What’s the rush?

I have to admit that my driving style has been modified by the new Prius.   It has a data screen which will show you exactly how many miles per gallon you are using at the exact moment you look at it.   It also has a “fairly accurate” cumulative gas mileage readout.

It didn’t take me very long to get motivated to do an experiment about my gas mileage.   I typically have been the sort of person who follows the speed limits on roads where I know I am likely to be overlooked by the cops.   Out on the little county roads there is rarely any police presence, and so I have had  tendency to engage my “Mario Andretti” atavar and drive like a bat out of hell on those roads.   I have found this to be a lot of fun, since those roads are generally twisty and curvy, challenging.   You do have to worry about deer and cattle being in the way, however.  I have hit a deer, and it is an experience I’m not anxious to repeat any time soon.

Anyway, one day fairly soon after we acquired the new car,  I was driving home from Springfield on I44, and I was not in any particular rush.   I had noticed that  our usual way of coming home at about 74 mph resulted in us getting around 48.7 miles per gallon.   Now this is nothing to complain about, but I wondered if changing my speed would make a difference.   I chose to experiment with 65 miles per hour, remembering Jim’s experience of rather stress free driving at that rate of speed when he was going out to California in a van that really didn’t want to go any faster than that.  

Imagine my surprise when my cumulative mileage for the trip jumped to 53.4 miles per gallon.   Five extra miles per gallon was a good ten percent improvement, and I don’t know that many people who are not attracted by a sale that gives them ten percent off the price of shoes or clothes.   It didn’t take me long to figure out that changing my speed to 65 from 74 meant it took me about six minutes longer to get to Springfield.  Six minutes — ten percent off — hmm. 

I have gotten in the habit of setting my cruise control at 65 when I’m on the interstate, and at the speed limit and no higher when I am travelling to other places.   This habit has brought a certain attitude in other drivers to my attention.   

When I am going from my lovely town to the town that is about 20 miles north of here, I tend to stick to the 60 mile per hour speed limit.   The road is fairly straight, and about 14 miles out of town it becomes narrow with rather steep drop-offs into the ditches.  It wends its way through country populated with lots of deer, many of whom appear to have a need to commit suicide by jumping in front of cars.   Despite the fact that the speed limit is 60, many of the people traversing this section of road feel that it is their God-given right to drive at 70 (or more), and they do not take kindly to boring stupid people who insist on staying at the speed limit.   They will ride your tail, flash their lights, shake their fists, and roar past when they finally get a break in traffic, uttering curses and making obscene gestures.   Al of this caused simply because you do not share their need to shave three minutes off the travel time to the mutual destination.

Okay, I understand pushing your peppy little car through the challenge of twisty roads simply for the joy of it.   But I do not understand acting like every road that has pavement ought to have the same speed limit as the Interstate highway.

And the final question I have is, what makes these people so special that they believe that they do not have to obey the traffic laws?   If you asked them if they thought they had the right to rob a bank or murder their neighbor, they would look at you as if you were crazy to think they would do such a horrible thing.   And yet, they think nothing of breaking the speed laws, driving while inebriated, ignoring stop signs, refusing to use their turn signals, and breaking all other manner of laws that govern how we are supposed to drive.

Why is this?   What is the big hurry anyway?  I’ve gotten so that I rather enjoy the less adrenaline filled trips from point A to point B.

I never thought I’d say that!

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zinnia

I was wandering around with my camera yesterday, trying to get a decent picture of my saffron crocuses.   I did not succeed, their delicate blue just washes out in the light I have had available.

But I happened to take a fresh look at the zinnias that volunteered in the herb garden, and one of them was posing so beautifully against the gazing ball I have there.   I couldn’t resist the invitation to operate the shutter, and here is the result.

What I really love about that photo is the reflection in the gazing ball of all the trees in the back yard.  I did not notice them when I was taking the picture, but only when I started cropping it.  

I became enthralled with the structure of the zinnia flower, and zoomed in on it.  I suspect that the true flowers of this plant are the tiny yellow stars.  Anyway, I love this image too.

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Stroll Garden Oct 28 2007 update

I got a burst of energy yesterday afternoon.   I only interrupted Jim twice during his dinner making activities.   The first time I needed help loading big rocks onto the cart and dragging them down to the site.   The second time was for advice and consultation regarding exactly how the scree slope garden will fit into and develop from the stepping stone path.  

We really aren’t sure exactly what to do.   First of all, a photo of what we have gotten done so far.  As you can see, I was getting expert assistance from Ruby.  But if you compare this to the last update, you can see the path has grown radically, and there are several new rocks that are destined to be steps in the scree slope.

If you walk to the top of the path, stand by the gate, and look back along the path, this is how it looks.

All the stones in the path down to the big square dark red one are set into the ground at their proper level.   Beyond that stone, I am not totally sure exactly what level to have the stones at.   I need to build up the path farther along there so that the rain garden will form its basin just to the right of it.    The path will form a sort of dam, and I think that the stones will probably need to start to step up sharply after that last stone I have set.  Fortunately, we have lots of dirt.

The dilemma I have about the scree slope is more evident in the shot towards the gate.   We are having a hard time deciding if the rocks need to rise up in a step right next to the path, or whether there should  be a low flat place next to the path that is rather wide so that the slope can peter out towards the path.  This would also give the rock garden plants a space to cascade into.   After we both looked at it for a while, we decided that we didn’t really know which way was better, but that whatever we did would probably look great when it was done.

Either way, I want to decide which look I want before I start moving rubble in behind the rocks.   Once they are set, I don’t want to have to move them again.   Also, I have been accessing my “Inner Japanese Gardener” and have realized that the rocks in the scree slope have to have some sort of flow going on in the grain of the rock as they are laid out.   I already have identified three different kinds of sedimentary rocks I have available for my different levels of scree slope.   It’ll be like having rock strata that have been exposed by erosion.  

Jim started a fire in the sauna last night, and we partook gratefully.  I must say my shoulders and arms think that was a really great idea.  I am on my way out there to set a few more rocks in the path, and choose some more for the scree slope.

Later today we are going up to the Lake for a battle of blues bands.  The outcome will determine which of our local bands the Blues Society will sponsor to the International Blues Challenge later this winter.   Should be a fun time.

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The Incredible Bouncing Dog

Ruby has always had her way of showing enthusiasm.   Whenever I return home, no matter how short the trip was, as I enter the house I will see on the other side of the utility room door the apparition of a dog, bouncing almost as high as my eyes.

 ”You’re home! You’re home!   Hurray!   I missed you so much!” she seems to be saying.   Everything that Ruby says is punctuated with exclamation points.  She does not seem able to communicate any other way.  

Anyway, last summer Jim was playing “Throw the Toy and I will Fetch It” with her, and I managed to capture the bounce.

She eventually developed a facility in catching the ball, also.   Here we see here waiting for the pitch:

And the ball is off!

The stretch (notice the ball in the upper left corner of the photo):

And the high fly is captured!

We have a softball that she loves to chase also, but for some reason she is smart enough to NOT try to catch it on the fly.   And she never bounces in the house, either.

What a good dog.

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Full Moon

The phone has been busy all evening.  Our son was calling to say farewell, his unit deploys tonight.   The first time he called was before their goodbye formation; it was not a success.  Jim was off buying some saucers for the plants I brought inside for the winter as well as the two new ones my friend Nancy gave me at the fish fry Saturday.   I couldn’t talk long because I had just sent a client into my room to undress for her massage when the phone rang.  

So he called back later, happened to be right after dinner.  We were just in the process of toasting his safety with the last of our bottle of Cabo Wabo tequila, so we sipped on the ends of our drams as we talked with him.   It has been a rather fraught evening, as I discovered my dearest husband has taken the responsibility of fatherhood extremely deeply.   After our final words with Jesse right after dinner, DH was so overcome by emotion he could not talk any more.   He did all his evening routines and went to bed.

When I went in to change into sweat pants so I could walk the labyrinth without getting too cold, I found him wracked with tears.  He told me he wanted to be alone, and I did leave him there despite the fact that my deepest need was to comfort him, put my arms around him and absorb all that pain and ground it for him.   That was not what he needed, so I tore myself away and went out to walk the labyrinth under the full moon.

I could not see the moon, it was hidden behind a thick veil of clouds, which were weeping a cold, inconsolable rain in keeping with the mood inside the house.   I had decided to carry Jesse into the labyrinth symbolically, and searched the house for something that was appropriate.   I think I found the perfect object.

When he got married to young Amanda, the amazing painter, I gave them a witch ball for their wedding gift.   This is a handblown glass ball traditionally hung in windows to absorb negative energy and keep it from reentering a space.   This one was a beautiful marbled blue and green glass, and the webbing of glass threads within the ball (which are there to trap negative energy within their strands) is beautiful, balanced, thick, and complex.  

Sadly, the marriage did not work out, and when Jesse had to downsize his possessions, he gave this glass ball into my keeping.   It has been sitting in my living room for several years now, witnessing parties and dinners and long, loving afternoons and evenings.   So, it connects me with Jim and us with Jesse.  But it also spent time living with him and carries some of his energy.  

Additionally, as a symbol for a human being going into a violent war zone, the fragility of the glass seems particularly apropos.  

We like to think of ourselves as tough, but really our flesh and bone are all too fragile.   We humans have gotten very good at devising ever more powerful ways to destroy that flesh and the human spirit it contains. 

In the years since we adopted him, we have seen our son grow and develop, and overcome incredible injuries to become the strong and beautiful man he is today.  We nurtured him carefully: sometimes sternly, but always with love.

What really seems sad is that the community around us does not see the sacrifice our boys and men are making in their name.   They don’t seem to know or care, they just want to have enough money to be able to purchase fast food or buy the next cool plastic toy offered them by the multinational corporations who are motivating and controlling this war.  

Where are the service stars?   If I post one in my window, will my neighbors know what it means?

And then, as I walked the labyrinth, I thought of conversations I have had with my son; conversations where he was trying to console me and reconcile me to his choice to volunteer for military service, reminding me of the truths we both know:   He has a warrior karma.  He must go into battle.   He must protect the innocent.   It is why he is attracted to the broken and wounded young girls he seems to collect around him.   One day he told me, “Don’t worry about me.   I know how to be careful.   And I am no stranger to death.   I know that I have died in battle many times.”   I know this, and bow before the knowledge deep in my heart, for I was there with him for many of those experiences: as mother, wife, comrade, sister.   Never was it easy.

Perhaps this is the lifetime where he gets to live. 

Meanwhile, the sky still weeps and my husband fitfully sleeps.

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