Ghosts From My Past

Ghosts From My Past

Many years ago, when the world was young and we were none of us so jaded as we are now, I had been working as the editor of a series of computer magazines, because that’s what young writers did back then, if they didn’t live in New York City where real publishers were located. But Nan – my father’s mother – had become sick and was dying; so I quit my day job in order to be one of her care-takers, and was doing freelance writing and editing work for a few local magazines and newspapers, technical book publishers, and always the ubiquitous computer magazines and computer companies.

This worked well - I could work from home, and set my own odd hours; and after Nan died, I continued freelancing. One year I was hired to write a white paper for a big computer company. White papers are basically lengthy technical statements about something – in this case, a mind-numbingly boring and detailed technical approach - to I don’t remember what.

The deadline was short, and the paper had to be quite long, so I hired The Musician to be my co-author. The Musician had written for me when I was editing computer magazines, so I knew he was up to the task (back then, that’s one of the things under-employed musicians did, too, between concerts); and as important as his writing skills and ability to concentrate on technical jargon were, as importantly he lived in the Northeast Kingdom, a quiet, distraction-free, yet comfortable working place. 

The Musician lived a few miles from the closest small town, down a dirt road, down a dirt road, past an old cemetery, then down a long dirt driveway. There was a beaver pond a few feet from his front door, and the cemetery a short walk through trees and over an old stone wall behind the house. It was quiet, except for the occasional splash of critters in the pond, the birdsong, the crickets in the tall grass, and the click-click-click and scritch-scritch of computer keys and pens. And it was beautiful – it was full autumn, and the daytime sun was warm on our faces as we worked outside in the shelter of the house. When we were thoroughly frustrated with our work, we could scream without alarming any neighbors. And night-time, when it was too dark to work, was filled with the sound of candles sputtering, pages turning; music flowing from the piano as The Musician practiced, filling the shadows of his house with mystery and magic.

About two weeks in, and half-way through version 1.0 of the paper we’d quickly begun referring to as the Black Hole, to mirror its effect on our minds and emotional states – did I mention it was an incredibly long, boring, deadly-dull technical paper? – I couldn’t take it any longer. I got up from the lawn chair where I’d been working, stretched, and announced I was done with it and suggested we toss the whole mess into the beaver pond, then go swimming.

“Right,” The Musician muttered, looking up briefly from the stack of technical sheets he was trying to turn into human language. “I’ll take care of that; you go for a walk and see how you feel afterwards. $1000 fee.“

“Why don’t you come with me? It’s beautiful, it smells like fall, we both need a break,” I wheedled.

“You go. If I take my eyes off this merde for more than a few seconds, I’ll never find my way back here again,” he said. 

Sigh. I knew what he meant – I’d been there.

“OK,” I said. “I’m going down the road.”

“Mmph.”

I headed off down the long driveway, walking on the edge for the pleasure of kicking up dried leaves, enjoying the smell of autumn richness, deer musk, fallen apples. I decided to go explore the cemetery, something I’d been meaning to do but had never gotten around to. This was an old cemetery, there would surely be some interesting gravestones, with elaborate Victorian artwork and interesting snippets of poetry or worldly observations - a perfect change from what I’d been concentrating on for what seemed like years.

I spent half an hour strolling about the near side of the cemetery, brushing leaves away from moss and lichen-covered headstones, enjoying the odd old names, intriguing bits of funeral art and marveling that some old folks had lived to be near 100 years old before they succumbed to time. 

It was time to head back to my worldly toil. I looked across the long cemetery and was surprised to see that I’d been so intent on reading gravestones that I’d missed the arrival of a funeral – or, no, a funeral re-enactment, at the far end of the cemetery. These must be actors, or Victorian re-enactors, I thought: there was a cart drawn by a pair of horses wearing black headpieces, the women were all in long black dresses with long black veils over their heads, I saw black top hats and – were those frock coats on the men? There were only three children, also in dark clothes, holding hands and being very still.

I wanted to creep closer but also didn’t want to disturb whatever re-enactment or play rehearsal was going on. It was late October: maybe the town was going to sponsor a haunted walk around Hallowe’en, and this was the prep for it. It was kind of an artsy town, after all. So I stood and watched for awhile, then crept quietly away. If the enactors were aware of me – and how could they not be? – they didn’t break character.

I hurried back to The Musician’s house, eager to tell him about my discovery. “Is the town doing a haunted Hallowe’en walk or something? Can we go to it?” I was ready for an adventure.

The Musician said nothing for a few long minutes, just stared at me. “There isn’t an acting group in town,” he intoned. “There aren’t haunted walk plans.”

“Must have been a re-enactment, then. Is there an anniversary of something historical that happened coming up?” I suggested.

“No. There isn’t,” The Musician said. And looked at me oddly. 

“Let’s go back and watch,“ I said. “We can ask someone when they’re on their way out.”

“Mmph.” The Musician said. 

We quietly snuck through the treeline and onto the stone wall behind the house to peer into the cemetery closer to where I’d seen the funeral. No one was there. There were no cart tracks. No horse poops. No veiled women or top-hatted men.

“Mmmph.” The Musician said.

Later; many, many days later, after our work was done and I was back home, it occurred to me to get out the notes Nan had made when she and Gramp traveled around back roads and visited cemeteries, tracking the history of ancestors. There it was:  Abigail Webster, died November 1857, Hardwick Center, VT, buried Old Hardwick Cemetery; three surviving children, and husband Cyrus. Abigail was my great, great, great grandmother.

Hmmmph.

For the Concord Monitor, 31 October, 2019: An Odd Scene in a Very Old Cemetery

Photo courtesy Clare McCarthy

Bubba Time

Bubba time

Bubba: noun. 1. A name, usually for a male human; ex: “Hey, Bubba, C’mon over here!” 2. An endearment for a dog, male or female; ex: “Hey, Bubba, how ya doin’? C’mon over here!” 3. A title, or honorific, for a man who knows what he knows and is really good at it, and consequently, is very handy when you need that skill; ex: “Hey, Bubba, c’mon over here! I got a job for ya.”; 4. A description, usually used with an eye-roll, of a man being particularly thick about something; variation on definition 3; ex: “He’s being a real bubba about that.”    ----Deb’s Dictionary of Modern Descriptions

This is an article for guys, especially guys of a certain age.

Recently, a sports-playing friend of the Husband had to undergo major surgery. It was the first time he’d ever had major surgery, and he and the Husband spent a few days moving stuff around in his house to make it easier for him to move around once he was back from the hospital. I was vaguely aware of all that activity, but I’ve never met this particular friend, and pretty much let it all wash over me.

Then I happened to overhear a phone conversation two or three days before the surgery day. The friend was talking to the Husband about when his operation might start, and how he’d call the Husband once he knew the time so the Husband could take him up to the hospital, and then pick him up again the next day. When the conversation was over, the Husband repeated the information to me.

“So who’s staying with him after the operation?” I asked, curious that no family member was doing the transport.

“Oh, no one. His kids and sister are away,” the Husband told me.

OK; I knew the friend was no longer married, but this was new and alarming information. 

“Whoa, whoa whoa!” I started speaking loudly. “You mean they aren’t keeping him overnight in the hospital and no one’s staying with him? That’s completely unacceptable!” 

“He says he’ll be fine,” the Husband explained. “He says ---“

“GET THAT BUBBA ON THE PHONE!” I shouted. I was starting to get agitated. “I HAVE SOME THINGS TO SAY TO HIM!!”

Which he did; and I did, loudly. The essence of the conversation was that his insurance wouldn’t pay for a second overnight, and his adult son wasn’t able to come until the tail-end of the weekend and the other was also away, which meant he’d be on his own for the first three nights post-op. “I have a cell phone,” he said. “I have some frozen dinners I can stick in the microwave. They told me I wouldn’t have any pain so I’ll be fine.”

“Yup. They were lying to you,” I responded. “You can’t be alone for three nights after major surgery, it’s too dangerous. So start thinking who you can call, and don’t argue with me, because as the Husband will tell you, I’m almost always right. I will haunt you until you find someone, so unless you want another call like this, just do it. Now.” All of which is true.

The Husband, of course, was listening to all this. “You’re spending the first night at his house,” I said.

“OK,” he replied. 

 

“So start thinking who else can stay with him,” I insisted.

“There isn’t anyone,” the Husband said. “His family’s in northern VT and his sons are away.”

“What about the sports guys?” I said, starting to get loud again.

“They’re just sports buddies,” the Husband started to make excuses. “We just play together and sometimes have a meal together afterwards. They aren’t really close to him.”

“CALL THEM!”I was shouting again. And then I enumerated some of the many reasons he couldn’t be left alone, at least at night, for the days before his son would arrive. Which I will condense here, because men, as a race, don’t seem to be able to think of this stuff themselves:

•  Major operation. Lots of stuff sewed and screwed and glued back together. Lots of stuff that could, if he was unlucky, start bleeding, shifting, unstitching.

• Major operation. Possibility of blood clotting, bad reaction to drugs, more pain than they promised he’d feel.

•  Major operation. If he was to get up in the middle of the night in a major-operation-sequelae-induced stupor, and tripped --- big bad. Someone needs to be there to call 911.

• If he falls and his cell phone’s in his hand, it’s going to go flying to somewhere on the far side of the room, probably under the couch where he can’t reach it. If he’s stored it in his pocket and he falls on it, it’s going to be smashed beyond use. If he falls and breaks something – arm, leg, neck (don’t scoff, I know someone who broke his neck when he fell off the toilet at night because he fell back to sleep while he was sitting on it), he isn’t going to be in any condition to make that cell phone call. If he even remembered or bothered to carry it with him the few steps to the bathroom. And it didn’t land in the toilet or smash against the side of the tub.

·    That’s a few of the possibilities. What’s important to remember is that if someone’s there, and no awful thing happens, the worst outcome is that the friend staying there might not have slept as well as at home. But if something bad does happen, having someone else in the house could mean the difference between suffering hours of pain, and serious damage to the operation site until someone happens by, discovers the damage, and calls for help; or possibly even death. 

My bigger point is this: Bubbas – guys – you’ve got to start taking responsibility for each other. And you’ve got to be willing, when you need it, to tell your buddies, even if they’re just sports buddies, that you need some help.

This goes for all of us, especially as we don’t all have spouses, or family living near-enough-by, especially as we grow older. But I’m talking mostly to you bubbas, because I don’t know a woman who, under the same circumstances, wouldn’t have been overwhelmed with offers of help from other women – yoga class buddies, church group members, library board acquaintances, even friends who might have to take time off from work and travel a distance to be there. There would be someone staying with the patient the night before, checking in during the day of the operation, visiting the next day, cooking meals to store in the frig, doing house chores, welcoming the patient back with cookies and warm blankies, and someone, or several someones, lined up to be there for a week or more if necessary. These wouldn’t all necessarily be close, BFF friends.

So, guys – if what you’ve got is “just sports buddies” or just guys you know from the gym, or wherever you hang out – these guys are part of your tribe, and not only should you all be willing and able to ask for help when you need it, you should all be ready to offer help and physically be there when it’s necessary. Trust me, your spouses will get it if you have to be away a night or two to stay with a buddy in need. They might even make a casserole.

And if you, who happens to have a spouse or family nearby, is in a similar situation – the rest of you should still hop in there and offer help anyway. There may be gaps in coverage; maybe help with errands would be welcome; maybe the spouse is just not able to be a caretaker at that level. And sometimes just knowing there’s someone else to call on can be a major relief to the main caregiver.

Earlier this year, another one of these sports buddies suffered a heart attack during a game. EMTs came swiftly, he was fine. But no one there, playing the game or in the facility, knew CPR, and for a few days, they were all shaken. When the Husband came home from that game he was traumatized. 

Bubbas – here’s a plea: during some of those post-game lunches, have a few serious conversations about men’s care for your buds. Set up a CPR class for all you sports buddies at the sports place, and make sure everyone attends. Talk about how to handle a situation like the one that came up with the sports buddy this week. Let your hearts hang out; affirm your connections to each other; vow to be warriors in care of each other when need arises.

Yes, it’s ok to include – and call on – your female buddies, too, but chances are if you let them know what’s going on, you won’t have to ask for help, they’ll be there without you asking. And will probably bring soup.

To give credit where it’s due, the sports buddy managed to get the help he needed this week. His up-north sister’s coming for one night, one son got there for the first night, the Husband’s spending tonight, and then his other son will be here on Sunday. We expect that the worst thing that will happen is that a few people won’t get as good a night’s sleep as they might have at home, and the patient himself will be surprised at how very tired he is and how long it lasts.

As the Husband scrambled to help find help, one of the sports buddies stepped up to take the buddy to the hospital, and more wonderfully, three of the Husband’s buddies and acquaintances, who are total strangers to the sports buddy, also offered help. So even if you don’t know who to call – someone you know knows someone else. 

We’re all part of the same huge family, and we all owe aid and succor, when we can possibly give it, to all members of our larger family.  As the old folks would tell us, it’s a blessing to give, and a blessing to receive, and we shouldn’t be afraid to do both. When we ask for help, we open a precious space for blessings to the person who gives help. Cosmic brownie points, if you will.

But you bubbas need to become consciously aware, and have a plan. Bubba always has a plan, and that’s part of his success as a bubba.

Happy to be right about this. Let me know if you need me to clarify anything else.

For the blog, and all the Bubbas: October 25, 2019

Charley Freiberg photo: Autumn Clematis

Half Vacation and Still Snotty

A new visitor

I’m half-way, sorta, through my vacation and also through this miserable cold I caught just beforehand. It’s a great way to waste a vacation and I don’t recommend it.

When I look out the window into the back forty, however, it’s just glorious. The maples at the far side of the field are mellowing to rich yellows and burgundies, and the garden’s an interesting patchwork of color: bright, bright red blueberries, light green swathes of fluffy asparagus ferns, dark brown dirt of empty beds, a browny-yellow vertical patch of dried scarlet runner bean vines, and a brilliant green patch of happily-enjoying-the-cold Egyptian onions. The raspberry bed at the far side is mixed green and yellow and red, the tall sunflowers are brown but still standing like soldiers guarding the west edge of the garden near the compost bins. 

Oops - noticed me with the camera

At night I can see my color-changing solar light easily again, and the bright solar globe near the compost bins. Those will both need to come in for the winter before long, along with the bird bath, which is now just collecting leaves. There’s an ankle-deep carpet of colored leaves on the swath of grass between driveway and kitchen pond. And the garden is full of slow-moving, fall-drunk bumblebees and wasps, trying to grasp the last ripe fruits, the last nectar-producing hardy flowers, before retiring for the winter.

Headed out

The wart has been denuded of its tent and its colored solar lights and its flower pots, except for two small ones that are still gamely blossoming. The furniture out there looks forlorn, but on sunny days the furry beasties are still curling up in the chairs and luxuriating in autumn warmth. The table is covered with gladiola corms, which I’m drying before storing them for the winter in the cellar. They’ll come inside to the chapel where we have our woodstove, for a few days; before tonight, when it’s supposed to start raining.

There’s a breeze today and my windcatchers are circling wildly and glinting beautifully. I may venture out to the garden a little later, and pull and cut back a few more dead plants. Fortunately, my garden is already nearly cleared out because we had such an early frost. All I really need to spend much time doing is weeding the new raspberry patch, cutting back the old raspberry patch, fertilizing the raspberries and fruit trees one last time (timed-released tablets!), and putting hay down in those patches for the winter. Those things will have to wait until bending over for more than a minute doesn’t set off a coughing fit.

New wind thingy

And also, planting the new perennials - if they ever actually arrive. And garlic. But from the looks of the Egyptian onions, it’s a tad too early, at least for the garlic. The perennials – I may be planting those in a snowstorm, the rate it’s going. The one company swears they mailed out a batch of them last week, and still have another batch to send; the other company….well, it’s mostly tulips so I’m not worried about that batch yet, but there is a peony root that I’d like to get into the ground sooner than later. If it would arrive. If.

With a head full of snot (snot and snivel are actually Chinese medicine technical terms), I haven’t been able to taste much for a few days except sweet, sour, etc.; but I can tell you from pre-snot experience that there’s nothing so delicious as a perfectly ripe pear, and the pears from my pear tree are ripening apace. In fact, one basket full is done as of today. I can also tell you that if you cut up pears and add a little water and cook them like you would applesauce, you wind up with an incredibly delicious liquidy pear sauce which, with a little nutmeg grated into it, becomes an extraordinary sauce to pour over a vanilla sponge cake. 

New asparagus has made some lovely scarlet berries

To make pear sauce: in a saucepan, put a little water – how much depends on the size of your pot and how many pears you’ll use – you’re just using the water to keep the pears from catching onto the bottom of the pan before they start liquefying, so you don’t need much.

Wash your pears, which should be ripe; then start slicing off pieces into your pot, discarding the core and stem and any bad spots. We don’t peel them, the skin adds flavor.

Cook these on low, covered, until very very soft. Doesn’t take long, keep an eye on it, stir it once or twice while cooking to be sure it’s not sticking to the bottom of the pan.

When really soft, and while still warm, press the pear goo through a sieve, remove any large pieces of skin, and grate some nutmeg into it. You won’t need sugar, the pears are sweet enough. Stir well, taste for seasoning, and adjust if necessary. Put this into a small jug, as the Brits say, which we would call a pitcher, and set aside or refrigerate if you aren’t going to use it immediately. Can be put into a freezer container (leave ½-inch headspace) and frozen.

What the sunflowers look like now

Nan’s Hot Milk Sponge Cake recipe. This is an old one, very simple, very fast, and surprisingly good. Might date from WWII.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Grease and flour an 8-inch cake pan.

Beat 2 eggs (you may want to use 3; or 2 jumbo eggs. Eggs tend to be smaller nowadays) with 1 cup sugar until creamy. Add 1 tsp vanilla and ½ tsp salt (not necessary if you’re using salted butter) and beat again. Add 1 cup flour, 1 tsp baking powder, and beat well again. 

In a saucepan that you’ve rinsed with cold water (helps keep the milk from cooking on), heat ½ cup milk and 1 and ½ Tablespoons of butter until the butter is melted. (You can replace milk with fruit juice if you want, say, an orange sponge, or a raspberry sponge). 

Then add this to the flour and egg mixture, and beat until well blended. 

Put the batter into the cake pan and bake 20-30 minutes until a cake wire inserted into center comes out clean. Let cool 5 minutes in pan, then flip over onto a cooling rack.

To eat (cool or warm), cut a nice slice and pour a good serving of pear sauce over it. Try not to repeat more than once a day.

California poppies close up when it's cloudy or dark, but are growing madly in the cold!

When our own pears are gone, I’ll bake pears from the grocer – I usually use Bosc, and you don’t want these to be ripe, but still firm – in sweet wine. To do this, cut them in half the long way, take out stem and core and cut off the blossom “star” at the bottom. Lay them into a baking pan and pour a sweet wine or fruit juice around them, about ½-inch deep in the pan. Over the top, you can grate nutmeg, add slivers of candied ginger, or alter the spices to taste: cinnamon, cloves (gently), coriander, allspice, even a little black ground pepper; and bake at 350 degrees for about 30 minutes. Wicked good with custard sauce or a little heavy cream flavoured with vanilla, or even vanilla ice cream if the pears are served hot.

Pears also make a lovely galette. A galette is a mostly open-faced tart, made to look rustic, and usually cooked on a pizza pan or some such flat cooking sheet. It can be filled with sliced pears, or apples, or peaches, or heaps of blueberries, raspberries, blackberries; or can be made to be savoury, with sliced tomatoes, or onions, for example. 

Marjoram turns a lovely color in the fall

The method is to make a galette crust, which is like a pie crust but more short (higher proportion of butter to flour than a regular pie crust): this is my adaptation of Lydia Shire’s galette crust recipe:

Heat oven to 400 degrees.

Pastry is made with 1 cup flour, 6 Tablespoons of softened butter, worked together until it forms cornmeal-like consistency; then enough cold  water to hold it together well. If it’s warm out, wrap well and let it rest in the frig until your fruit is ready. In our climate, not necessary except in the depths of summer.

Roll and press the pastry out onto your pizza pan (not greased; but use flour on your rolling pin). 

Have ready thinly-sliced fruit, or tomatoes, or onions, etc; or halve cherries and halve or slice strawberries depending on size; berries like blueberries and raspberries can be fresh or frozen, but don’t defrost first if frozen, just break them up so you don’t have one solid chunk.

In the center of your pastry, spread a circle of flour-sugar mixture made of 2 Tablespoons each flour and sugar. Use just flour for a savory galette. Spread the circle out to cover about 6 inches of the center. The flour mixture soaks up juices and keeps the bottom of the crust from getting mucky.

Now spread your slices or whole fruits out in a circle (slices make lovely concentric circles radiating from the middle) until you’ve covered all but the outer 2-3 inches of the pastry. If needed, sprinkle the fruit with sugar, and sprinkle on whatever spices you want to use. Nutmeg is great on pears, as is clove, and slivered bits of  candied ginger; cinnamon and allspice and black pepper is nice on apples; fresh basil leaves or cardamom or nutmeg is nice on peaches, which also like slivered candied ginger; and so on. For savory galettes, think of basil, savory, chili powder, cumin seeds, pepper, salt, garlic powder, and so on.

Using a tableknife or spatula, gently lift the uncovered edge of your pastry up over the filling, so you end up with an 8-10 inch open tart with 2-3 inches of pastry folded over the edges. If making a fruit galette, you can sprinkle this covering edge of pastry with cold water followed by sugar, which will caramelize as it bakes; on a savory galette, you can sprinkle with herbs or grated cheese or flake salt (sparingly), or leave it plain.

Bake 35 – 45 minutes, turning once or twice during cooking.

You will eat more than you think you will, so best to make two!

Now, I’m heading off to the kitchen. Anything I make that cooks won’t have my germs on it, right?

16 October 2019

Blueberries and the critter cemetery