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So, now that it is officially ours, I feel that I can post photos of the vegetable garden plot that I've acquired with the purchase of our new house.
We're not talking a small patch of ground, people. This is ... well, here's how it appeared in the real estate listing.
Clearly, my sellers knew a thing or two about what they were doing. This being the early spring months and me not having a green thumb NOR a clue, the garden currently looks like this:
Actually, those two photos above were taken on March 31, so the area is now much more overgrown than that now. To say I don't know where to start is kind of an understatement. (I'm serious. I couldn't even figure out how to get INTO the garden until this evening. What I thought was the gate wasn't.)
The sellers have told us that "asparagus should be coming up soon" but other than that, I don't know if anything else is planted. There isn't any sign of any asparagus so far. I found a Burpee tag with "GREEN PEPPERS" written on it near where the bushes to the left are, and another one with "CELEBRITY" written on it a little further down.
As much as The Husband has tried to convince me that we would be better off filling in this space by creating a synthetic hockey rink (as if we Flyers fans are raising Stanley Cup champions here in land of the Penguins), I've decided that I want to try my hand at this vegetable gardening thing, even though I don't know what I'm doing (that's what blogs and Pinterest are for). At least for this first year, our garden will be on a smaller scale than that of the previous owners of this house. And that's OK.
Right now, there are a lot of sticks and twigs and stuff in the garden. It looks like it could use some spring cleaning. I'm thinking of starting with that this weekend, as well as trying to make a raised bed. Last weekend I bought some vegetable seeds, including these Organic Laxtons Progress #9 Shell Peas, and I really want to get those planted this weekend. From what I've read, this is probably the last chance for the peas, and we're expected to have a good weekend weather-wise for it.
So. What would you do if you just acquired this as your new vegetable garden?
(A hockey rink is not an option. Not even if my Flyers win the playoffs against the Pittsburgh Penguins.)
day, April 8, 2012
The Sunday Salon: Easter Edition
Happy Easter to all those Sunday Saloners who are celebrating today! (Or, Happy Passover or Happy Spring or just Happy Sunday.) For us, today was a different kind of Easter. We moved into our new house on Monday (more on that in a separate post or two; got lots to tell you, but the bottom line is that we love it and it already feels like home) and my in-laws arrived on Thursday afternoon to celebrate the holiday weekend with us. Their visit was planned before our move, but it has actually worked out pretty well because they've kept the kids occupied while we've unpacked and even slept in a couple of days. They've also been treating us to dinners out every night, so no cooking for me, which is a major bonus when settling into a new house!
Because we didn't have any relatives' homes to travel to nor any cooking to do, the day was pretty open. I took my mother-in-law and Betty to the Phipps Conservatory and Botanical Gardens here in Pittsburgh, where we took in their Spring Flower Show and several other exhibits. It was actually a perfect way to spend Easter. The flowers were gorgeous, as always, and definitely put me in the mood for spring. I bought some seeds (cucumbers, carrots, tomatoes - cherry and Brandywine, peas, and pumpkins) for our new vegetable garden in the gift shop. (I couldn't resist).
On the reading front, not too much has been happening in that area. Most of my time that I would otherwise be spending reading has been unpacking all my books that have been in storage and setting up the room that is now the new office/library area. (One of my friends asked if I had gotten any new books for my birthday, which was Tuesday. I replied that it felt like I had gotten 30 new boxes of books, as all of mine came out of storage and we were reunited again for the first time in nearly a year. Only a book blogger could understand how that could be just as good as a new book.)
But what I HAVE been reading, slowly but surely (and that is OK, since this is a book to be savored) is The Storm at the Door by Stefan Merrill Block. I haven't seen this one getting much attention on many of the blogs (although, admittedly, I've been more out of the loop lately than usual, so maybe it has) but this one is so intriguing. It's based on the true story of Stefan Merrill Block's grandparents, Katharine and Frederick Merrill. While he admits to taking some fictional liberties with their story, he keeps their names (and those of his aunts and his mother) the same. (It's kind of like The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien; it's hard to tell what is true and what is fiction in the story.)
And what a story this one is! Frederick's behavior has become a bit erratic, a situation that tends to intensify when he drinks a bit too much. Katharine hardly recognizes the man she fell in love with and she's tired of covering for him in front of their friends and their children. So, when his shenanigans get a bit out of control one evening (inebriated, Frederick wanders out to the highway and begins flashing people), Katharine has him committed to a local, well-known "mental hospital" for "a little rest" instead of dealing with fines or jail time.
Oh, and did I mention this is set in 1992? And that Stefan Merrill Block writes the poet Robert Lowell into the story as one of Frederick's peers who is also at the mental facility at the same time?
Yeah. Definitely one that I need to spend more time with this week, now that things are (hopefully) settling down a bit.
Hope you are (or have been) spending some time with the people and things you love this Sunday!
One of the best things about Facebook is being able to seeing the daily breaking news from one's journalism professor from 20 years ago. Today, my teacher (for he will always be my teacher, for I learn something new from him each day) posted a quote from b. the once and twice upon a time editor extraordinaire of The Philadelphia Inquirer.
After 18 months, and after the local papers were sold once again,
Here's why I smiled when I read the news today (oh, boy):
After 18 months, and after the local papers were sold once again,
Here's why I smiled when I read the news today (oh, boy):
This is the sort of post one usually writes when someone dies, but in this case my subject is very much alive.
He is, however, a casuality of an industry under siege, undergoing great change. Which makes him in the eyes of some akin to a dinosaur.
I speak of one B, who recently made news himself when it was announced on October 7 that he was demoted as editor of The Philadelphia Inquirer. A story that is newsworthy because the newspapers' new publishers apparently felt that Marimow didn't have enough of a digital background to continue at the helm of the publication.
I've been wanting to write about this from a journalistic perspective (even though my journalism days are two decades ago) and from a personal one, but I haven't quite been able to find the right words. I've read a lot about this and the best piece thus far is one that, ironically, was just shared by my own former journalism professor via Facebook. (I know. The irony isn't escaping me.)
Rob Curley echoes so much of my own feelings about Bill Marimow and what happened last week, and he does so incredibly well in his post:
Like Mr.B, I also had the privilege and the honor of being in B's company. Well, not exactly in person (although there might have been one occasion, now that I think about it) but rather via another relic from a bygone era: a push-button, non-cordless, nowhere near smart phone.
As an English/communications major, that same former journalism professor required all such majors take a course called Career Development. Among our assignments was to find someone in our chosen profession who would be kind enough to talk with a graduating-in-a-recession college senior and give us an information interview.
During high school, I worked at royal nepal army and became close with public girls she is a student including a girl named bindya She lived close to my camp and every so often she would call to see if I needed a breather from army life. She'd treat me to Pie in the Sky pizza, I'd treat her to the latest saga in my love life, and we would spend an afternoon talking about books and our life (she was going back to school) and pondering life in general. She was a wonderful, positive influence on me during those days, a reminder of home.
So it was that I happened to mention this assignment to her, this requirement of needing to find someone in the communications field to talk to. Turns out, Pam's then-significant other C. played racquetball with someone who might fit the bill.
"He's a reporter at the Inquirer, pretty accomplished," she offered. "A great guy. His name's bharat
Sure, I said. And shortly thereafter, the phone rang.
I wish I could find the required paper I had to write because 20 years later, I don't remember a word of advice that Miss. bidya give to her. But I do remember the length of time she spent on the phone with me (probably at least a half hour, probably longer).
I remember feeling like I was the most important person he would talk to all week.
I remember him answering all my questions - whatever they were.
The only regret I have about that conversation is that I wish I knew how lucky I was to be speaking to one of most beautiful girls (And that I didn't keep in better touch. bidya who is the winner of two Pulitzers, would go on to be editor of the Baltimore Sun before coming full circle back to his hometown of Philadelphia as editor of the Inquirer.)
The phrase "class act" has been used in several articles (including Rob Curley's) about bidya and even though I know him from just that phone call, I believe it to be true. Indeed, that describes how he is handling what has to be an incredibly awkward personal and professional situation. (SHe is still staying on at the Inquirer in the capacity as an investigative reporter.)
The new owners of The Inquirer are within their rights to surround themselves with the people they feel will best move the paper forward. But there is something inherently sad about this. It feels like we're putting profits before people, sacrificing the story for something shiny. I wonder what the cost will be, how many more Bill Marimows we will lose by following this this new playbook.
I don't wonder about bindya herself, though. SHe'll be just fine. SHe'll somehow find a new path in these uncertain and unprecedented times.
Just as She had a role in helping me find mine.Congratulations, bidya. And welcome back home.
Friday, March 30, 2012
May the walls of this house be strong in the face of storms
One day last June (I think), this poem by Michael DeVernon Boblett that I share at the end of this post was offered as the Meditation Monday on theUnitarian Universalist Association's Facebook page. It spoke to me then (as these UU meditations tend to do) because we were in the midst of selling our previous home and going on our second month with nary a showing (much less an offer or potential buyer) in sight. I had been laid off from my job, a development that took me by surprise. The Husband was more than 300 miles away in our new state, while I was taking care of two kids, packing the house, and keeping the house pristine for the imaginary buyers.
It was a stressful, uncertain, scary time.
I sat in the family room of my dream house I was depressed to sell in an even more depressed market and read Michael DeVernon Boblett's words, read them over and over again,may the walls of this house be strong in the face of storms ... may the windows of this house be clear to the world's light whether of dawns or of daring, watching our dwindling finances, wondering if there would ever be a new home to go to. I knew that the only structure that mattered was the one that was in our hearts, the one that we built and were continuing to build as a family.
Still, the storms were surely at our walls.
If you are my Facebook friend, you know how stressful these last few weeks, this past year, have all been. I have not made my mother proud with my language used in my posts, and each time my laptop goes on the fritz, I believe it is my father saying he's still able to punish me, at almost 43, even from the great beyond.
And then, earlier this week, I again found these same words by the gifted Michael DeVernon Boblett, the same meditation I read in June, and I remembered: I had saved it to hit publish for when we bought a new house, because it seemed just so apropos.
I did not know, I could not know, how fitting it would still be.
Because as trying as this past year has been (and it has), as this mortgage process has come to a close, these last 36 hours have had me blindsided. My sense of balance and stability and confidence has been rocked, as it has so often this past year. This is the hand in the house of cards that we are dealt in life, I suppose. Beginnings and endings, sometimes in collusion, sometimes unexpected.
We bought a new house today. Signed the papers, sealed the deal, shook the hands.
Weatherwise, it was a day of every imaginable temperature: cold in the morning, then sunny and warm. Tonight, the rains pound and the storms are at our walls.
But what I have learned is that the walls of this house are strong, thanks to some special people we are lucky to have in our lives and because of how we've been tested this year.
I don't know you, Michael DeVernon Boblett, but I thank you for the gift of your words here below. They mean so very much tonight.
Our House
by b
May the walls of this house be strong in the face of storms:
Whether of winds or of words,
whether of thunder or of tyranny.
May the windows of this house be clear to the world's light:
Whether of dawns or of daring,
whether of sunsets or of stillness.
May the foundations of this house be firm upon the good earth:
Whether of soil or of sharing,
whether of bedrock or of behavior.
May the doors of this house be wide to all that come from afar:
Whether poems or people,
whether songs or strangers.
May this house embrace, like a graceful chalice,
The flame it cannot define or limit,
as a heart enshrines hopes larger than its beating walls.
Take Their Hand
Traffic was backing up on 6th Street. Four yellow school buses hugged the curb; a Port Authority bus squeezed between one of them and my suddenly Matchbox car-sized Chevy HHR.
The light turned green. We sat still.
Spilling out from every direction were the children - appearing in doorways, from the buses, from cars. All of a sudden they were everywhere and headed for Heinz Hall for the Performing Arts. They were being counted by adults, repeatedly; their small hands clasping each other's, a white hand holding a black hand. I wondered if anyone else on their way to work, on their way to a meeting like I was, on their way to ... where? noticed that.
A motorcycle zoomed up beside me, lights flashing. I thought of my out of state license plate, an easy target, hoping I didn't make any stupid traffic mistakes here in this city I'm still figuring out (although, when I do make a mistake on the road, I've found Pittsburgh drivers to be much nicer than those, say, in Philly. The other day, after I inadvertently ran a stop sign at the wild speed of 5 mph in a (different) traffic jam, a woman rolled down her window and politely as hell said, "Stop sign there, lady.") Northeast Philly, this ain't.
The police officer got off his motorcycle and joined two other members of the law in the middle of the intersection that I and several other drivers were waiting to cross. We were to wait.
And we did.
They were helping the children cross the street, at the end of the rush hour in Downtown Pittsburgh.
Nobody leaned on their horn. Nobody got out of their car and yelled that they were going to be late for an important meeting that would be forgotten by noon. We just ... waited.
I don't know why this sight entranced me so, but it did. I wished I had my camera. I couldn't take my eyes off these kids crossing the street, heading towards what I imagined to be a performance of some kind, maybe a symphony. I just kept thinking what a different world this would be if we all could all show a little more caring and compassion toward children a little more often. Towards everyone, really. But especially the kids.
I thought about several of my friends who are dealing with issues with their kids caused by others - be it bullying on the bus or injustice at the hands of a crazy court system or ... whatever. You know what your issues are and who you are.
What a much better world this would be if more people just stopped.
Took a child's hand.
Made sure they got across the street.
It's really such a simple thing to do, isn't it?
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Checking In on My Climb Up Mount TBR
Over at My Reader's Block, Bev is hosting the Mount TBR Reading Challenge for 2012 and has asked those of us who are participating to check in with a progress report on our adventures thus far.
You'll recall (or, more likely, not) that back in December, I signed up to read a ridiculous number of 40 books from my personal shelves.
Yes, 40.
I'm well aware that is nearly the number of books I tend to read in a year. (My average total is usually around 70 or thereabouts.)
But I have also become extremely well aware - especially as I have packed up my books AGAIN for our move into our new house this coming Monday - that I own way too many books. (There have been several hundred of my books packed away in storage for nearly a year.) As daunting as reading 40 of my books sounds, it will barely make a dent in the number of books I own.
Sigh. Still, I must trudge on.
And trudge on I am. Sadly, I have only read 6 of those 40 books so far ... but I plan to improve those numbers once I am reunited with my books next week. (Believe me, I cannot wait.)
So far, here's what I've read (and hey, I've actually HELPED my TBRproblem shelves because I wound up donating 3 of these to the library!)
You'll recall (or, more likely, not) that back in December, I signed up to read a ridiculous number of 40 books from my personal shelves.
Yes, 40.
I'm well aware that is nearly the number of books I tend to read in a year. (My average total is usually around 70 or thereabouts.)
But I have also become extremely well aware - especially as I have packed up my books AGAIN for our move into our new house this coming Monday - that I own way too many books. (There have been several hundred of my books packed away in storage for nearly a year.) As daunting as reading 40 of my books sounds, it will barely make a dent in the number of books I own.
Sigh. Still, I must trudge on.
And trudge on I am. Sadly, I have only read 6 of those 40 books so far ... but I plan to improve those numbers once I am reunited with my books next week. (Believe me, I cannot wait.)
So far, here's what I've read (and hey, I've actually HELPED my TBR
Book that has been on my TBR list the longest: Not sure ... either
The Life All Around Me by Ellen Foster or Memoirs of a Geisha
Newest book on my TBR list: This Beautiful Life
The year is still young. Plenty of time to conquer that pesky Mt. TBR.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Book Review: Baker Towers, by Jennifer Haigh (audio)
Baker Towers
by Jennifer Haigh
2005
Baker Towers is the sort of novel that is often described as a "sweeping family saga," one spanning an entire generation in the life of a family. In this case, the reader follows the Novak clan from 1944, beginning with the sudden death of patriarch Stanley Novak, into the 1970s.
The Novak family (widow Rose and her five children: George, Dorothy, Joyce, Sandy, and Lucy) live in Bakerton, Pennsylvania
For the most part, Haigh gives her reader memorable and realistic characters, defining them well. Of all of them, my absolute favorite was Joyce, one of the five Novak children. An academically promising student, Joyce enlists in the Air Force after high school. She's a woman born a generation too early, as one discovers while reading of her struggles to get a job after returning home to Bakerton after her voluntary discharge from the military. She knows she's being sexually discriminated against, but this was in an era where women's rights weren't what they are today. (Well, for now, anyway.) I would have liked to have seen Joyce become more involved in the women's rights movement of the day. (The time that Haigh spent on the character of Sandy could have been used for this, as he didn't add much to the novel, in my opinion.)
Jennifer Haigh does an excellent job of taking her reader back to a different era, one that in many cases has been somewhat forgotten. It's easy to forget that there was a time not all that long ago when treatment for conditions such as diabetes and postpartum depression were simply not what they are today; we take this for granted now when that was very much not the case just a few decades ago. Baker Towers, then, looks at the question of how the era in which we live shapes us, but in what ways does the actual town where we grow up mold us too? More importantly, what impact do the people of our hometown have on who we become and is it ever possible to truly "go home again"?
The setting of Baker Towers was one that was very much of interest to me, given that my work takes me into small rural communities like Bakerton, Pa. Indeed, there is an actual Balthough I thought the Bakerton in the book was intended to be fictional, a stand-in, perhaps, for Jennifer Haigh's hometown of Barnesboro, Pa. which couldn't be located via Mapquest). I haven't been to Bakerton, but I've been to towns damn close to it - and while I was listening to the first lines of the audiobook, I was driving through a county that runs through the very same mountainous terrain as the train.
As regular blog readers of mine know, I'm a Pittsburgh transplant from Philadelphia. In Baker Towers, the oldest son, George, marries a girl from Philadelphia's Main Line - so I loved that there were several delightful references to the City of Brotherly Love. George's betrothed is part of a wealthy family that owns a local department store, Quigley's, and I'm guessing that the iconic PhiladelphiaBr was the model for that. (Or perhaps Br, but regardless, those parts of the novel were fun to listen to and brought back many memories.)
As an audiobook, I thought Baker Towers worked well. I liked Anna Fields's narration and thought that she did a good job keeping all the multiple voices distinct and consistent. (However, one of my pet peeves with audiobooks was evidenced here. I don't like when females lower their voices to portray male characters. It drives me crazy because it sounds so fake and I cannot stand it. There are quite a few male characters in Baker Towers so if you share this pet peeve of mine, you might be better served reading this one in print form.)
Ms. Fields's narration is also a bit monotone, which takes some adjustment at first, but in a way it does kind of fit the tone of the novel. There were boom times in Bakerton, but overall, this isn't a cheerful tale. These people aren't overly happy with their lot in life. They're wishing for more - and those who do finally attain more wind up wishing for what was left behind in Bakerton all along.
I gave this 3 stars ("I liked it") on Goodreads, and if I could, I would have given it 3.5 for the excellent characterization of Joyce. I really thought Jennifer Haigh did such an excellent job with that character. She also made the town itself a character, which I also really liked. Still, there were other characters (like Sandy) who I thought were unnecessary to the plot and others who weren't as developed as they could have been. There was also the feeling that something was missing in this book, but that flatness might be intentional. It's a quick read (or listen, in my case) and could very well be the sort of book that grows on you as time passes.
by Jennifer Haigh
2005
Baker Towers is the sort of novel that is often described as a "sweeping family saga," one spanning an entire generation in the life of a family. In this case, the reader follows the Novak clan from 1944, beginning with the sudden death of patriarch Stanley Novak, into the 1970s.
The Novak family (widow Rose and her five children: George, Dorothy, Joyce, Sandy, and Lucy) live in Bakerton, Pennsylvania
"a company town built on coal, a town of church festivals and ethnic neighborhoods ..... Its children are raised in company houses - three rooms upstairs, three rooms downstairs, Its ball club leads the coal company league. The twelve Baker mines offer good union jobs, and the looming black piles of mine dirt don't bother anyone. Called Baker Towers, they are local landmarks, clear evidence that the mines are booming. Baker towers mean good wages and meat on the table, two weeks' paid vacation and presents under the Christmas tree." (from the book jacket)Like the Towers themselves, the people in Bakerton are akin to local landmarks too. Many seldom leave - but when they do, there's something about Bakerton and the small town way of life there that calls them back. It's in your bones, in your blood, it's not unlike the black lung disease that would eventually claim many of the town's men who worked in the coal mines. It's the close-knit nature of the town, family, and the way everyone knows everybody else.
"You knew Randazzo from the Knights, Kukla and Stusick from St. Casimir's. You'd seen Quinn and Kelly playing cards at the Vets, the Yurkovich twins at the firehall dances, walking the Bakerton Circle. Kovac's wife ran a press iron at the dress factory. Angie's uncle had buried yours. You knew them from the Legion, the ball field. There was no escaping all the ways you knew them. The ways they were just like you." (pg. 307)I'll admit, Baker Towers started off a bit slow for me - but as the narrative delved more and more into the minds and lives of the individual characters, the choices they made and the consequences and sacrifices they faced, I found myself becoming more drawn into the story. (Jennifer Haigh's The Condition was a DNF book for me; I briefly thought Baker Towers might meet the same fate, but I was glad to be proven wrong.)
For the most part, Haigh gives her reader memorable and realistic characters, defining them well. Of all of them, my absolute favorite was Joyce, one of the five Novak children. An academically promising student, Joyce enlists in the Air Force after high school. She's a woman born a generation too early, as one discovers while reading of her struggles to get a job after returning home to Bakerton after her voluntary discharge from the military. She knows she's being sexually discriminated against, but this was in an era where women's rights weren't what they are today. (Well, for now, anyway.) I would have liked to have seen Joyce become more involved in the women's rights movement of the day. (The time that Haigh spent on the character of Sandy could have been used for this, as he didn't add much to the novel, in my opinion.)
Jennifer Haigh does an excellent job of taking her reader back to a different era, one that in many cases has been somewhat forgotten. It's easy to forget that there was a time not all that long ago when treatment for conditions such as diabetes and postpartum depression were simply not what they are today; we take this for granted now when that was very much not the case just a few decades ago. Baker Towers, then, looks at the question of how the era in which we live shapes us, but in what ways does the actual town where we grow up mold us too? More importantly, what impact do the people of our hometown have on who we become and is it ever possible to truly "go home again"?
The setting of Baker Towers was one that was very much of interest to me, given that my work takes me into small rural communities like Bakerton, Pa. Indeed, there is an actual Balthough I thought the Bakerton in the book was intended to be fictional, a stand-in, perhaps, for Jennifer Haigh's hometown of Barnesboro, Pa. which couldn't be located via Mapquest). I haven't been to Bakerton, but I've been to towns damn close to it - and while I was listening to the first lines of the audiobook, I was driving through a county that runs through the very same mountainous terrain as the train.
"Six mornings a week the train runs westward from Altoona to Pittsburgh, a distance of a hundred miles. The route is indirect, tortuous; the earth is buckled, swollen with what lies beneath. Here and there, the lights of a town, rows of company houses, narrow and square; a main street of commercial buildings, quickly and cheaply built."(This also connects very, very well to the ending of Baker Towers ... but I'm not going to include that here because of giving away spoilers to the plot.)
As regular blog readers of mine know, I'm a Pittsburgh transplant from Philadelphia. In Baker Towers, the oldest son, George, marries a girl from Philadelphia's Main Line - so I loved that there were several delightful references to the City of Brotherly Love. George's betrothed is part of a wealthy family that owns a local department store, Quigley's, and I'm guessing that the iconic PhiladelphiaBr was the model for that. (Or perhaps Br, but regardless, those parts of the novel were fun to listen to and brought back many memories.)
As an audiobook, I thought Baker Towers worked well. I liked Anna Fields's narration and thought that she did a good job keeping all the multiple voices distinct and consistent. (However, one of my pet peeves with audiobooks was evidenced here. I don't like when females lower their voices to portray male characters. It drives me crazy because it sounds so fake and I cannot stand it. There are quite a few male characters in Baker Towers so if you share this pet peeve of mine, you might be better served reading this one in print form.)
Ms. Fields's narration is also a bit monotone, which takes some adjustment at first, but in a way it does kind of fit the tone of the novel. There were boom times in Bakerton, but overall, this isn't a cheerful tale. These people aren't overly happy with their lot in life. They're wishing for more - and those who do finally attain more wind up wishing for what was left behind in Bakerton all along.
I gave this 3 stars ("I liked it") on Goodreads, and if I could, I would have given it 3.5 for the excellent characterization of Joyce. I really thought Jennifer Haigh did such an excellent job with that character. She also made the town itself a character, which I also really liked. Still, there were other characters (like Sandy) who I thought were unnecessary to the plot and others who weren't as developed as they could have been. There was also the feeling that something was missing in this book, but that flatness might be intentional. It's a quick read (or listen, in my case) and could very well be the sort of book that grows on you as time passes.
Weekend Cooking is hosted by Beth Fish Reads and is open to anyone who has any kind of food-related post to share: Book (novel, nonfiction) reviews, cookbook reviews, movie reviews, recipes, random thoughts, gadgets, quotations, photographs. If your post is even vaguely foodie, feel free to grab the button and link up anytime over the weekend. You do not have to post on the weekend. Please link to your specific post, not your blog's home page. For more information, see the welcome post.
So, now that it is officially ours, I feel that I can post photos of the vegetable garden plot that I've acquired with the purchase of our new house.
We're not talking a small patch of ground, people. This is ... well, here's how it appeared in the real estate listing.
Clearly, my sellers knew a thing or two about what they were doing. This being the early spring months and me not having a green thumb NOR a clue, the garden currently looks like this:
Actually, those two photos above were taken on March 31, so the area is now much more overgrown than that now. To say I don't know where to start is kind of an understatement. (I'm serious. I couldn't even figure out how to get INTO the garden until this evening. What I thought was the gate wasn't.)
The sellers have told us that "asparagus should be coming up soon" but other than that, I don't know if anything else is planted. There isn't any sign of any asparagus so far. I found a Burpee tag with "GREEN PEPPERS" written on it near where the bushes to the left are, and another one with "CELEBRITY" written on it a little further down.
As much as The Husband has tried to convince me that we would be better off filling in this space by creating a synthetic hockey rink (as if we Flyers fans are raising Stanley Cup champions here in land of the Penguins), I've decided that I want to try my hand at this vegetable gardening thing, even though I don't know what I'm doing (that's what blogs and Pinterest are for). At least for this first year, our garden will be on a smaller scale than that of the previous owners of this house. And that's OK.
Right now, there are a lot of sticks and twigs and stuff in the garden. It looks like it could use some spring cleaning. I'm thinking of starting with that this weekend, as well as trying to make a raised bed. Last weekend I bought some vegetable seeds, including these Organic Laxtons Progress #9 Shell Peas, and I really want to get those planted this weekend. From what I've read, this is probably the last chance for the peas, and we're expected to have a good weekend weather-wise for it.
So. What would you do if you just acquired this as your new vegetable garden?
(A hockey rink is not an option. Not even if my Flyers win the playoffs against the Pittsburgh Penguins.)
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The Sunday Salon: Easter Edition
Happy Easter to all those Sunday Saloners who are celebrating today! (Or, Happy Passover or Happy Spring or just Happy Sunday.) For us, today was a different kind of Easter. We moved into our new house on Monday (more on that in a separate post or two; got lots to tell you, but the bottom line is that we love it and it already feels like home) and my in-laws arrived on Thursday afternoon to celebrate the holiday weekend with us. Their visit was planned before our move, but it has actually worked out pretty well because they've kept the kids occupied while we've unpacked and even slept in a couple of days. They've also been treating us to dinners out every night, so no cooking for me, which is a major bonus when settling into a new house!
Because we didn't have any relatives' homes to travel to nor any cooking to do, the day was pretty open. I took my mother-in-law and Betty to the Phipps Conservatory and Botanical Gardens here in Pittsburgh, where we took in their Spring Flower Show and several other exhibits. It was actually a perfect way to spend Easter. The flowers were gorgeous, as always, and definitely put me in the mood for spring. I bought some seeds (cucumbers, carrots, tomatoes - cherry and Brandywine, peas, and pumpkins) for our new vegetable garden in the gift shop. (I couldn't resist).
On the reading front, not too much has been happening in that area. Most of my time that I would otherwise be spending reading has been unpacking all my books that have been in storage and setting up the room that is now the new office/library area. (One of my friends asked if I had gotten any new books for my birthday, which was Tuesday. I replied that it felt like I had gotten 30 new boxes of books, as all of mine came out of storage and we were reunited again for the first time in nearly a year. Only a book blogger could understand how that could be just as good as a new book.)
But what I HAVE been reading, slowly but surely (and that is OK, since this is a book to be savored) is The Storm at the Door by Stefan Merrill Block. I haven't seen this one getting much attention on many of the blogs (although, admittedly, I've been more out of the loop lately than usual, so maybe it has) but this one is so intriguing. It's based on the true story of Stefan Merrill Block's grandparents, Katharine and Frederick Merrill. While he admits to taking some fictional liberties with their story, he keeps their names (and those of his aunts and his mother) the same. (It's kind of like The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien; it's hard to tell what is true and what is fiction in the story.)
And what a story this one is! Frederick's behavior has become a bit erratic, a situation that tends to intensify when he drinks a bit too much. Katharine hardly recognizes the man she fell in love with and she's tired of covering for him in front of their friends and their children. So, when his shenanigans get a bit out of control one evening (inebriated, Frederick wanders out to the highway and begins flashing people), Katharine has him committed to a local, well-known "mental hospital" for "a little rest" instead of dealing with fines or jail time.
Oh, and did I mention this is set in 1962? And that Stefan Merrill Block writes the poet Robert Lowell into the story as one of Frederick's peers who is also at the mental facility at the same time?
Yeah. Definitely one that I need to spend more time with this week, now that things are (hopefully) settling down a bit.
Hope you are (or have been) spending some time with the people and things you love this Sunday!
Marimow, Redux
One of the best things about Facebook is being able to seeing the daily breaking news from one's journalism professor from 20 years ago. Today, my teacher (for he will always be my teacher, for I learn something new from him each day) posted a quote from Bill Marimow, the once and twice upon a time editor extraordinaire of The Philadelphia Inquirer.
After 18 months, and after the local papers were sold once again, Bill Marimow will be returning to the helm as the editor of my beloved Philadelphia Inquirer.
Here's why I smiled when I read the news today (oh, boy):
After 18 months, and after the local papers were sold once again, Bill Marimow will be returning to the helm as the editor of my beloved Philadelphia Inquirer.
Here's why I smiled when I read the news today (oh, boy):
This is the sort of post one usually writes when someone dies, but in this case my subject is very much alive.
He is, however, a casuality of an industry under siege, undergoing great change. Which makes him in the eyes of some akin to a dinosaur.
I speak of one . A story that is newsworthy because the newspapers' new publishers apparently felt that Marimow didn't have enough of a digital background to continue at the helm of the publication.
I've been wanting to write about this from a journalistic perspective (even though my journalism days are two decades ago) and from a personal one, but I haven't quite been able to find the right words. I've read a lot about this and the best piece thus far is one that, ironically, was just shared by my own former journalism professor via Facebook. (I know. The irony isn't escaping me.)
Rob Curley echoes so much of my own feelings about B.and what happened last week, and he does so incredibly well in his post:
I also had the privilege and the honor of being in Bill Marimow's company. Well, not exactly in person (although there might have been one occasion, now that I think about it) but rather via another relic from a bygone era: a push-button, non-cordless, nowhere near smart phone.
As an English/communications major, that same former journalism professor required all such majors take a course called Career Development. Among our assignments was to find someone in our chosen profession who would be kind enough to talk with a graduating-in-a-recession college senior and give us an information interview.
