The Yellow Menace

As we scramble toward June, let's take a moment to appreciate pine pollen -- nature's "gift that keeps on giving" during the month of May in Bermtopia.

Indeed, like any well-oiled machine, the pine pollen drops right about now every spring, and we are privileged to savor its delights as it cakes our sidewalks and driveways, parks and pathways, instigating allergic reactions in just about every Bermtopian I know. It's a dandy pollen, capable of bringing even the mightiest antihistamine to its knees, whimpering like a school girl.

Of course, it COULD just be an allergic reaction to The Yellow Menace. You just never know.

This is the moment in spring where cube farms and offices across Bermtopia are pummeled with wave after wave of epic sneezing approaching decibel levels that make a sonic boom sound like a whisper in church. Many friends and co-workers sound as if they're talking underwater or gargling molasses, and almost everyone I know, is afflicted with Blinking Eye Syndrome.

Imagine a city of 250,000 all looking like someone whose Significant Other just turned on the bedroom light in the middle of the night.

Rain and wind don't even put a dent in dispelling the accursed stuff. If anything they compound the problem, the rain creating little indestructible Yellow Menance Cakes and wind efficiently distributing a dusting of yellow across any unprotected surface in my house.

But I'm not complaining. The pine pollen dump is a time-honored seasonal rite of passage, yet another sign we've emerged from the dark, heinous bowels of winter. . . much like the nights plunging to the high 30s as soon as I plant my tomatoes.

It's spring. . . Memorial Day Weekend. . . a three-day weekend. More than enough time to be one with The Yellow Menace -- for yet another year. Happy Memorial Day!

We.are.surrounded.
And drinking worm water at the park
Please send help.

Out and About: The City So Nice, They Named It Twice

"Out and About" is an occasional piece I throw out there to document some of the unique, quirky and/or totally fabulous aspects of living in -- and around -- the fair city of Bermtopia.

No doubt against her better judgement, my boss sent me to a meeting of the state's community college public information officers last week. It was in Walla Walla -- an easy (and beautiful) 3-hour drive from Bermtopia. My date hopped on board for the trip -- to golf and stave off allergy attacks while I was in meetings.

The pollen count was ridiculous. And that's per the National Weather Service. Exact words.

Don't worry. Aside from dribbling on three different shirts (Note to self: White + Travel = WHAT
were you thinking?), I managed to conduct myself in a fairly credible, coherent way during the "official" parts of our trip, but let's face it, the best part of any business trip is exploring the community you're visiting.

Over the last 20 years, Walla Walla has transformed itself from a sleepy little agricultural town to one of the Pacific Northwest's top AVAs (American Viticulture Area -- see what I learned last week!). Accompanying this transformation has been an explosion of crazy good restaurants and a way cool arts scene.

Despite being out in the middle of nowhere by most definitions, Walla Walla is also home to three colleges, including the brainiac Whitman College and Walla Walla Community College, which has the gold standard viticulture/enology program in the state. It is also home to the state maximum-security prison.

While higher education and corrections are not particularly interrelated (oh wait. . . .), it does add an interesting juxtaposition to the community. Not unlike the hotel where we stayed, which Saturday morning was home to a passle of state employees (largely highway construction workers and a few stray PIOs as best I could tell) and Whitman families gearing up for graduation on Sunday.

Guess who was wearing the Dartmouth and Swarthmore T-shirts? No, silly. The Whitman families.

Anyway, here is a pictorial tour of  our visit to Walla Walla:

In 2012 the American Planning Association honored downtown Walla Walla with a "Great Places in America: Neigborhood" designation. One well deserved, I might add.

Personally, I think it's got just the right amount of Cool and "Say, whaa-aa-tt?" Like apartments with their own pop machines.

How cool is that?









And then there's ridiculously fun public art. . . and funky quaint architecture. . . and candy stores with Old School nut-roasting machines.

























I cleaned up most of the nose art on the display case.
Really.



Now on to wine. . .

We did not have a super amount of time to enjoy the wine-tasting possibilities of Walla Walla so at the suggestion of Tom, a bestie of the Number 2 Son, who is now an assistant winemaker with Saviah Cellers, we stopped by the Foundry Vineyards tasting room.

The owners of Foundry Vineyards founded the Walla Walla Foundry, pretty much a landmark studio for sculptors and other artists here in Washington. Many spectacular pieces of sculpture -- largely from their private collection -- are displayed in the tasting room and on its grounds.

Wow.

A bronze, yes bronze, by Deborah Butterfield.
  She's Famous. She has a Wikipedia page.
And I do not.

The art was spectacular -- ditto the wine. And I was tickled to see a couple of small pieces -- even got to hold them! -- by one of my favorite sculptors, Tom Otterness. Remember him?

                                          Next stop: The Canoe Ridge Vineyard car show. Car show?

What is it about us and car shows, anyway?

Yes, indeedy. We stopped for a tasting at Canoe Ridge only to find ourselves hanging with a group of Porsche enthusiasts touring their way across Eastern Washington for the weekend. Wine seem to be an inextricable part of their itinerary.





We made friends.

Madrid and his midnight blue Mustang:
"I only drive her on sunny days when I know it won't rain."

Tillie, Porsche rally organizer, and her latest ride:
"I've been into cars since I was 4-years-old."

Sipped wine.

And polished off two delicious blackend fish tacos with cilantro crema prepared by the the culinary arts students from Walla Walla Community College.

Check. It. Out. They've got their own bitchin' food truck!

Thank you, WWCC website, for providing evidence of pure genius!

And finally, Walla Walla sweet onions.

Okay, okay. Early as it was, we couldn't pass up on Saturday Market. We bought "baby"  Walla Walla sweets, truffle-balsamic vinegar and garlic that would curl your toes. (Totally acceptable in this household). And met The Falalfel Man.

He had a whole onion simmering in his cooking oil.
I sense a theme here.

A word about Walla Walla sweets. Aside from being Washington's State Vegetable (in case that ever comes up in a cocktail party conversation), they are stand-up delicious. It's the low sulfur content that makes them "sweet" -- and maybe the fact they originated in Corsica. 

Anyway. They didn't last 24 hours in our humble household.

So that's Walla Walla: Wine, onions, Porsches, sculpture and falafel. Not necessarily in that order. 

And still Walla Walla wonderful nonetheless.

Next time you're looking for Hip in the Middle of Nowhere? I'd head straight to Walla Walla. 



The news from When Pigs Fly Farm 3.0

The news is -- there is no news. Nada. Zip. Nein. Well, actually there is, but for the single-dimension vegetable gardener like me, there is no news.

L to R: Cress, dirt, radishes. You're welcome.

We're in that odd seasonal netherworld where cold weather vegetables (greens, radishes, carrots, beets etc) are in, and plunking along, but we're still a week or two away from planting the fun stuff -- heirloom tomatoes, cukes, beans, eggplant and, oh, the bazillion annual flower seeds Farma-natrix Kate and I picked out last December to help with pollination.

The weather pundits warn us to wait till after May 15 here Bermtopia before doing any of the "fun stuff ." That's historically when we have our last frost. Personally, I don't think anything REALLy big starts happening at the Farm until the nights sustain an average temperature of 55 degrees. Which generally occurs in August. For about 45 minutes.

And so it goes.

BUT I did stop by the Farm this weekend to deposit the contents of our compost bin -- and four bags of pine needles, which Farma-natrix Kate assures me they can use for mulch with their strawberries. That's a lot o' mulch, FK. . . .

But here is the big news:

Team Chicken is now residing in a quite elegant coop Farmer Sam built with his very own hands from reclaimed lumber. No more nights on newsprint in the basement, ladies! Your crib is stylin'! It's a two-story -- food, drink and a romper room on the ground floor, nests on the second.

The dining room.

I could hear the team's muffled clucking on the second floor so I took a peek, hoping against hope the ladies wouldn't try to make a run for it. Chicken wrangling wasn't on my to-do list that particular day, if you know what I mean.

The clucking escalated as I raised the nesting door. I lowered it cautiously. The natives were restless.

I tentatively lifted up the nesting door again -- just a titch -- the ladies seeming to calm. Then a little more, and a little more. Team Chicken was gathered toward the back of the nesting box, peering out expectantly at me, but in no way inclined to bolt so I a took a group portrait.

They appear to have stopped leaping at each other's heads
 and instead lay eggs. I'm thinking that's a good thing.

More than satisfied with my inaugural Team Chicken bonding time, it was time to move on.

Later, sistahs!

O.M.G.

One other magnificent addition to WPFF caught my eye -- a glorious contraption of trash can, bicycle tire rim and bright, shiny chains. My head exploded with its farming potential.

"What's the doo-hickey with all the chain?" I texted Farma-natrix Kate, my mind awash with its gardening applications. Combination trellis-compost bin? Zero-gravity drip system? Heavy metal scarecrow?

"Oh! That's a frisbee golf bin! Haha." she texted back.

The Great Cultural Divide bites me in the butt.

Once again.

And that's the report fromWhen Pigs Fly Farm.

The typing test

I took a typing test Friday. 

I had applied for a communications job with an institution that will remain nameless and it was a requirement. "How quaint," I thought after I got off the phone. "I wonder if they still use pneumatic tubes for interoffice communication?"

Let me just say, the last typing test I took was in back 1975 when applying for my first post-college job as a hospital admitting clerk.

Since then, I guess my previous employers just assumed I could type because I am, after all, a writer. But, Friday, typing test it was.

The passing "grade" was 45 words per minute with 95 percent accuracy, and I could take the test three times. Most do-able for someone who has sat in front of IBM Selectric or computer keyboard both professionally and recreationally for almost 40 years. (Gawd. Now THAT'S depressing.)

The testing lady got me situated at the testing station cum mail room and I pulled up the practice test  and read the instructions. Hmmm. Two spaces after a sentence? one space after a semi-colon? two spaces after a colon? I looked around for the pneumatic tube and clicked the START button. 

And with that my hands and arms took on the consistency and behavior of over-cooked spaghetti in a wind tunnel. Perspiration coated my flying digits. They flopped and flailed, out of control, overcome by -- who knew -- a terminal case of performance anxiety!

It did not look like a typing test -- more like an exorcism. 

OK. OK. OK. That was just the practice test. Take a deep breath and let's get 'er done, I said to myself.

Real test #1: I barely hit the START button and Panic Hands returned for five minutes of unmitigated keyboard chaos. 

Score: 30 wpm, 80 percent accuracy. Son of a bitch.

Re-do.

Real test #2: I took a moment to compose myself and assess the situation. Things were not dire. Yet. 

I hit START. This time, the hands and arms cooperated, giving me a chance to fully appreciate for the first time how truly ancient my keyboard was.

The right SHIFT key stuck, requiring a Herculean smack-down whenever a capital letter was needed. Several letter keys wobbled precariously, threatening to fly off at any given moment and SPACE bar would have made a most excellent miniature playground teeter-totter. I began to wonder if had mis-heard and was actually testing for a circus juggling act.

Score: 40 wpm, 85 percent accuracy -- mostly spacing errors. Son of a friggin' bitch. What IS this? Amateur hour?

Re-do.

Real test #3: We live to fight another day. I hit START and went into cruise control. I was in the Typing. Test. Zone. Heck, at this point I could almost do it from memory. Boo-yah!

Score: 50 wpm and. . . . 93 percent accuracy. 93 percent? 93 percent? You have got to be eff-ing kidding me. More bad words. In my head.

And with that, I took my third and final test and meekly presented it to the human resources manager. She studied it for a minute, murmuring sadly, "Oh, that's too bad. You were so close," before extending her hand to say "It was nice meeting you." 

Boom. Ann-nn-nd. Dismissed.

Off you go, typing test flunky. And don't forget -- two spaces at the end of each sentence.

Ike and Tina Turkey

It's spring. Finally.

Despite waves of cold vigorous April showers, the Back Forty pulsed with avian activity Sunday.

Troupes of sparrows busily scavenged the lawn and shrubs for small clippings of grass for the nests they're building in our -- ahem -- rain gutters: The females are stern, business-like and efficient -- their mates, not so much. The males poke half-heartedly at the ground for a minute or two before flitting off to pester their competitors darting in and out of the arbor vitae.

The finches -- gold and house -- and a newcomer, ruby crowned kinglets (I think), attack the seed sacks with gusto, three and four birds at time if the gang will tolerate it. The male goldfinches are now bright yellow and full of themselves, batting interlopers off the seed sacks, then tearing off in pursuit of each other, dipping and cresting into the cedars at the end of the yard.

The Back Forty is in constant motion.

And so I worked away in the flowerbeds until my surgical toes let me know they didn't particularly care for the kneeling-on-a-garden-pad-digging-in-the-ground-and-dragging-green-shit-across-the-flower-bed position.

Whatever. It was starting to sprinkle anyway.

Ben and I gathered up our gear and headed inside to prepare for a little icing. I munched on a on piece of cheese while I filled my two buckets, then sat down for some soaking and a few rousing  rounds of Humiliation Words with Friends.

And only then did I realize I left the package of cheese on the kitchen counter.

Poops. I lumbered upright, dried my foot and walked over to the counter to put away the cheese. The Back Forty was eerily still, the air silent -- because. . . pecking and scratching at the base of our two hanging feeders. . . was a young wild turkey hen.

Now, wild turkeys are not uncommon on the urban South Hill. There are a couple well-known flocks in neighborhoods to the east of us -- one, in fact, resides in an empty lot right next to my brother- and sister-in-law's house -- and sometimes I hear their distinct chatter when out walking the dog.

But I can't say I've ever experienced wild turkeys this far west on the Hill. And obviously the small song birds that frequent the Back Forty hadn't either -- they had cleared out when the
1 1/2-foot tall bird wandered into their feeding grounds.

Of  course, I hollered for my date and grabbed my point-and-shoot with the zoom lens.

Batteries dead as a door nail. H-E-double hockey sticks.

I pulled off my socks. It was going to be me, the cell phone camera and Tina the Turkey up close and personal. In the pouring rain.

First turkey take-away: Turkeys are NOT skittish birds. Tina let me get within just under 4 feet to snap a few pictures. She was clearly far more interested in lunch.

My kind of gal.

"Get some pictures of her tail feathers," my date offered helpfully.

That's when the fun began. Second turkey take-away: While Tina had no problem with me in FRONT of her, she was decidedly less enthusiastic as I attempted to circle around behind her.

And so began an odd little tarantella around our privacy hedge . I'd go around one corner to catch her backside on camera, and Tina would step THROUGH the hedge to other side, thereby thwarting my photographic efforts.

The fruit of my photographic efforts.

This went on for about five minutes. In the pouring rain.

Yes, I am a quick study.

I finally retreated back into the house to dry out. And Tina, having exhausted the seed spillage scattered around the feeders, wandered off to wherever turkeys go -- the end of our Great Turkey Adventure.

Or was it?

Two loads of laundry later, I wandered through the kitchen and glanced out the window into The Back Forty. A much larger, darker, dappled version of Tina -- a tom -- was calmly grooming himself on the lawn. Tiny had recommended us to a friend!

Ike the Turkey had no interest in feeding -- he was on a mission of cleanliness as he worked from tail feathers to breast, fluffing and meticulously preening over each feather. He too had no worries as my date and I crept out into the backyard and approached him.

After posing for a few pics, Ike turned back to grooming. Feathers gleaming, it was time to finish the job. he ambled into the flowerbed and began scratching out body-sized indentation into which he finally flopped.



For the next five minutes, Ike rolled and thrashed in the flowerbed (me mentally warning him that it would be Thanksgiving in April if he so much as touched the peony I almost killed last summer), kicking up dirt to make more room for his expansive butt and breast. And suddenly he was done -- he stepped out of flowerbed, flared his feathers (which resulted in an impressive dust storm) and meandered slowly down the driveway, across our neighbor's front lawn -- and he was gone.

God speed, Ike and Tina Turkey. Feel free to stop by any time -- and join the rest of the gang!

Do I dare?

I've been toting around this tear-out since Monday trying to decide what to do.

The local newspaper -- and I use the term lightly -- is seeking submissions about what dogs mean in the lives of baby boomers for a new Monday section called Boomer U. Boomer U is a hopelessly transparent attempt to boost readership because pretty much the only people I know who read real-life paper newspapers these days are 55-plus. And I would include my date and myself in this demographic. Say it loud and proud.

60 is the new 40, right?

RIGHT!?

I can't hear yoo-oooo-ooo. (Seriously. Because I'm 60.)

RIGHT!?

Okay. That's better.

Anyway. I'm thinking about delving into Bermtopia to see if something fits the bill. It makes me nervous though. I like the relative anonymity of blogging. Public relations writing is a bit the same. No bylines. No credit. Yeah, it's strangely comforting and cozy.

So what say you, you who so kindly spend precious minutes visiting this blog? You've hung in there for the good, the bad and ugly.

Do I dare? And if I do, do you have a Ben post that's a favorite? If yes, shout it out!

Please don't embarrass me.
Again.

Home "improvements"

We had a realtor come to the house Monday.

Do not look for a FOR SALE sign soon.

We are conflicted. . . as well we should be living and raising a family in this house these past 20 years. Nevertheless, whatever the outcome, my date and I have both agreed -- there are things that need updating around the Nine-One-Four. And so we have new floors, countertop, appliances.

We tackled the living room shutters this weekend. Or they tackled us, depending on how you look at it.

The living room shutters came with the Nine-One-Four -- in all their rockin' 70s glory -- back in 1992 when we bought the joint. They were part of a package that included shag carpet (I know, I know, some would say shag is back -- but not this kind of shag, trust me), orange laminate, wall paper-matching valances (avocado and orange -- boom!) and a tumored-encrusted cocker spaniel with booger eyes.

Actually the cocker spaniel did NOT come with the house. He belonged to the Incredibly Dour Lady Lawyer renting the Nine-One-Four at the time of purchase. He was thankfully removed from the house when we finally moved in.

Over the years, we have mostly tamed the our little Lost-in-the-Seventies cottage. I've even documented a couple of these sorties here. But the shutters remained. . . until this weekend.

These were not Pottery Barn-type shutters. They were 70s shutters -- tight, narrow and impossible to clean. Grimy, stained (don't ask) and a mausoleum to numerous dead insects (don't judge), these shutters also refused to open uniformly -- with at least a half dozen slats always going the opposite direction of the others when we attempted to bring a little more light into the living room.

Can you feel the shutter love here?

And so it was I had a vision:  The windows flanking the fireplace are tall and narrow -- how 'bout one curtain panel, some curtain rings (for that Hip Metro Look, right?) and a simple, understated curtain rod?

How 'bout not.

It took me weeks to find the right curtain rod and curtain panels -- located, of course, 30 minutes away at a big-box store on the far north side of town. And, so, finally, Saturday was designated for the big install.

It took about 45 minutes of my date wrangling with the Nine-One-Four's near-impenetrable lathe-and-plaster walls to get the first curtain up -- and to determine it was all wrong.

There was marital terseness. ** sound of crickets **

We then ditched the curtain rings, Hip Metro Look and tried two curtain panels simply gathered on the rod.

Much better. The sun came out, birds sang. . . .

And I got in the car and made the 30-minute drive to the big-box store on the far north side town to get two more curtain panels.

The second rod went up, the first panel attached and. . .

The second panel was. . .

too short.

About 21 inches too short.

** more crickets, please **

The packaging earnestly tried to convince us
both panels were each 84 inches.

At this point, my date and I wisely adjourned the home improvement portion of the day's programming and, once I recovered from a not-so-stifled case of the church giggles, shared a glass of wine, gazing at our lop-sided DIYer Gone Bad.

Sunday -- you guessed it --I got in the car and made the 30-minute drive to the big-box store on the far north side of town to exchange one short curtain panel for a long one.

Home.

Sweet-and-5-hours-and countless-car-miles-later.

Home.