Suddenly, unexpectedly, autumn arrived.
Fall equinox came and went a week ago. Nonetheless I always hope that seasonal changes will occur gently and slowly, allowing my blood and bones time to acclimate to colder temps and drier air with ease and, even, affability.
No such luck. Last week’s hot, sunny days segued into rain, wind, and spiraling temperatures. Nature’s tree trimmer—the wind—blew through yesterday loosening and flinging branches over yard and drive. Today I woke to temps near 30 degrees. I’ve already heard tonight’s prediction: frost warning with temperatures dropping into the 20s.
“It’s too early!” my body whines.
“Get used to it,” Mother Nature seems to say, “You are an adult now, aren’t you?”
Ironically, the leaves have barely begun to color. Oaks, maples, poplar, and birch are still luscious green with occasional yellows and splashes of red scattered throughout the forest and along the roadsides. But our wood stove is fired up and blazing. It’s clearly time to switch to flannel sheets on the bed. And I’m back to wearing my fleece jacket, a full-time fashion statement until May or June.
This morning when I opened the door to the goose barn a bird fluttered, frantically, inside. The hay bale walls are roofed with a pickup topper to allow light into Lucy and Ander’s home. I could see the entrapped winged-one before I propped open the door.
After feeding and watering the big birds I returned to the barn and opened the end of the topper. I expect that the bird, who won’t fly out the lower barn door, will easily exit via the open topper. I’ll check later to see if my strategy worked. Who knows? It’s my guess that these withering winds encourage everyone—including the birds—to stay inside.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
Reflections on a Life with Google
Last night I Googled “Steph Winter.” I was curious. What pieces of my personal information dangle listlessly and/or skyrocket around the universe on the World Wide Web?
My inspiration to conduct this Google research came after last week’s visit from two friends. We discussed the dangers of identity theft over lunch. One friend then insisted that it was important to regularly monitor our own public information.
I’d also recently listened to a public radio story that profiled a man who’d purposefully tried to stay hidden for a minimum of 30 days but was discovered—via previous public profiles and current fabricated profiles—in less time. This man, I believe he was a journalist, was surprised to discover how easily he could be found and how quickly his ruse could unravel through bits of information posted on the internet.
Well, it didn’t seem likely that this Steph Winter would be found any time soon. I plugged through page after page of listings. Page one indicated that I was signed up with LinkedIn, a professional networking site. I admit, I signed on at the invitation of one of the aforementioned friends but I’d never gone any further than posting my name and business information.
Next came innumerable other Steph Winters—there are a lot of us! We twittered—not me!; facebooked—seldom!; played competitive online games, posted info at MySpace, participated in flixster, and posted videos, poems, pictures—not me!, not me!, not me!, not me!
On page four of the Google listings ... jackpot! I found a link for Frances’ and my business—Same Spirit Healing Arts LLC—published in Travel WI. Next, my name was captured from a copy of the Town of Russell board meeting minutes on May 12, 2009. I’d spoken out against nude dancing at the bar across the road from our house. Then, a link to an article I wrote for the Minnesota Women’s Press many years ago. I’d interviewed the owners and operators of Sacred Sites Tours. The two women tour guides loved my writing and subsequently posted my article on their website.
Okay. So now I was cooking with gas.... On page five of the Google listings I found my blog address. Page six mentioned my appearance at the Bayfield County Board of Supervisor’s meeting on September 30, 2008. Public input about a proposed zoning change to permit an airstrip and 380-acre development in the Town of Russell included Steph Winter reading two short quotes from Moby Dick which had “dramatic meaning.” Yep, that was me.
Finally, on page seven I discovered what I did NOT know about myself.... I’m a published author!
Many years ago—I’m not sure when—I responded to a call for submissions for a book about living with diabetes (in Poets & Writers or another literary magazine). I wrote a piece about walking the tightrope of diabetes self care. In it I included an incident where Minneapolis police found me blacked out in my bathtub with a film crew from the national TV show, “Cops,” conveniently present. I heard that my piece was accepted, later received a letter from the editors notifying contributors that they were still searching for a publisher, and then ... nothing.
In 2002 Frances and I moved to Bayfield. End of story ... or so I thought. In 2004 the book, "Reflections on a Life with Diabetes: A Memoir in Many Voices," was published. Or, at least, that’s what I found out last night.
Huh, I was convinced that I knew everything there was to know about me. Silly. Yet, don’t you think it’s just a tiny bit crazy that we can discover things we don’t know about ourselves while surfing the internet?
My inspiration to conduct this Google research came after last week’s visit from two friends. We discussed the dangers of identity theft over lunch. One friend then insisted that it was important to regularly monitor our own public information.
I’d also recently listened to a public radio story that profiled a man who’d purposefully tried to stay hidden for a minimum of 30 days but was discovered—via previous public profiles and current fabricated profiles—in less time. This man, I believe he was a journalist, was surprised to discover how easily he could be found and how quickly his ruse could unravel through bits of information posted on the internet.
Well, it didn’t seem likely that this Steph Winter would be found any time soon. I plugged through page after page of listings. Page one indicated that I was signed up with LinkedIn, a professional networking site. I admit, I signed on at the invitation of one of the aforementioned friends but I’d never gone any further than posting my name and business information.
Next came innumerable other Steph Winters—there are a lot of us! We twittered—not me!; facebooked—seldom!; played competitive online games, posted info at MySpace, participated in flixster, and posted videos, poems, pictures—not me!, not me!, not me!, not me!
On page four of the Google listings ... jackpot! I found a link for Frances’ and my business—Same Spirit Healing Arts LLC—published in Travel WI. Next, my name was captured from a copy of the Town of Russell board meeting minutes on May 12, 2009. I’d spoken out against nude dancing at the bar across the road from our house. Then, a link to an article I wrote for the Minnesota Women’s Press many years ago. I’d interviewed the owners and operators of Sacred Sites Tours. The two women tour guides loved my writing and subsequently posted my article on their website.
Okay. So now I was cooking with gas.... On page five of the Google listings I found my blog address. Page six mentioned my appearance at the Bayfield County Board of Supervisor’s meeting on September 30, 2008. Public input about a proposed zoning change to permit an airstrip and 380-acre development in the Town of Russell included Steph Winter reading two short quotes from Moby Dick which had “dramatic meaning.” Yep, that was me.
Finally, on page seven I discovered what I did NOT know about myself.... I’m a published author!
Many years ago—I’m not sure when—I responded to a call for submissions for a book about living with diabetes (in Poets & Writers or another literary magazine). I wrote a piece about walking the tightrope of diabetes self care. In it I included an incident where Minneapolis police found me blacked out in my bathtub with a film crew from the national TV show, “Cops,” conveniently present. I heard that my piece was accepted, later received a letter from the editors notifying contributors that they were still searching for a publisher, and then ... nothing.
In 2002 Frances and I moved to Bayfield. End of story ... or so I thought. In 2004 the book, "Reflections on a Life with Diabetes: A Memoir in Many Voices," was published. Or, at least, that’s what I found out last night.
Huh, I was convinced that I knew everything there was to know about me. Silly. Yet, don’t you think it’s just a tiny bit crazy that we can discover things we don’t know about ourselves while surfing the internet?
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
In Memory of Hiziki ... and Carlos
Last Thursday was the one-year anniversary of my cat Hiziki’s death. My memories of him still comfort and, sometimes, sadden me. I walk by his grave each morning to hang two bird feeders. When I pass the dangling lavender wreath that marks his burial spot, I offer a greeting: “Good morning, Zeker the Sneaker.”
Early morning on September 10, 2008 after a pain-filled, agonizing night, Zeke weaved off the deck on unsteady feet and stumbled through a web of wild grasses, weeds, and flowers to lie beneath the bird feeder. Shortly after, Frances and I drove him to a vet in Ashland for one final injection.
This summer the ravine metamorphosed into a small vegetable garden of zucchini, sugar peas, and green beans. The ferns, sunflowers, thimbleberries, and black-eyed Susans still insinuated themselves into any unclaimed earth. And a hummingbird favorite—jewel weed—grew directly on top of Zeke’s grave, spitting its seeds at all passersby.
Today, during my t’ai chi chih practice on the deck I noted the design printed on one of our ash cans. It pictures a cow lying in a pasture with a cat sitting close, its cheek pressed against the cow’s nose. I doubt Zeke held much affection for a mere cow. But he was incredibly loving, patient, and kind to me, Frances, and our dog, Namasté.
Sometimes ... when I watch Namasté stalking wild creatures (i.e., squirrels and/or chipmunks) I glimpse body postures that resemble Zeke en hunt. When we first moved to the forest, Namasté shadowed Zeke on his stealthy pursuits through lavish underbrush. Often Zeke seemed disgusted by his canine cohort who—in his eagerness to impress or his unwillingness to wait patiently—raced past the cat and ruined the hunt.
The mouse population multiplied in our house after the departure of our notorious great grey hunter. And, although Namasté is cuddly, he doesn’t lie on my chest in the middle of the night massaging me with his claws nor does he purr loudly as he snuggles close beside me in bed.
Several weeks ago brother, Brett, lost his cat, Carlos. Carlos was a big-boned, long-haired black feline, a survivor himself, who comforted Brett through the death of both of our parents, and more. When Carlos didn’t return from an evening outing, Brett stepped outside to call him home. He listened to Carlos fighting with another cat some distance away. Obviously Carlos couldn’t interrupt his fight to heed Brett’s call.
Before Brett returned to the house, though, he heard a car rapidly approaching, then a loud crack—a shotgun firing?—and he idly wondered if he should pursue the car. Did the driver really fire a gun?
The next morning Brett found Carlos dead on the highway. His final cat fight overwhelmed the need for safety. Carlos died the way he lived, clawing and fighting for his life until a speeding car ran him down.
Though we relish the time they are with us, the total acceptance and unwavering devotion we receive from our companion animals goes missing when they leave us. It cannot be replaced by family and friends. When Zeke died, I realized how much he inhabited my life ... and how gently and unexpectedly he tenderized my heart with his gently grasping claws and his pure, complete love.
What wild, verdant undergrowth do you glide through now, Zeke? What prey do you stalk? Carlos, are you still waging battles? What path do you travel as you venture into the Oneness that eludes those of us who remain here on Earth?
Early morning on September 10, 2008 after a pain-filled, agonizing night, Zeke weaved off the deck on unsteady feet and stumbled through a web of wild grasses, weeds, and flowers to lie beneath the bird feeder. Shortly after, Frances and I drove him to a vet in Ashland for one final injection.
This summer the ravine metamorphosed into a small vegetable garden of zucchini, sugar peas, and green beans. The ferns, sunflowers, thimbleberries, and black-eyed Susans still insinuated themselves into any unclaimed earth. And a hummingbird favorite—jewel weed—grew directly on top of Zeke’s grave, spitting its seeds at all passersby.
Today, during my t’ai chi chih practice on the deck I noted the design printed on one of our ash cans. It pictures a cow lying in a pasture with a cat sitting close, its cheek pressed against the cow’s nose. I doubt Zeke held much affection for a mere cow. But he was incredibly loving, patient, and kind to me, Frances, and our dog, Namasté.
Sometimes ... when I watch Namasté stalking wild creatures (i.e., squirrels and/or chipmunks) I glimpse body postures that resemble Zeke en hunt. When we first moved to the forest, Namasté shadowed Zeke on his stealthy pursuits through lavish underbrush. Often Zeke seemed disgusted by his canine cohort who—in his eagerness to impress or his unwillingness to wait patiently—raced past the cat and ruined the hunt.
The mouse population multiplied in our house after the departure of our notorious great grey hunter. And, although Namasté is cuddly, he doesn’t lie on my chest in the middle of the night massaging me with his claws nor does he purr loudly as he snuggles close beside me in bed.
Several weeks ago brother, Brett, lost his cat, Carlos. Carlos was a big-boned, long-haired black feline, a survivor himself, who comforted Brett through the death of both of our parents, and more. When Carlos didn’t return from an evening outing, Brett stepped outside to call him home. He listened to Carlos fighting with another cat some distance away. Obviously Carlos couldn’t interrupt his fight to heed Brett’s call.
Before Brett returned to the house, though, he heard a car rapidly approaching, then a loud crack—a shotgun firing?—and he idly wondered if he should pursue the car. Did the driver really fire a gun?
The next morning Brett found Carlos dead on the highway. His final cat fight overwhelmed the need for safety. Carlos died the way he lived, clawing and fighting for his life until a speeding car ran him down.
Though we relish the time they are with us, the total acceptance and unwavering devotion we receive from our companion animals goes missing when they leave us. It cannot be replaced by family and friends. When Zeke died, I realized how much he inhabited my life ... and how gently and unexpectedly he tenderized my heart with his gently grasping claws and his pure, complete love.
What wild, verdant undergrowth do you glide through now, Zeke? What prey do you stalk? Carlos, are you still waging battles? What path do you travel as you venture into the Oneness that eludes those of us who remain here on Earth?
Monday, September 14, 2009
Vegetables Galore
I adore the smell of fresh-picked tomatoes, their aroma a heady mix of sweetening juices and green vines. Each morning now, after I hang the bird feeders and release the geese for the day, I pick fresh tomatoes ... zucchini ... green beans. The tomatoes reward me with a brief, fleeting scent of aliveness. I raise the fruit to my nose and suck in the smell. It lingers briefly, staining my fingers with freshness.
Ironically, I seldom eat raw tomatoes (I’m allergic). One or two a season is enough for me. But I love to harvest, clean, pare, and cook the wide variety of fruits and vegetables that hang, plump and lovely, from the vine.
Yesterday’s day-long chef duties produced summer tomato soup, spaghetti sauce, kale-walnut pesto (from Farmer John’s cookbook, “The Real Dirt on Vegetables”), and the beginnings of a vegetable stir-fry. There is a deep sense of accomplishment in picking and preparing vegetables planted with your own hands and harvested through the ache of your own back. And, as we all know, the flavor is exquisite, unlike anything found in the fresh produce department at the local grocery store.
One of my t’ai chi chih students, a substitute teacher in Washburn, WI, told me a story last year about the transformative effects of growing your own food. Many Washburn High School students, she said, regularly left school grounds to head downtown for lunch at local restaurants. Then the school started growing its own garden. Each class was assigned specific vegetables to nurture to maturity. Now students eat lunch in the cafeteria. In no small way—perhaps in a life-changing way—they remain at school to savor the fruits of their labors.
I was reminded of this story when I read “Food for the Soul” in the September 2009 issue of Reader’s Digest. It tells the tale of Liz Neumark, a caterer in New York City, who created the Sylvia Center, a program designed to help city kids experience unprocessed, wholesome food from seedling to simple summer soup.
Neumark invites school children to her organic farm in upstate New York to collect eggs from the chickens, repot seedlings, pick vegetables, and then sample a collaborative cooking effort. The program is named after her youngest daughter who died from a weakened blood vessel in her brain at age six and it’s meant to show kids where real food comes from and how it tastes straight out of the earth.
Her hope is that when children plant, weed, harvest, and cook their own food they will be inspired to make different food choices. And her efforts are being rewarded ... last year a young girl who participated in Silvia Center saw a zucchini at the market and asked her mother to buy it, promising, “I’m going to make you breakfast in bed tomorrow.”
As I sat out on my deck last evening, dusk settling upon me, knife in hand, cutting board in my lap, and a wide circle of vegetables around me, I remembered my mother. I may have been unimpressed watching her sit in her lawn chair snapping beans when I was a child, but I can envision her clearly now. My memories of her pride in her garden and the many hours spent weeding, harvesting, canning, and freezing linger.... These days we share the same chair.
Ironically, I seldom eat raw tomatoes (I’m allergic). One or two a season is enough for me. But I love to harvest, clean, pare, and cook the wide variety of fruits and vegetables that hang, plump and lovely, from the vine.
Yesterday’s day-long chef duties produced summer tomato soup, spaghetti sauce, kale-walnut pesto (from Farmer John’s cookbook, “The Real Dirt on Vegetables”), and the beginnings of a vegetable stir-fry. There is a deep sense of accomplishment in picking and preparing vegetables planted with your own hands and harvested through the ache of your own back. And, as we all know, the flavor is exquisite, unlike anything found in the fresh produce department at the local grocery store.
One of my t’ai chi chih students, a substitute teacher in Washburn, WI, told me a story last year about the transformative effects of growing your own food. Many Washburn High School students, she said, regularly left school grounds to head downtown for lunch at local restaurants. Then the school started growing its own garden. Each class was assigned specific vegetables to nurture to maturity. Now students eat lunch in the cafeteria. In no small way—perhaps in a life-changing way—they remain at school to savor the fruits of their labors.
I was reminded of this story when I read “Food for the Soul” in the September 2009 issue of Reader’s Digest. It tells the tale of Liz Neumark, a caterer in New York City, who created the Sylvia Center, a program designed to help city kids experience unprocessed, wholesome food from seedling to simple summer soup.
Neumark invites school children to her organic farm in upstate New York to collect eggs from the chickens, repot seedlings, pick vegetables, and then sample a collaborative cooking effort. The program is named after her youngest daughter who died from a weakened blood vessel in her brain at age six and it’s meant to show kids where real food comes from and how it tastes straight out of the earth.
Her hope is that when children plant, weed, harvest, and cook their own food they will be inspired to make different food choices. And her efforts are being rewarded ... last year a young girl who participated in Silvia Center saw a zucchini at the market and asked her mother to buy it, promising, “I’m going to make you breakfast in bed tomorrow.”
As I sat out on my deck last evening, dusk settling upon me, knife in hand, cutting board in my lap, and a wide circle of vegetables around me, I remembered my mother. I may have been unimpressed watching her sit in her lawn chair snapping beans when I was a child, but I can envision her clearly now. My memories of her pride in her garden and the many hours spent weeding, harvesting, canning, and freezing linger.... These days we share the same chair.
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