Mom's Air Conditioning

With the afternoon heat of the last few days and the higher and higher electric bills, I find myself using 1950’s techniques to cool my house.

Growing up we didn’t have air-conditioning except at the local movie theaters. Remember the banners they used to hang every summer to entice moviegoers in with the promise of coolness? They didn’t even mention what the show was – just that they were “air-conditioned”, written in ice-blue with edging suggesting a dripping ice block.

At home all the windows and doors were wide-open overnight. If you lived in a “troubled” area you kept the first floor windows shut at night and opened them about 5 a.m. As the sun rose, my mother would close the shades on the east side of the house and then the windows. By about 11 a.m. the house would be closed up, keeping in the cool night air. Sometimes the cellar door in the kitchen would be open, letting the mysteriously cool underground air float up.

We would occasionally have lunch in the shade of a big tree in the back yard and for a treat blow up the kiddie pool for an early afternoon splash. Moms would sometimes open aluminum chairs around the edge of the pool and dangle their feet in the cool water while they watched the kids and visited with each other.

Babies lay on a blanket in the shade with their damp hair stuck to their foreheads.

By 2 p.m. it was naptime with a fan in the hall to stir around the by-then warmish air. My mother would do quiet cool work – no baking or ironing. By four, with the temperature having maxed out, it was time to start stirring again.

Dinner would be cooking on top of the stove – no roasts this time of the year. As a treat we might cook hamburgers outside or actually be decadent and have cold-cuts with sliced tomatoes from the garden and homemade potato salad out of the fridge.

By nine p.m. it was time to start the cooling cycle again, opening the windows for the night. A large box fan sat on a desk in my room all night – the room at the far end of the second floor - exhausting the day’s heat out the window and pulling in the cooler night air from downstairs.

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"It was luxuries like air conditioning that brought down the Roman Empire. With air conditioning their windows were shut, they couldn’t hear the barbarians coming."
- Garrison Keillor, Lake Wobegon Days

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When an acquaintance lost their air-conditioning for almost two weeks this July, I went in on hot days to check on their pets. I pulled down the unused rolled-up shades on the sunny-side of the house to block the sun’s heat and turned off window fans pulling the early afternoon humidity into the house.

They seemed surprised.

I guess no one teaches simple home-based climate control anymore. It’s just easier to switch on the air conditioner, use up the environment, and be shocked when the electric bill arrives.

Suit-ability

Men and women shop for their bathing suits in completely different ways.

When a woman needs a new bathing suit she corrals a trusted friend - who probably also needs a suit - and begins making the rounds to the local clothing stores. Each suit is vetted by color and size, each shopper picks out several they like in a few different sizes, and only then do they begin the serious work.

As the prospective purchaser tries on each candidate, she makes all the moves that she might make in a pool to make sure the suit doesn’t ride up, cut into her shoulders, cause rolls of fat to appear, or display any part or her body that she does not wish to display. It is the job of her confidant to point out any problems that she may have missed in the three-way mirror and to be honest about how flattering the suit is.

Finally one or two suits are chosen and purchased.

It doesn’t take long at the local pool to determine that a significant number of men buy their bathing suits by going into a sports equipment store – alone - and finding the pool supplies and bathing trunks section. There they locate a pile of Speedos and buy the size they wore in high school several decades earlier. They do not look in any mirror. The first time they put it on is when they go to the pool.

One can only assume the men wearing comfortable bathing trunks that flatter them are married and their wives go with them when they shop. Or the ladies just buy the trunks and present them to their husbands as a fait accompli . Or they have very understanding - or bossy - sisters.

Whatever. Thanks, ladies.

Good-bye, Little Guy

Our 12-year-old Yorkie is gone.

About two weeks ago Little Guy began throwing up in the middle of the night. After a few sleepless nights, when it became obvious that it was more than something he ate, we took him to the veterinarian.

The vet checked him over, he reminded us that Little Guy was getting older and had had other medical problems. Finally the vet suggested that they do some blood tests just to check for anything that wasn’t obvious and the vet’s office would call us by the next afternoon with the results.

At 7:25 the next morning as I was working at my desk with Little Guy resting on the floor nearby, the telephone rang. It was the vet with the test results. Anytime a doctor calls you with test results that quickly, it isn’t good news.

Little Guy’s results showed that he was suffering from advanced kidney failure. The doctor wouldn’t be specific about how much time he had left and suggested actions that would make him more comfortable – special food, vitamins, making sure he drank water and went out to pee. There was no talk of treatment.

Little Guy liked the food and a few days later, when I took him outside, he rolled on his back on the sun-warmed lawn and wiggled around – all four paws in the air – in pure joy. It was just enough to convince me that he was improving, just enough to make me hopeful. I had gone online and researched canine kidney failure, I knew the odds, but at that moment I was perfectly willing to believe that he would be the one-in-a-thousand that lasted for years, the one that beat the odds.

Within days his appetite faded and he resumed getting sick in the middle of the night. Old towels covered every spot where he liked to rest to make cleanups easier.

When I finally accepted that he wasn’t going to get better, I hoped that he would lie down for a nap and just quietly and comfortably die in his sleep. But not too soon. Later. When I was ready.

But, as anyone who has ever loved knows, love comes with responsibilities you would rather not have, times that aren’t fun, decisions that break your heart.

And so, finally, we had to make the ultimate decision, ready or not. We still miss him.
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The Rainbow Bridge

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable. All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together…

– Author Unknown

Survivor: The Tomato Tale Continues

When we last saw the half-flat of tomato plants, they were settling into their new homes scattered throughout the yard – except for a few that had migrated to my mother-in-law’s yard.

Within 48-hours of their starting to put down roots they were visited by the neighborhood welcome wagon – doe-a-deer and her twin fawns and numerous rabbits large and small.

The plants in the fenced garden and the patio plants remained untouched, but the four next to the pots were each left with a stalk sticking up and one pair of leaves. The three on the far side of the house had their tops cleanly clipped off.

Some welcome!

It appears that all the plants have survived their premature pruning.

Meanwhile I have noticed that friends’ plants are setting fruit already. In a state whose gardeners pride themselves on having the first red, ripe, edible, garden-grown Jersey tomato preferably by July 4th…well, this is not a good thing.

Trying to remain an incurable optimist, I will continue to read the all-tomato cookbook and will remain uncharacteristically silent when other gardeners brag about their tomatoes.

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"...But deer sometimes do get a penchant for eating tomato plants, especially the new growth, and can cause extensive damage..." - Lawrence Davis-Hollander, "The Tomato Festival Cookbook", P. 48.

The Half-Flat of Tomatoes

Last week I stopped at Shop Rite and there in the middle of the Horticulture section [that’s the plants on the sidewalk in front of the store] was a bunch of tomato plants with a sign: “1/2 flat $5.99 with Price Plus card”.

Well, this year - with the price of food and the nationwide tomato-salmonella scare - buying the half-flat seemed reasonable. Just a few extra plants to supplement the vegetable garden.

Now, for the uninitiated, a half-flat is 24 plants - which didn’t seem like a lot…at the time.

Early the next morning seven of them went directly into the vegetable patch. That was simple and it was only about 9 a.m. As the flat contained assorted varieties, there were three patio tomatoes that went into three large containers near the patio and swing. Ten down, fourteen to go. Easy. Four more go into the ground next to the containers.

Darn, there are still ten left and the temperature is going up.

The basically unused far side of the house is always sunny; so three more tomato plants join the pachysandra groundcover and the Rose of Sharon plants along the chimney. I will have to carry buckets of water over there for the rest of the hot summer, but that’s no problem, right? Right? [Okay, this is where you are supposed to say “Right!” Geez, do I have to tell you everything?]

There are now seven left. Oh, wait! Six! Happily one of the little cells is missing a live plant! [It’s not often that I am happy to see that I didn’t get what I paid for.]

My significant other is now thoroughly sick-and-tired of tomato plants and steals away with four of them as a gift for my mother-in-law. Somehow two of them are unaccounted for, but I’m not looking too hard.

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Google "too many tomatoes" and you get about 14,300 hits. This can't be good.

Planning ahead, I went to the Hillsborough Library and took out a book containing only tomato recipes.

A Patriot is...?

For far too long this presidential political year the question of what makes an American – and a candidate - a “true” patriot has been bandied about from the national press to local forums.

As I listened to the arguments that patriotism was based on the displaying of American flag lapel pins and flags hanging off houses, I knew that something was wrong with this line of reasoning.

I began to vaguely remember a Sunday-school story about a poor widow sneaking into the temple to make an offering of a few pennies that she could ill-afford to donate and then quietly leaving. At the same time a rich man marched into the temple, probably accompanied by his retinue and the clanging of cymbals, to make a large donation and to make sure that everyone within earshot knew he was making the donation.

The whole moral of the story had to do with who was more blessed – the poor woman who quietly gave what she could or the rich man who gave lots of money and expected lots of recognition in return. [You’re all grownups. We shouldn't need to go further with this particular story. If we do, you can stop reading now. You are excused. Go away.]

Now, transposing this parable to patriotism let’s see where we go. There is the citizen who keeps track of what goes on in their town, their county, and their country and they vote - intelligently. They quietly volunteer where they are needed and can contribute. They obey the laws and regulations and they speak up when they believe the rules need some tweaking. When they serve on committees, they serve not as political appointees getting rewarded for their support of a certain party, but as citizens not expecting pay or recognition.

Then there is the other patriot, the one who lets you know that he is a patriot with the clanging of cymbals and the displaying of flags. He proclaims himself a patriot – over and over and over – and declares he is the only person who knows the true path of patriotism. And when he does something he considers patriotic he is sure that everyone knows about it.

Which one is the patriot?

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Patriot: The person who can holler the loudest without knowing what he is hollering about. - Mark Twain (1835-1910)

Somerville Cruisin...

With the rising cost of gas I was afraid that Somerville's Friday night cruises would peter out - after all those old cars weren't the most fuel efficient vehicles around and who could justify just riding up and down Main Street as though it were the late 50s or early 60s?


But, as you can see, it's as big as ever with cars for older cruisers...

and motorcycle enthusiasts...

and people who want to enjoy dining al fresco...

And don't forget that each Friday cruise is accompanied by an outdoor concert like this one on June 6 by the Raritan Valley Symphonic Band...

Enjoy!! Close to home - family friendly - free!