds' like lambs quarters and nettles put spinach and chard to shame with their show-off vitamin content.

In the alleys of my town, I rejoiced to see the countryside bonanza of delicious plant life. Wonderous edibles like chickweed, burdocks, lambs quarters and pigweed explode out of sidewalks, balloon around trash cans, surround car parts, and climb over tilting fences. Parks, playgrounds, roadsides and alleys are rife with edible wonders. This is a fact of towns and cities to which most of my friends and associates seem strangely indifferent.

My first foraging in Polson 12 years ago initiated me into bushels of Lamb's quarters. Veritable forests of tree like stalks sporting a profusion of arrow head leaves circled telephone poles close enough to my back door that I could start the pot boiling while I rounded them up.

Polson, Montana, a rural town halfway between Kalispell and Missoula, looks out over the largest freshwater lake west of the Mississipi. Winters are mild by mountain standards. In addition to the annual crop of Flathead Cherries, this area produces literally tons of fresh plums, apples, walnuts, chokecherries, hawberries, elderberries and edible greens. Cherries and apples are the only commercially harvested crop here.

The house I bought last April sits on the same, original alley where I began my career as an alley grazer. Just feet from my garage door, I can spot my harvesting grounds of 12 years ago. How ironic. Twelve moves in 12 years and I end up where I began. In addition to lambs quarters, I have discovered a veritable lawn of Stellaria (chickweed) next to my garage. The earliest and tastiest salad and pot herb you could wish for. If I juice them I could harvest a lifetime of chlorophyll. Wheat grass, step aside.

One of the reasons I wanted to blog is to alert my neighbors to the cornucopia that could be filling up their freezers too. When you adore foods that are unpopular, there is always an abundance. So I am taking a risk here letting the cat out of the bag. Maybe one day my precious alleys will be striped bare of vegetation. I think I'll take my chances since the company would be absolutely great. See you in the weed patch!