Pandemic!

Gary is very concerned about the flu pandemic. We were going to invest in Apple but we're waiting till Monday to see how the stock market will be affected. Deb is not as worried about the flu because she never gets it but we read that healthy people succumb first and that is cause for concern. All that broccoli and for what? Gary, who lived on a diet of Baby Ruths and Pepsi for the better part of his adolescence, college, and post graduate life will be spared. Oh the ironies... 

We interrupt this post for a special health bulletin: As official Beehive CHO (Corporate Hypochondria Officer), Gary would like to remind all that honey is an excellent defense against many disease agents. However, he is uncertain of whether the golden elixir kills viruses, of which the flu is one. More research and further advisories will follow. Meanwhile Deb recommends the book Honey, Mud, Maggots and other Medicinal Wonders as a wonderful resource for hypochondriacs everywhere.

Gary promised he would bring home some trout after his first attempt to fly fish this season but all he caught was the game warden, who was the nicest guy he ever met carrying a nine millimeter handgun. Maybe we should be stocking up on more than trout for the projected looting of Shaws and Walmart.

There. We're updated.

New Blue Tang

Some of you Apollo-era folks might remember downing delicious Orange Tang for breakfast as you watched astronauts roam around the moon on TV. Orange Tang is nothing compared to blue tang, which inhabit the coral reefs around Culebra. Here's some video of a school of blue tang, shot with a waterproof-housed Flip video camera.

Viva Culebra!

If you took all the money spent on anti-depressants, doctors' visits, trips to the hospital for complications arising from depression and siphoned all that money toward a yearly one week visit to the island of Culebra in Puerto Rico for every depressed writer you know, it would save millions, promote the economy, and put an end to suffering as we know it. Especially if you spent some time in Old San Juan at the end. Check out the photos.

Signs of Life

I'm not sure what first attracted me to the idea of photographing old signage; I've been doing it for years now. The more I think about what draws me to it, the more I realize it's the idea of the people behind the signs, those who created them, those who used them to promote whatever they wanted to promote, those who used them for direction. In a time when most all of the signs we see are no more than logos inflated, I look at old neon and hand-painted signs as evidence of a lost America, one in which people had more opportunity to exercise creativity and more options in the world of commerce. Drive through most any town now, and you still see some homegrown signs. But our landscape is dominated by Wal Mart and Rite Aid, Outback Steakhouse and Home Depot. It's a bland, redundant way to live, a great leveling that does nothing for the idea of community. So here's a Beehive shout out to some of the oldies, and an invitation to check out some of them here.

MBA: My Birthday Announcement

Gary and I went snowshoeing on Wrightsville Reservoir. We walked on water on my birthday. Eli made me a pop up card. Gary got me a black and white Walker Evans photo I love of a fish market. I watched the free hug video again. I have lived 49 years on planet earth. And I have an MFA, which I've been told is the new MBA. 

Happy Birthday, Sweet Bees

On this day more than twenty years ago, a pair of supersisters joined the human race. So let's give a Big Beehive Birthday Buzz to our honeys Deb and Ev!

Out LIke a LIght

Eli and I are listening to Marko the Magician's Hypnosis CD so we can fall asleep. It's not like I haven't tried guided visualization to get to sleep before, and with some success, but there's nothing quite like mother-son insomniacs doing hypnosis together. We turn off the lights in the living room, sit upright in a chair and let Marko count backward from ten to one as he instructs our shoulders to drop and takes us to some beach only celebrities can afford to go. The only problem is that he insists on bringing us out of this pleasant hypnotic state, the idea being that if we can do this five minute exercise a few times a day we'll be able to induce this state of relaxation on our own. But it is still very annoying to have to come out when you just got in. Hypnosis is apparently a dangerous sport. Every year we go to see Marko's hypnosis show on New Year's Eve and when he says the word "microphone," one guy starts running around City Hall shouting "Beep Beep" because he's convinced he is Road Runner and another starts singing "God Bless America." Then Marko snaps his fingers and they are out like a light.  God knows how long we'd sleep if he didn't bring us back by counting from five to one. "At one you will once again be totally alert." What a bummer. Frankly I'd like to be out for a week. And when I'm ready to take a permanent hike from this world, I wouldn't mind going out to Marko's countdown.  

There's a Higher Power!

The other day, I got the chance to interview country and gospel music legend Charlie Louvin. Back in the 40's and 50s, Charlie and his brother Ira headlined shows all over the country as The Louvin Brothers. Elvis opened for the Louvins; so did Johnny Cash. Ira Louvin died in a car crash in 1965. But at 81, Charlie's still making music, and will be contending for a Grammy in LA on February 8.

Charlie's a great storyteller. He talked at length about getting his start at an Alabama county fair in 1941, his life as a Louvin Brother, and touring with Cake and Lucinda Willliams. You can read the interview over at State of Mind Music.

Beating the Heat

Saturday morning, an Arctic cold front moved in, and the mercury took a dive. But I decided tough it out and do a little snowshoeing. I strapped on my twin tennis rackets and hoofed it through Sabin's Pasture, a disused farm at the outskirts of Montpelier, just behind the campus of the Vermont College of Fine Arts.

I'd never visited Sabin's before. For years Montpelierites have been struggling over its fate. The pro-development folks want to put 600 housing units on it. The greenies want to conserve it. At this point, they appear ready to split the difference--if funds to purchase the property from its owners can be found. Then  we can all throw away our "Save Sabin's Pasture" (and, alternately "Pave Sabin's Pasture") buttons.

Judging from the established Nordic trails and sledways on the land, plenty of people have been using Sabin's for winter fun, regardless. I shoed my way to the center of the tract--and the abandoned slate quarry that can be found there. It's a little bit like the entry to Butch and Sundance's Hole in the Wall—a keyhole entrance between fifty-foot cliffs, and a path that leads into a dead-end canyon about 100 yards deep. Outside the quarry, the wind was roaring. Inside, I only heard the sound of myself. 

Is it I-naug-yoo-ration or innaug-uh-ration?

What is going on with the pronunciation of this word? It's like nuclear. Could someone please clarify? I'm going with the first (yoo) but all over the media I've heard it pronounced "uh." Less than one hour to inauguration. Evelyn, my sister, called me from CA. She never goes to bed before 3:30 am but she got up early to go to the Gorilla Cafe in Berkeley for the speech. Gary and I will be headed to City Hall soon, where it is rumored that CNN might show up. I think the last time they were here was when the Men of Maple Corner stripped off their clothes for a nude calendar and got orders from all across the country because CNN played a clip of the guys posing discretely in front of a canoe, nude above and below, in an endless loop all weekend. That two minute segment earned them over a quarter million for their community center (the whole point of the calendar) and that was just after 911 so it's been a while since Vermont went public. I wish presidents would be sworn in in spring. Doesn't that make more sense? If I didn't have to sleep on a bus and stand out in the cold, I would be in Washington now, bracing myself to be trampled.

The F-er Project

Plug into any media outlet today, and you're going to hear about change. At The Beehive, we're totally behind the swapping out of the overstuffed nappy that is the Bush Administration. And we're overjoyed at the arrival of The Man Who Isn't The Man. Still, it's important to remember that ordinary people can contribute to change as well. And leave it to Deb to figure out a way to change the world by dropping the F-bomb.

Friends of The Beehive will be shocked to learn that Deb occasionally lets a swear word slip. And while this isn't the world's most grievous offense, she decided to do something about it. After all, she was setting a bad example for Eli, who had begun to show a talent for sailoresque discourse as well. So the two set up a Curse Jar. The rules: use a word your great-granny wouldn't approve of, and drop a buck in the bucket.

Perhaps Barack inspired Deb to take her experiment a step further. Perhaps it was her own generous nature. But instead of using the Curse Jar to fund a new flat-screen TV, she and Eli decided to swear their way to change by donating their Curse Jar cash to Heifer International. This charity organization collects money from willing donors and uses it to buy farm animals for poor rural families. The animals—which range from chickens and bunnies to cattle and camels—provide their new owners with a source of food, fiber, or finances, making their lives more sustainable.

Gary and Maddie, of course, never use salty language. But we did have some spare change lying about. So we joined Deb and Eli on their Heifer Project. All told, the four of us scraped together $50, which enabled us to buy a share of a heifer (which, for those who are not agriculturally inclined, is a young female cow) for a family who needs it. That means somewhere down the road, folks will belly up to the breakfast bar with big servings of nutritious, delicious milk. And that's a change we can all get with.  

CONTEST WINNER #417

We're pleased to announce that Constance LaFarge of Platte Rouge, Idaho has won Beehive Reader Contest #417. Her sonnet, "The Noble Bee, His Yokes are Shafts of Sunlight" was chosen from among 627 qualified entries. For her effort, Ms. LaFarge wins a Gentle Giant Bee Smoker, courtesy of Artie's Bee Supply, Wickford, VT. Her poem will appear in Best of the Beehive, scheduled for release in spring, 2010.

American Diner

To celebrate Deb's MFA status, we fled Vermont for the weekend. Portsmouth, NH is a sweet little town with lots of good restaurants and one GEN-YOO-WINE American Diner. In various forms, Gilley's PM Lunch has served the city of Portsmouth since 1914. On an icy Sunday night, we found its current incarnation, a 1940 Worcester Diner, warm and welcoming.

Owner Steve Kennedy hooked us up with some great historical info about the diner, and showed us some cool shots of its predecessors, horse and tractor-drawn lunch carts that trolled the streets looking for hungry dock hands and business folks in days long past. I devoured one of Steve's "100% chuck loin" cheeseburgers, and Deb dined on a chili dog, which she pronounced divine.

The place wasn't too busy, so Steve and Deb shot the breeze about legendary Vermont deer hunter Larry Benoit. Years back, Deb interviewed Larry for her radio show, Local Color. And Steve currently serves as Larry's videographer, helping to create how-to videos for wannabee buckmasters.

All in all, Gilley's was a great experience. So if you're in Portsmouth, stop by, sample the goods, and tell Steve the folks from The Beehive sent you.

  

Life after MFA

So far I made a bunch of writing resolutions for the coming year, MFA in hand. They look good on paper. Still trying to get out from the quagmire of paperwork that has been left unattended for the better part of two years. Threw out the fifteen renewal notices for the New Yorker to find one that says I authorized the magazine to renew my subscription automatically through my credit card (didn't say which one). Then why did they waste so much paper?  I went along for the ride. Maybe I'll actually make time to read it this year. Gary hates 90 percent of all the fiction in the New Yorker especially Joyce Carol Oates, who has a piece he despises in the latest issue. He pretty much despises everything she writes.  Gary's favorite quote about Oates comes from his MFA colleague Les Edgerton: "Joyce Carol Oates. Nothin' in her wastebasket." Gary  once proposed making tee shirts that read STOP JOYCE CAROL OATES. On another note, Gary's being very secretive about his new creative work, which is nothing new, given that he never tells me what he is writing about. It kills his creative chi.  (He's a real artist). But he likes to flex his new biceps, which he is acquiring at the gym, at every opportunity. "Look!" he exclaims, shocked and awed by the bulging protuberances. I'm more into abs and Gary is convinced he will be ripped before we head off to Puerto Rico in February. I suspect these new-found muscles to be the source of his latest creative surge. What a little narcissism can do...It's funny all that fuss the media made about Obama's abs. Personally I didn't see any abs. He has pecs though. I did twenty sit ups tonight and ate a coconut macaroon dipped in dark chocolate. My belly feels a little lava-like at the moment. 

Earth's Kittens

Yesterday afternoon, Maddie and I dropped in on the Vermont Fancy Felines cat show. We saw plenty of pampered pussycats, mingled with their owners, watched some crazy cat judging, and smelled lots of pee. Quote of the day, from Maddie: "Dad, at least at a dog show, the dogs pee outside!"

The Burlington French Fry Conspiracy

Last evening, my friend Pete and I ventured to Burlington to attend a rock show at The Higher Ground. We drove up early, and headed into downtown in search of dinner. Our first choice, Henry's Diner, now closes at 4PM on weekdays. So we decided to check out the Sadie Katz Deli instead. An alleged NY-style deli, the SKD is housed in a great old-stainless-steel diner with google Formica tabletops and cozy booths. It's the kind of place I love.

I decided on a burger, with a side of fries ($1 extra), but when I tried to place my order, the waiter spoke the following words, which I don't believe I have heard a wait person say in any American restaurant, ever: 

"Sorry, but we're out of French fries."

I know you'll want to read that again, so go ahead. I'd imagine that even after reading it for the second time, you are as shocked as I was. First of all, as far as I know, French fries are America's favorite "vegetable." So I would guess that just about any restaurant that serves them always has plenty around. And even if prepared fries are not handy, you can cut your own! All you need is a potato and a knife. Keep in mind that we were in a deli, which featured a number of menu items composed primarily of potatoes. So they must have had spuds somewhere.

In lieu of fries, the waiter offered a latke. So I'm thinking, "OK, it's a NY-style deli. I can do that." But then the latke was delivered. It looked like it was manufactured by Burlington Department of Public Works, Manhole Cover Division. And the taste? Well, let's just say that if the word "latke" means "oily, rawhide-like substance that causes general nausea," then nothing was lost in translation. 

So OK, we survived the meal, (don't go there, honest) but here's the freaky part. We went to The Higher Ground to see the show. There was a fairly extensive bar food menu. And the menu item "sweet potato fries" was crossed out." Conspiracy? You decide.

Here Comes the I'm Not Really Sure What

If there's anything I hate to do, it's get up early. But this morning, I'm glad I did. Driving back to my place from Deb's, I saw the sun rise in a most remarkable fashion—a shaft of light rising vertically from the hilltops, sort of like God's Lightsaber. I didn't have the real camera with me, but shot a few photos with my cell. What's missing in this shot is contrast— the delicate blue of the sky cleaved by the sun's furious torch.

I confess I have seen few sunrises over the last couple of decades. But I have to think this formation is unusual. What atmospheric condition could direct the light in such a way? Perhaps it is a SIGN. Haven't checked the news yet, but did Dick Cheney pop a heart attack and croak?  That might be enough to warrant such a display, had the Gods just hearts and a decent sense of humor. Or maybe Nazis opened the Ark of the Covenant again. In any case, I'm glad I got to see it in person. Did any of our dear readers do the same?

Off Road!

While Gary was watching the snow from his window, I was out driving Wall-e, my two wheel drive Honda Fit and my son to school. We should have brought cramp-ons because the roads were so slick. There were about eight of us on Cherry Tree Hill Road and off it. To the Right, left, and center, we slid and skated. The sander truck with chains couldn't get up the hill to plow and when he tried to back down there was this guy's car behind him. The two of them almost got into a fist fight but then they made up and helped shovel sand by hand onto the road so the guy could back down. The kindergarden teacher at Eli's school went into a ditch and called her police officer husband to take her to school. Eli hopped a ride with them while I waited two hours for the tow trucks to get us all out of there. Robert from Bob's Sunoco in Plainfield saved the day. He towed me back up the hill, just like a ski lift. Another woman and her son tried to make it up the steep incline after the road was finally sanded, in her french fryer 45 mile/gal car (another useless two wheel drive)  but she ended up having to back down again. Finally got home two hours later. Looks like I'm going to have to fork out a a wad for studded snow tires. You would think Vermont Tire would have recommended studs. Wall-e, it's not your fault you're a light weight.

Snow!

Last week's storm brought us 8-12" of gorgeous snow. Then the misty rain came. Result--a crust even our friends at Morse Farm Ski Touring Center couldn't groom. We tried skiing in our friend Margaret's woods, which was fun but also WORK--chiseling ski tips from under the crust, over and over. But there's good news for all of us who love Nordic--Ma Nature blessed us with six inches of perfect powder last night, and the temperatures are going to stay low. Even our skis are excited. Flatlanders, eat your hearts out!

John Paul Jones

Ten o'Clock. Parenting. Eli stayed home sick today and had to finish a big project on John Paul Jones. If you care to check my high school yearbook (1978) you will find beneath my disgusting photo, my quote: "To the establishment: we have not yet begun to fight." This alluded to my feminist activities at Bronx Science, where I was doing battle over Title IX. Remember that? Integration of sports? Now the girls on Eli's 5th grade basketball team complained that they don't like to play with the boys so all the B-ball teams are separated by gender. Soccer is still mixed though. Other than the fact that I plagiarized JPJ's line, I have nothing in common with the dude and the reason Eli picked him was probably because Jones got to fire a lot of cannons off his battle ships. I'm so wiped out from helping him with his testosterone report, almost as wiped out as I am from finishing my MFA. I'm giving myself 3 stars for being a great parent, even though I am not always appreciated as such. "Mom, whose report is this anyway?!" (He wrote, "Jones, the name the U.S. Navy worship." I tried to tell him Navy was singular and that it should read "worships.") My MFA means nothing around here.