Here on the Mid Coast

I don't remember who started the whole "Mid-Coast" thing, but I still like it. Back when I ran a record store and Nelly was hitting it big, we started talking about the Mid Coast. It wasn't rap from the East Coast or West Coast..... St. Louis had its own style. But I just like the image. The river feels like it's mine. I've canoed it, ran along its sandy Illinois side beach, played in the Chain of Rocks, partied on its cobblestone shore, waded illegally into its muddy water on a hot 4th of July, and watched it roll past again and again. The Mid Coast, it ain't so bad.

Free stuff for the garden

All the seed catalogs are on my couch. Or my desk. Or the kitchen table. Or in the bathroom. The first one rolled in before Christmas, White Flower Farm. It's not only great product, but a damn good read. Probably my favorite catalog. Unfortunately for the WFF folks, Gurney's has a big ol' $20.00 "No strings attached" coupon right on the front page. Henry Fields will give me $25.00 worth of stuff free with a $25.00 purchase. And Gardens Alive! has $25.00 of "products absolutely FREE!" How can I resist? After all, the buy 1 get 1 free thornless blackberry brambles I bought from Henry Fields have produced for at least 12 years now. Yummy. Gardens Alive's beneficial nematodes rid my garden and lawn of cut-worms and bad grubs. Gurney's basil seed has kept us all in pesto throughout many a year. Hey, if they want to give me free stuff, I'll take it. And thank them profusely.

In Winter's Fading Light

Finally she sleeps, in winter's fading light,
Released from fitful dreams of night.
For once beyond the pain, exhaustion takes a toll.
Too tired to hear her weeping soul,
Escaping from her life, into the afternoon,
The reprieve will end all too soon.
But for now she sleeps, for now her world is right,
Again in winter's fading light

Cleaning Sucks

Someday I will hire a housekeeper. Simply put, cleaning sucks. Sure, everyone wants to live in a nice, clean, tidy environment.... Wait. No. No, actually I don't give a damn. I lied. I do give a damn, but not a big enough damn to do all that needs to be done on a regular basis. There's more important things to do than dust the TV. Like play guitar, or dig in the garden, or paint, or blog, or read, or sleep. As long as the kitchen and bathroom are clean, I'm pretty happy. How people keep house is beyond me. When do they have time? When my Mom was a stay-at-home mom, she had the whole house beautiful thing down. Every day was a different chore and I was her personal assistant. We hung laundry outside to dry, we washed windows and cabinets, we vacuumed everything to within an inch of its life and shined wood with the grain until my arm ached. She also sewed, knitted, crocheted, canned, gardened and leapt tall buildings in a single bound. When she became a working mother a lot of that crap came to a screeching halt. Or fell on me to accomplish when I was infinitely more interested in playing guitar, listening to records, painting or reading. Funny how the circle works. Then again, circles were made to be broken. Someday I will break it and hire a housekeeper.

Where is my snow?

It has only snowed once so far and January is almost over. People who pooh-pooh global warming obviously should rethink things a bit. Today it is supposed to give us a dusting. So far all I hear is a tinkling of sleet, not even enough to cancel a class. You hear people my age talking all the time about how when I was a kid we had SNOW! Schools were closed, roads were impassible, we had to walk 6 miles both ways to the sledding hill and daggummit we LIKED IT! But seriously, there was more snow. Piled higher and dropping more often. White and fluffy, wet and sloppy, powdery and fine. I loved it. There is nothing more magical than a walk in the snow. Everything is so muted and quiet. The wonderland spreads before you, landscapes change before your eyes as the wind shifts the drifts and swirls white to cover your tracks. You are alone. It's holy. Oh, where is my snow?

It was a train station once

The paper had a story today about how Olin is possibly laying off 100 people from the munitions line in East Alton, IL. Like any industry town that's lost its base, East Alton has its share of dilapidated structures. Sooner or later they will get around to tearing this one down. It was a train station once upon a time. The platform in back remains, as do the tracks. Not much else. Even a quick crawl inside showed that the railroad or vandals had stripped it bare to the walls. Poor, sad, little station. Poor, sad, lonely town.

Me & My Sigma

Back in 1981, I bought my first new guitar. It had been kickin' around the showroom at Halpin's Music in Alton, IL for a little under a year, but no one seemed to want it coz is was not a "real" Martin. It was a considered a knock-off, just a Sigma. When I played it, I fell in love. Hey, if it's made to Martin specs, plays like a Martin, sounds like a Martin, then guess what? So I wrote the check and took my new baby home. A beautiful solid mahogany body dreadnought with solid spruce top, rosewood fretboard and bridge, Sigma logo, "Anniversary" and snowflake/diamond fret markers like a D-28 in mother of pearl, and it was all mine. Over the years I have always loved this instrument. There are others, a fine Ovation and a Fender 12-string that fight for my attention, but the Sigma gets more time. The thing is just a pleasure to play. Then came the internet. Now I know that there were only 100 of the Sigma 10th Anniversary models made. Quite a bit of Googling seems to reveal that very few are still with their original owners. Who knew I'd own a piece guitar history? I just wanted to play.

Super Secret Double Chocolate Cookies

As mentioned previously, this was a banner year for cookies. The biscotti I made was perfect, stayed blonde yet crisp. Herbed shortbread was scented with lavendar without hinting of soap. But the stand out was this Mexican Double Chocolate Orange Cookie. My husband is a huge fan of orange with dark chocolate and a recent convert to spicy Mexican and Jamaican choc-o-treats. So he wanted a cookie with all that magic cookie mojo goin' on. Here's what I came up with.

Take the recipe off the back of a Nestle's White Chocolate Chip bag for Chocolate Toll House Cookies. Forget the white chips, save them for some other project. When it calls for the cocoa powder, use the darkest, richest baking powder you can find. Now, grate in the zest of two oranges and about 6 drops of orange oil from a good spice shop*. No oil? Use about 2 tsp. of orange flavoring. Mix per recipe and shake in 3 stout shakes of Cayenne Pepper, about 1/3 a tsp. Mix well. Drop balls of dough onto cookie sheets, bake as directed on package. Soon as you pull them out, gently press a Hershey's Special Dark Select kiss into the middle of each cookie. The bottom of the kiss melts into the cookie to stick it there. Carefully transfer to a drying rack or clean dishcloth to cool. Do not move until totally cooled and the kisses are set hard again.

These cookies are full of chocolatey orange goodness and the pepper gives them a zing, but you can't identify it as cayenne or taste it as such. They were a hit with our family and friends, so give it a try!

* A note on GOOD spice shops. Often you can get great spices and great prices at international or ethnic specialty grocers. Also try local spice shops like Soulard Spice Shop here in St. Louis. I also love Penzey's. While it is a national chain, they are quality minded. I've never gotten anything but wonderfully fresh product from them. They have many retail outlets, or you can find them on the web at www.penzeys.com.

Bad Blogger, Sad Blogger

Depression. Illness. Exhaustion. Stress. Obligation. Grief. Sorrow. Guilt. You name it; it stopped me in my tracks. No blog.

It was a rough holiday season. Health scares took up an unbelievable amount of time, energy and emotion, leaving both of us frustrated and drained. Thankfully, everyone is on the mend, no real catastrophes. Hence the guilt at feeling so blue when I should be feeling so blessed. But the whole thing started a spiral into darkness during what normally is my favorite time of the year.

Christmas. The preparations, the decorating, the carols, the cookies, the movies, the shopping, the wrapping of presents while sipping hot mulled wine. Lights and trees and celebrations, waking up to moonlight on new fallen snow. I usually love Christmas time. Sure, I made cookies for everyone, (and they turned out great) and I did my bit with the church choirs, but not much else got done. I’m not a good nurse-maid. I’m not a good patient. I’m not a patient nurse-maid. One frustrating personal crisis seemed to follow another. Joy was not in my soul, depression and panic attacks weighed on my heart. This year I actually uttered the words, “I wish Christmas would just be over.” And then Dan Fogelberg died.

No, you don’t understand. Dan Fogelberg died.

Dan’s music and my life are inextricably intertwined. I spent untold hours learning to play guitar to Homefree & Souvenirs. Play, lift the needle, back up, drop, play, lift the needle, back up, drop, over and over and over. The darkness and peace of Netherlands brought a glimmer of hope to me at my most angst-ridden moments of youth. At my urging, we sang Along The Road at my high school graduation. An emotional New Year’s Eve was spent sobbing over unrequited love with my best friend as Same Old Lang Syne provided the soundtrack. When I broke up with my lead guitarist, he sang The Last Nail to me. After meeting my husband, we discovered our LP duplicates included every Dan Fogelberg release. Song From Half Mountain graced our wedding. You can even hear my “whoo!” on the Songs From The West live CD that was recorded at the Fox Theatre here in St. Louis.

Everyone knew the cancer would eventually take him, but knowledge is not comfort. Upon hearing the news I spent hours cradling my guitar, crying over the strings, playing every Dan Fogelberg song I could remember. Lyrics and progressions that I’d not played in two decades poured from me like it was yesterday. Surely I was not doing this on my own. My hands ached, my heart ached, but who was I to weep? This man was not my lover, he was not my friend, he was not my blood, nor kin. And yet, he was all of those. Born of the heartland, raised by a river, consoled by nature, transcended in music; both of us, all of us. Songs of quiet, hymns to nature, love lost and found, raw rock energy, raging anger. These were the reflections of his life, wrapped around my life. Yes, he was all those; of course I wept, and I was not alone in my sorrow, or in my joy of remembrance. Thousands like me, touched by his spirit, sang hymns to the silence that night.

And so, with that cathartic break, I return. The humble Rural Gurl.

Little Fish, Big Fish, Swimming in the Water

Sunday I found it exceedingly difficult to snap a good fish foto. Were the fishes shy? Or just being koi?

The rest of Shaw's Garden was perfect for a weekend stroll. Overcast and chilly, like mid-November should be, but the blazing fall colors were still mostly in tact. The chance of rain kept some of the crowd away, leaving many pathways deserted. Makes you feel like you own the place. The Missouri Botanical Garden became my vast estate, left to me by my good friend Henry Shaw. Mine to paint, mine to roam, mine to photograph, mine to drink in until I burst with sensory overload. Someday I would like to spend a whole week at The Garden. Go there every day and take time to experience it fully. Sit on the soft carpet of needles underneath the white pines by the fountain and slowly drift off. Or write down every plant along the dry river bed planting, deciding which to try at home. Or wade through the tall prairie grass that's as high as an elephant's eye. Or sit and read in the Linnean House soaking in that hyper-oxygenated air that all those camillias give off. Or maybe just plunk down my quarter for a handful of fish chow and feed those shy fish.

Autumn Pool is Cool

This bench, strewn with the color of autumn, was irresistible on a warm Saturday at Laurmier Sculpture Park. Secluded, sun-dappled and smack in the middle of my favorite piece in the park: Mary Miss's Pool Complex - Orchard Valley. It's easy to spend an entire afternoon at the Pool, daydreaming about the fancy folks who went to the pool when it opened back in the early 30's. The Hedenkamp family owned an estate there and in 1934 converted an old pond into the "delightful pool" as reported by the St. Louis Globe-Democrat. The pool was huge. Is huge. Freeform shape, shallow and deep, shaded by trees, a fabulous crumbling relic of time past. Mary Miss saw all this and more in the dry concrete basin with rock walls and pillars. Her installation sprawls gracefully over the entire area with trellises, walkways, benches, platforms and decks. It makes the imagination run wild. And the ghosts are happy. I'm happy.

Falling Leaves

Finally the leaves are turning. Pretty odd for the best fall color to arrive in St. Louis the first week of November, but I guess we'll have to get used to it. Earlier this week my friends and I were waxing nostalgic over autumns past. I remember riding in a homecoming parade in high school, early October, full sun of the afternoon, freezing in a black leather jacket. At the football game that night we bundled up in blankets and could see our breath. These past few years I've been in shorts and a tank top picking a tomatoes and basil the first week of October. This year the basil, the most tender of herbs, lasted outside until November 5th. Unheard of here. As much as the shorter days depress me, a short warm day is just disconcerting. I don't know how folks who live South and West do it. How can you feel like baking cookies or Christmas shopping when it's 70 degrees outside. Guess it's just what you grow up with.

Ghost Boat

What's up with all the abandoned riverboats?

Just north of Alton, IL on the mighty Mississippi, sits this aging queen of the river. There's a couple of old tugs and what looks to be a cabin cruiser that's seen better days moored silently beside her. Some equipment and a fence, a car or two, obviously some kind of shipyard. Or salvage operation. I spied the queen and her court back in September, but did not have time to stop. I knew I'd come back. Are they fixing her? Storing her? Tearing her down? There seems to be no difference since we first met. There's doors galore, as if to separate cabins, a back deck, twin smokestacks and an enclosed upper observation deck just behind the wheel house. Was she a decommissioned over-nighter? Did she turn to day-cruising? Did she become a gambler's delight? Or is she just pleading for mercy from the spirits, now her only inhabitants? I wish I knew her secrets, but she won't give them up. She knows I'd tell.

Busy Busy Worky Worky

Multi-tasking sucks. If I had my way, I'd dump the concept right in the toilet.

There's several books out over the last few years, and studies dating back even further, about how multi-tasking isn't all it's cracked up to be, makes tasks take longer, burns people out and just isn't efficient or healthy. Yet on we multitask!

Basically, I can't get a damn thing done at work. Every time I open a spread sheet that someone wants done yesterday, I can only get a cell or two entered before the phone rings. Well which do you want done? The incoming availabilty, pricing and order calls? The incoming technical assistance calls? The incoming email orders? The incoming faxed orders? The requests for research and credit? The price quotes? The back-order research project? Or the stupid spreadsheet? Yes, they want them all done and they want them all done simultaneously. Heaven forbid that we get off the incoming phone lines long enough to finish the previous caller's request, let alone so the project that an outside sales rep wanted finished last week. Bitter? You bet. Looking for a different job with less multi-tasking? Always. Waiting to hear my job is outsourced to India and I'm free of at least this particular flavor of idiocy? Priceless.

It's Only a Weed

Imagine my surprise as I drove along the Illinois River and docked near Kampsville, north of Hardin, was the sadly deteriorating river boat, The Goldenrod Showboat. Its bright colors fading, its hull rusting and rotting, I so wanted to climb aboard and scout it out, but there were people and police up and down the highway on this busy and beautiful autumn weekend. The Goldenrod was a big deal back in the '70's on the St. Louis riverfront, ads on the radio and TV, the whole bit. Supposedly haunted, too. Then it moved to St. Charles, ended up tanking on the Missouri River bottom during low water, and it was all pretty much downhill from there. It's still designated as a National Historic Landmark. Like so many other sad, old structures, it's depressing to see such rich history disappearing before our eyes. You can read much more about the Goldenrod Showboat here:
http://www.steamboats.org/steamboat-pictures/showboat-goldenrod/showboat-goldenrod-history.html

Fire In The Sky

Moody sky. Poised to pour. But it only spit and the rainbow was fleeting. The scary clouds remained.

All day was blustery, equal to my mood. Dark clouds came over, then spots of sun, then calm, then dark again, repeat. I know, there are meds for that. Sometimes medication is not the answer. Sometimes it's just the weather.

Gourds Gone Wild

It's autumn. Gourds are everywhere. I don't buy gourds; they always seem overpriced for a non-food, yet food-like, decorative item. These were shiny and pretty even in the rain. Rain is good, we have not had enough lately, but for cripe's sake, it's my freakin' vacation! Every day, rain. It's like God is trying to tell me to clean my house. Which I did for a while, but I am easily bored and distracted. I found my copy of the Wilco documentary "I am trying to break your heart" while I was cleaning the living room. Hmmmm. Hadn't seen that in a long time. Nothing got done for over two hours, but it sure beats alphabetizing away all the out of place CD's. Now there are more out of place CD's coz I had to pull out AM and Being There, which I'd not revisited in a long time. And how about an Uncle Tupelo for good measure. Yeah, U.T. while the rain beats down on the porch and the room smells like a wet screen door. Maybe rain on vacation is okay, as long as you resist the urge to clean house..... or buy gourds.

I can't do that

Water lilies are amazing. Ethereal. They glow. And I can't grow them. That's the magic; if it's something I can't do, make, grow, or conceive, then I am in awe. It's like going out to a restaurant. Why would I order something that I make at home? Classical pianists, can't get enough of 'em. The wheel was never my friend in school, so hand thrown pottery makes me stop and stare. Court reporters, how do they DO that? Some things you can learn how to do. Most things, really. But some things you have to have a knack for. Even if you learn how to play piano, no amount of practice will make you into Emanual Ax if there's not that something else there. Some people are indoor plant people, some are outdoor plant people, some are cactus people, and some are pond people. If it's outside in the ground, I'm good. Everything else, I inadvertently kill. What a shame it would be to put a water lily in my care. That's why God made the Missouri Botanical Garden.

Great Grape Escape

Autumn is a great time for wine. Okay, for me anytime is wine time, or whine time for that matter. Mostly I whine about not having more time for enjoying wine. But with a week of vacation coming up soon I plan on taking full advantage of the situation. Clean the house, sip a lttle wine, pull up the tomato plants, sip a lttle wine, play guitar, sip a little wine, bubble bath, sip a lot of wine..... nap. Ahhhh. Better than that, (how anything could be better than wine and napping, I don't know) I just bought a new camera and I'm itchin' to put it through some paces. It's waterproof, so who knows what could happen? So many toys, so little time. Shoot, that was a whine. Sorry. No whine, just wine. And naps.