RadioHead

I know I have become my mother in so many ways, I leave my car doors open, I can repair just about anything with staple and glue guns, I irrationally love my animals, don't have much time for television and believe in dinner parties. I realized today I am there in yet another. She listened to WOR out of NYC on the car radio as a rule. I was familiar with Joan Hamburg, who knew, it seemed everything about New York. If you want to buy fresh Mesopotamian flatbread, or want to take Grandma to an authentic 1920's restaurant, or plan to ask your beloved to marry you and need a well priced rock? Call Joan Hamburg. The guy that knew everything to know about gardening in the tri-state area? Unlikely named Ralph Snodsmith. And the morning Rambling With Gambling show with John Gambling. I suffered as teens do whilst listening to talk radio. I preferred to listen to I-95 rock and roll and 101- pop music.
But, now, I find that often music in the car gets under my skin and I feel annoyed. Kids, this is what your talk radio listening parents are avoiding when they can't handle "your" music. An itchy kind of I-can't-take-another-note feeling that makes our finger stab out at the buttons on the dash.
But  my choices in talk are also limited. There is talk sports radio, which can be interesting depending on the topic (for me, baseball, pro basketball, hockey are really NOT interesting...sports not likely to be discussed, i.e. anything horse, would be very interesting).  But, it seems that on my usual commute time, the sport radio host is a most irritating man. He can make the most awful run on sentences, that continually seem to switch topic, never ending where they began. (For the astute, yes, that also seems like this blog. Ugh.)
I have AM conservative radio- Rush Limbaugh specifically, which is beyond my abilities to sit through. I have a problem with political talk in general, and often find myself saying aloud during many a political discussion "You, are an idiot, You, are an idiot, You, are an idiot." Which, I realize falls short of eloquence, but it is just me and Denty, and the car doesn't care a whit about my eloquence.
By default, I end up switching between the NPR stations available looking for the most interesting/least irritating fare. And today I found out I have an opinion about abortion/ birth control/ sex education.... I still don't' know what my opinion is, exactly, but I feel strongly there is an opinion there.
This came about, I think, by the world population estimation passing 7 billion. So, there were several programs aimed at assessing the different aspects of this advent.
This morning it was a Doctor in Ghana and some guy in the World Population office, (sounded American)  or something. My eyebrows got hot when the World Population guy tried to get me to believe that the solution to the birth control concerns of African women would be best addressed by "Urbanization, Education" and getting wealthier. Because, as he says, as societies move to cities, get educated and acquire more wealth, they have fewer children. This is what has happened in Europe and the U.S.  Ummm, this is where the "You, are an idiot..repeat" comes slipping out. The guy in Ghana, a doctor in a hospital there, was saying the women would like access to birth control and family population control education. There are so many who feel they can't feed the babies they have and would not like to watch any more starve.... so, the World Population guy says, send them to the city to get educated, rich, and problem solved.
Then, later in the day, a program discussing a new piece of legislation in Mississippi- to be voted on Tuesday- that means in the state of Mississippi a "person" will be defined as beginning at the moment sperm meets egg. So..... if you miscarry, you have ended a person's life. So, have a car accident, miscarry your baby and not only have that heartache, but a murder trial to boot.  If you get raped, and have a "morning after" pill, you are potentially committing murder, so... sorry, you must have the rapist's child. No more I.U.D's, they are murder weapons. You cannot have IVF, because if you implant a fertile egg and it dies- murder. And, if you fertilize several eggs, and any of them die in the petrie dish, same result. Murder trial.  The woman representing the group backing the legislation when asked about any of these scenarios said "I don't think that would happen. It doesn't make sense." After that, it seemed as if they didn't really need a person on the other side of the argument. Still, the other fellow was extremely well informed and rational, which made her seem even less so. My finger stabbed out when a caller felt the need for me to know that "She agreed with the Mississippi legislation." but the real kicker was "I don't believe in these sexual education classes. They shouldn't be teaching that to kids." Which, okay, I have a problem with the government being responsible for forming my own children's opinion about sex and the right and wrong of it all, but still, there are plenty of kids who get nada from their parents, this lady I'm thinking is one- and she's happy keeping children ignorant of the reality of things, then holding them responsible for murder. "You are an idiot, You are an idiot, You are an idiot..." Not my best moment. But, I did decide to get my kids in on the discussion. Murderers? Mothers? 
So, no I'm not sure how to define my opinion about these things, but I do know when I think something is malarky. Oh, how I wish they had a Joan Hamburg of TBC, I would really prefer to hear about where to find a great place to find yards of velvet ribbon, or the best chicken statues in town. Perhaps I should just work on enjoying Lady Gaga and LFMAO on the radio......

The short end of the Pixie Stick.

Youngest gets shafted in many ways. When Eldest was 10, Middlest was 7 and Youngest was 4. Halloween was an affair, with elaborate costumes and a family trip back to TBC, our old neighborhood, for Trick or Treat. Then, out to dinner, to try to balance the candy overload stuffed in mouths over the past two hours. At that age, Youngest was still filled with the wonder of "I walk up to people's houses, and they give me candy??!!" He would race ahead, not a bit timid, and up the stairs to the next front door, shouting "Thank You!" Shoving the candy into his bag and racing to the next house, as if since this was too good to last he'd best make the most of it. The next night we'd have a whole evening of carving Jack-O-Lanterns and then arranging them to their best advantage in the darkness. Strings of candy-corn shaped lights on the mantels, bats cut from paper hanging from the chandeliers (I don't think I can claim decoration points for the real bats hanging about from the dining room curtains our first Halloween at Cowfeathers.) Halloween was the start of the season of stews, and mittens and visible breathing. (That is in the house. Outside it's even colder.)
Halloween is still the start of that season, only, Youngest leaves for school in seven minutes, and is busily trying to scavenge up a costume for the Halloween party. Today. Which reminded me that Halloween is indeed upon us, despite the lack of festive decoration and the absence of a basket full of tempting little individually wrapped candies calling to me from their prepared place "Cate! You looooove Kit Kat bars! Just one, or 12 won't hurt!" Well, it will. And there is no sense in entering the battle against pilfering the Milk Duds when there won't be a trick-or-treating child around for miles to come a knockin' on the door. The bags of candy can stay at Wal-Mart. I do have some lonely candy corns sticking to the edges of the candy jar in the front room. Safe from me. Ick. In any case, there may be a boy in the house, still only age 10, who may want to try racing from house to house in a neighborhood somewhere testing the "I knock, they give me candy!" theory.
 Digging through the recycling bin to find the newspaper yields the information that we've missed one local trick-or-treat night, and the others are on the same night as Marching Band State Finals for Eldest. Will he get shafted on this too?
My hope is that even if he does, his memories of Halloween will still be good ones. I, too, am Youngest. In the kindergarten-3rd grade years of Halloween, we lived in a suburban neighborhood in New Jersey. Halloween was big doin's there. Yet, as Youngest, I believe all 4 Halloweens I was "Little Red Riding Hood". Because, we had a pretty red cape with red fur around the hood, and a basket. I vaguely remember some of the more elaborate costuming that took place for my eldest sister, including a turn when she was maybe in 1st grade? as a "Witch's Hat". Just the hat. To scale and towering above, belling out below, it was built with engineering precision, and very cool. To wit, I should probably look back on my years as "Red" with relief, because I didn't escape the costuming plans of my mother every year. In this same suburban New Jersey town, there was a Halloween Parade. I clearly remember the year my Mom- Dad might have had a hand in this too, decided to march the kids in the parade dressed as scarecrows. For several nights we cut brown paper grocery bags into strips to  make our "straw". Each of us was then attached by our wrists to a broom handle across our shoulders and then dressed in "straw" tied at top and joints with twine or ribbon, then dressed in flannel shirts. However they got the shirts over the stretched out arms, and then our little trussed up bodies into the station wagon for the parade, I've never asked. I do remember marching, with pins and needles in my shoulders and arms that then progressed to agonizing pain, down the streets of New Jersey, stumbling my way with a sight line of two small holes in brown paper, hot, loud breathing and kept going only by the sure knowledge that to stop was to never finish the parade and be released from my broom handle. The three scarecrows either won the costume contest, or I was told we did to mitigate my tears. Red Riding hood gets to wear a pretty dress, be warm and has a basket for candy. Costume perfection- why change?

Eldest as a Pink Fairy, and Middlest as a clown, or maybe Gene Simmons? Friend Trish will recognize the clown costume, as will her kids!

Youngest's sisters had years of "I want to be a....." and I would create. "Pink Princess!" "Cinderella!" "A Fairy, a Horse Rider, Katy No Pocket, a Scary Doctor, a Clown"... Youngest had no such creations except for his first Halloween when to make toting him around all evening in a sling easier, I sewed him into a green string bean.

Huz holding my little string bean. Eldest as "Horse Rider" (note the Pony Club pin on the lapel) and Middlest as Cinderella.

So, Youngest has come up with a Cowboy costume. He has augmented his jeans and too- large hand- me- down boots with a crumpled, but very nice black felt cowboy hat (also a hand-me-down), my old c'boy belt with the enameled Hampshire Hog on the buckle, my well-worn roping gloves and fabric "chaps" his Nana made for him years ago, but are only shorter than when created. He selected a favorite plaid shirt- also too large for which he will have a bulky middle when he crams it in the top of his jeans. YEE HAW! and OH MY GRAVY! It's Halloween.
Now to figure out a way to fill up his saddle bags with candy solicitations.....

Addendum to Apples!

Here it is Tuesday, and a quiet day alone in a house that has been bustling with humanity. We had a fairly relaxed week, now that volleyball is over, and band is winding down, enjoying the company of Huz's parents, trekking back and forth to the Pumpkin Show- three parades in all, football and halftime band, horsey activities and the kick off of the 4-H year.  The Saturday calendar actually only had two scheduled commitments, with Huz teaching an ultrasound shortcourse, and Middlest having a mid-day Girl Scout meeting. This left a wealth of time to plan an excursion. Or, at least 5 continuous hours of time for me, kids and inlaws... a good bit less for Huz, but still- this was special.
We decided to go for apples.
Now, when we moved to Mid America from the open space of Oklahoma, not finding a farm in the three days set aside for purchasing a house, we lived in TBC (The Big City). And, as the kids floor puzzle of the United States featured an apple on the state of Ohio, I had a notion that we could find apples in these here parts. When fall rolled around, after making inquiries to other preschool moms, we drove east of TBC to Lynd's Fruit Farm. What a joy! Rows upon rows of beautiful trees, ripe apples hanging ready for picking, nary a weed in sight. Certainly, not the only family to have the idea were weren't exactly alone, but it was like hunting a Christmas tree on a Saturday in late November- people were around.... but your trees were yours to pick. And the apples were amazing. We went back each year we lived in TBC.

I pulled this out of the scrapbook from 2002, our last fall in TBC. Youngest couldn't believe all the  food just lying around on the ground. And there are worse things to put in your mouth...

Then, in 2003, we moved to Cowfeathers. We wanted to pick apples again, as our aged apple trees on the farm were not stellar producers that year. Lynd's seemed awfully far away when we were already in the country. So, Huz made an Internet search and came up with a much closer apple picking farm, Holly Hills? I think the name was something like that. We changed it to "Poison Ivy Hills", as we were the only crazy ones picking apples in the whole orchard. The kids were ordered to stay sitting on the car to watch, while I (not allergic to P.I.) picked apples and tossed them over the toxic vine cloud for Huz to catch in a bag (definitely allergic to P.I.) We then went home to very sudsy long showers for all, and never went back. In fact, we have not been apple picking very often since then, having our own apples for sauce, and some nice farm stands in the area.

But 5 unscheduled hours calls for a major excursion, so we piled into Denty, and made our way northeast to Lynd's Fruit Farm once again. Wowza, I was stunned by the amount of people making the same trek. The farm now has a large pole barn where it sells produce, cider, candy, pumpkins and has a festival atmosphere. The large lot was full, and the building was to capacity, with lines like WalMart on December 24th. We made our way to the farthest part of the orchard (~385 acres) for the Winesaps and Goldrush apples ripe for the picking on trees. In no time we had 20 lbs of juicy apple perfection.

This is eldest. She can now reach apples at the top of the tree.

Middlest showing me a perfect Goldrush apple.

Youngest discovers the Winesap is a bit tarter than he had expected...

M-I-L gets a taste for Gold!

Then onto the pumpkin patches for happy orange globes waiting in the sunshine. Picking the right pumpkin takes time.

Good Golly, they're a lot bigger than in 2002.

We did stop at the crowded sales barn on our way out, and found Peachy! If'n you're wanting to know what Peachy is... I wrote about it in the Apple Blog of a week or two ago. If'n you're wanting to know how it tastes? It's just .....Yep.

105th Pumpkin Show

It's time for The Pumpkin Show! Or, in local-eze, "The Pun'kin Show". This sounds rather unexciting, I must admit, but here in the coun'ry, we make fun where we can! And, in the fall, "Pun'kin Show" is fun. I am always amazed just how many people show up in the little town of Circleville for this fall festival. Where in the world do they all come from? Certainly not just from our little area, The Pumpkin Show is so big they come from all over. Maybe even New York City (the quintessential TBC). From what I understand, The Pumpkin Show (TBS) made an appearance on the front page of the WSJ (that's the Wall Street Journal for those of you not from NYC)!
The Crown in the Jewel that is TPS is worn by Miss Pumpkin Show- the Pumpkin Show Queen. This royal personage is crowned by the judges on Wednesday evening, marking the real start of TPS. The candidates are High School juniors and seniors, each elected by their class to represent them at TPS. There are six high schools in the county, and each school sends a junior and senior candidate, so there are 12 girls in all for consideration. This year's Queen is none other than Sarah Johnson, also one of my treasured 4-H kids. She is such a poised and accomplished young lady, I should not have been surprised that she was crowned, as she was the obvious and best choice. But, I have found myself all too often stymied by the choices of judges in this county for just about everything. How pleased I am for Sarah, that not only did she earn the crown, she actually is wearing the rhinestone tower on her head!
For each parade.
Now, here in the Coun'ry, we parade seriously. 4th of July would seem to earn a parade. But it gets 3. I have kids in every one. And TPS would also have a parade, but this is the Disney World of Ohio, and there are two every day. Rain, snow, darkness...twice a day. I have been to two parades personally, already and still have a few to go, with all kids marching at least once. Today is the pet parade. Should we march with a sheep? A chicken? The meaner-than- heck gander (we did have a misconceived notion to teach him to walk on a leash once. That didn't work. ) Middlest will march with her band, Youngest with the D.A.R.E. program. The kid parade is tomorrow, the parade of bands was last night (18 bands in all?)  the Queens parade is tonight......I will spend hours on the side of the road, smelling deep fried pumpkin pie, and cheering on all the marchers.
I've already sat next to the 1436lb pumpkin, admired the pumpkin tower, and toured the arts and crafts building to wonder at the beautiful quilts and see my friend Lisa's meticulous and beautiful doll house.
Last night we watched the Parade of Bands in the company of dear friends who live too far away for my happiness, but they, too, had a child marching in a band, and so we got to huddle together in the wind, cold and rain and enjoy "Hang on Sloopy", "Thriller" and "The Hey! Song" over and over.
The 105th Circleville Pumpkin Show- The Greatest Free Show on Earth!
It might be true.

A blog post for Natalie

Mike asks Middlest to please rub his forehead.

The internet is so amazing when it comes to finding connections. Facebook has put me back in the lives of many friends of the past and made them friends again in the present. And if you google "Mikey, Last Chance Corral" you get a blogpost from a certain Cowfeathers Farm at the top of the list....
After my return from NM, I logged onto the blog and happened to check back to comments on a previous blog- the one about apples, cider, etc. and found a comment from a young woman named Natalie. She is the previous owner of Mike, Mikey, Michael... our energetic and wonderful thoroughbred gelding. Mikey earned a post last spring upon his arrival, and then various other posts as he carried Middlest through her first horse show, and the county fair, jumping lessons with me, a few too-slow-for Mike- trail rides and a hunter pace more to his liking as it included going fast.
I was so pleased to hear from Natalie. As you may recall, Mike came to us from a wonderful rescue called "Last Chance Corral", underweight and as with any new home adjustment for the delicate- worried. Six months at Cowfeathers, and he is settling in nicely. I have seen that it takes most horses that have been displaced at least a year to really feel secure again in their new herd and home. Heck, Oslo is just now really getting settled and it has been a year and a half. Samantha was a bit tougher nut, and took more like 2 1/2 years to earn her trust.
In any case, Mike has mostly stopped cribbing (a "vice" as horse people call it, where a horse grabs, usually wood, in his front teeth, pulls his chin towards his chest and sucks in air. I apparently releases endorphins and makes them feel good, but also is bad for longevity and the wood!). He still loves to run, and when put into the pasture will often run circles around the other horses before settling down to grazing- although he almost always rolls first. Often will roll, stay on the ground and crop all the grass around him and then get up. He loves to be ridden, and is very happy to just be tacked up and walked around if that is all Middlest is up for that day. In the past two months, Mike has learned about life outside of his stall. For the first four months, he felt safest in his stall, but the other horses like to hang out in their paddocks, and he can't see them if he's inside and they're out. This caused him great distress, and he would pace around his stall until he was so worked up he would make a panicky whinny and race outside to check that he wasn't alone. But, then, back to the stall. All peeing and pooping were done in his stall. Tradition? Fastidiousness? I'm not sure, because now that he is spending most of his time out in the sunshine too, and I feed him his grain out in the paddock, he will often pee in his grain bin. It takes some serious aim in such a large space to hit the grain bin. All that effort seems to be saying something. Protest? "Take this away- I don't want it in my area."? "I love pee flavored grain?" Maybe he just doesn't like the bin being clean, or the smell of the soap. (Which, crazily enough I have switched my cleaning products to see if that has something to do with it. Alas, it has not cured the problem yet.) In any case, all horses have their quirks and personalities, and Mike's is fun to watch unfurl. Originally, he was very protective of his hind end, and would flail at me a bit with his hooves when I went to groom anywhere past his croup. Time and patience cure most everything, and that hazard has disappeared. He puts up with all my grooming, picking, prodding, squashing- because that's how I roll. And he relaxes now, even when I stretch out his poll, (the joint where skull meets neck) or test his back. Middlest continues to bond with him as well, and he learns so quickly, he is great fun to work with and teach. I have started working him a bit in dressage, and at first it was like riding an old post. Straight and wooden... but now he is more like a branch, willing to bend and flex. It all comes down to trust. I trust him to get me over the fences I ask him to jump. I trust him to take care of my precious Middlest. He trusts us to be gentle, and solid, consistent and brave.
Natalie, you did a fine job with Mike. I feel like we have found a treasure. Know that we are sorry for your hardship, life happens, and all God asks is that you do your best with what is before you. Losing Mike was terrible, losing your Dad was worse.  But, Mike has landed in the roses (well, except for the pee in his grain bin) and after 36 years with horses, I understand how delicate they are, how tough they are and how special. He was underweight when we got him- but it has been no easy task to get him to weight, and this boy will never tend to chunky! But he will be cared for, every day, to the best of our abilities.
 There were years there, where I could not afford to care for a horse. I did what I could- mostly getting to ride horses with severe problems, because that what was available. And I worked on my schooling, my relationships with people, growing my family. It took 8 years before I could board lease Sky (oh, my lovely Irish Draft/English TB cross), then gave him up to be a Mom, and another 10 years before having horses of my own again ( and I use "my own" lightly, because Cashew was leased, and I horse-napped Samantha). Life has sine curves, and right now I am in a good place for my horsey self. Move forward, thoughtfully, plan and you will find that part of the sine curve again too, if you strive for it.

Middlest and Mike at a jumping clinic. He's wishing the jump were bigger.

Mike working on bending, and starting to collect.

He loves to canter! He's very forward here.....

Mike and I over fences.

Adventures in New Mexico

The mission at Acoma Pueblo.

Twenty years ago, I was finished with my first year of veterinary school, and ready to get away from thinking a bit. I also wished to travel, and for the first time ever, did so with more than a four legged friend. BTK and I set out from Connecticut in a soft top jeep, my dog drooling over our shoulders- on patrol- and hauling a small UHaul trailer. It was an adventure to an area previously unimagined by my east coast brain. New Mexico; the land of enchantment. It was a wonderful summer, certainly light on brain usage. I did get a job (working in a bridal shop) and learned the joys of truly spicy food- until New Mexico, my idea of "spice" was things like cinnamon, clove and basil.  I had many good memories of that time, and a trip back, 20 years later gets to test their wear. They wear well. Huz was slated for attending the veterinary radiology meeting in Albequerque, I was slated to be day time adventurer, night time arm candy ( that is in my brain only. Huz is gracious but not dellusional.) I spent one day walking Albequerque- in defiance of the "do not walk or jog alone" admonishment on our check in papers. This walk- for it is purposeful and fast- took me to Old Town for some wonderful shopping and Museums for wonderful art and history. Now, let me say, Old Town is about as dangerous as Disney World, and I didn't see any gang members at the museums either. In fact, in 7 hours of walking, I saw the same street person 4 times, old friends now,  three schoolyards of children, a few mothers with strollers, and a fellow collecting his dry cleaning. My way between the hotel was through the beautiful neighborhoods built just prior to and at "the turn of the century" (which still in my lexicon means 1900.) There is a mix of Adobe and Victorian houses, then some later Arts and Crafts homes with an occasional new-made-to -look-old build in the stew.
On another day, I hopped on the train to Santa Fe. The trip between the Sandia Mountains (Albequerque) and the Sangre de Cristos(Santa Fe) is largely through dedicated Reservation lands. And, seeing as the train managed to hit a horse, and all the signals were out throughout the reservation (someone making off with the copper) I had a long time to enjoy the scenery. And, I did. Perhaps in another blog I will elaborate. It involves dry river bed, bleached bones, car door fences and seeing "Real Indians Here! As featured in Look and Life Magazines!".
Santa Fe was as beautiful as I remember. The weather was so glorious I spent the day walking the streets, and only popped into a few galleries- with some lovely art- and one set down at Cafe Pasquale where I met Jessica and her mom, Linda and did some sightseeing with them.
Huz missed out on that adventure too, but we were feeding ourselves well each night.
The next day was our last, and Huz decided to play a bit of hooky and come adventuring with me. Yay! So, we rented a car and drove west to Acoma Pueblo. I remember Acoma of 1991, and believe me, it has changed. Not the lack of plumbing or electricity on top of the mesa (mesa? think, flat desert, then, someone inside the earth pokes a large chunk up with a finger. Flat on top, rock walls on sides) but the prosperity of the whole place was in great contrast to the deep poverty of 20 years ago. It all became clear when our guide mentioned the Acoma Hotel, RV Park and Casino opened in 1996. Our guide was a pretty, smart, funny young Acoma woman, who has returned after college. The buildings on the mesa were in good shape and the pottery was a beautiful as ever. 20 years ago, I purchased a small jewelery box from a young Acoma girl. It was primitive, but very well made. This time, we bought a traditional hand thrown and decorated pot of Acoma style. Very pretty.
As the sun lowered in the sky, we carefully made our way off of the mesa in the manner used since 1150. The "stairs". So enchanting, and difficult to imagine doing up and down every day, maybe several times.
Our rented Hyundai pointed back to the east, we made our way across the desert and back to the base of the Sandia Mountains for a trip UP. The tramway took my breath away. Literally, hard to breathe through the surety that any moment a cable will snap and I'll have eight whole seconds to think before being smashed to smithereens. Evidently,  I don't do heights so well now as I did 20 years ago. But, at the top, a martini and sunset over the city was a good enough reason to keep breathing. And, it was breathtaking in a different way. Cold, to be sure, snow, wind, all the things you'd expect of a mountain top and views, just as amazing as I remember.
At the bottom? A drive to the Albequerque institution, "Sadie's" for papitas fritas con frijoles, also as good as I remember. Huz indulged in the sopapillas- better in New Mexico than anywhere- and told me 20 years has not diminished the taste of warm puffed dough in honey. Lucky.

Dinner at the Church St. Cafe, Old Town, Albequerque

Loreto Chapel and the "Miracle Stair", Santa Fe. One continuous piece of carpentry, with two 360 degree turns, originally made without any railing for the nuns and girls of the Loreto school.

Canyon Road, Santa Fe, with many wonderful artist's  galleries.

A favorite house in Santa Fe. I could live here.

There is art everywhere in Santa Fe.

Even performance art on the Plaza.

Acoma Pueblo, atop the mesa.

A cistern- the original sole source of water for the pueblo, atop the mesa.

Huz and me atop the mesa, Acoma.

The stair to the bottom.

Me , almost to the bottom!

An Acoma pottery vessel.

The tramway to the Sandias. Built by helicopter in the early 1960s, the ride was beautiful (which I could appreciate, even while contemplating the Armageddon Hollywood ending).

Huz in the sunset, atop the Sandia Mountains, Albequerque

Albequerque alight from atop the Sandias. Fortified by a green apple martini, and shrouded by the security of darkness, the ride down was much easier.

Each morning, after sunrise, balloons would go up in the distance and float towards our hotel. We missed the Balloon Festival, but the regular balloon traffic was still enough to pull me out of bed to sit and watch.  

October and apples!

Well, I've been at my The Seasons of America Past book again, by Eric Sloane, and as usual, his information is making me think. Thank you SB, for the sweet apple butter to come.
October is apple season. Really, we have apple varieties that ripen even in the summer, but many of the best fruits become ripe now. And, fruits that ripen in the sun on the branch or the bush are different than the fruits picked before ripe, so when they are transported to store or stand they look their best- most purchasable, free of bruises, mushiness, and often, taste. Indeed, accumulation of nitrates, the toxic form of nitrogen that causes methemoglobinemia(a condition which means your hemoglobin cannot carry oxygen to your cells) in mammals (including persons), diminishes as a fruit ripens naturally. Nitrates also cause the "detinning" of the insides of cans, something Americans are becoming more aware of recently. But the benefits of picking naturally ripened fruits have been known for centuries, and only recently discarded by commerce.

"Fruit gathered too timely wil taste of the wood
Will shrink and be bitter, and seldome proove good."
-Thomas Tusser, 1500's

In early America, October would mean time for apple cider and apple butter. These were common staples of the diet. Cider was a year round drink, and because it wasn't pasteurized, was a fermented, alcoholic drink. Apple butter, being sweet and filling, charmed anyone with a biscuit.
But, apples were not the only creators of cider. "Perry" was a common enough drink, cider of pears. And anyone who has answered the inquiry "How are you?" with "Peachy." May not know the origin of this positivity is the cider made with peaches of the same name. Peachy was known for it's delicate flavor and ripe sweetness- the champagne of America.
Here in Middle America, outside TBC, the delights of homemade cider and applebutter are not completely forgotten. Not far from here, a water tower town has an Apple Butter Festival, where folks take turns stirring the large iron vats of apple butter, as it has to be turned for about 8 hours for perfect butter. I, myself, make our apple butter in the crock pot. Not traditional, but certainly more practical today, where our family rarely does anything continuously for 8 hours beyond sleep.

Making apple butter in the labor intensive, most delicious way!

Now let's talk cheese for a minute. Apple cheese. The most important step to cider is the milling. This is the process of taking the apples and chopping and mashing them up, causing bruising and the sugars to be released more effectively than just pressing an apple. Pressing an apple creates juice. Mashing an apple into "cheese" and then pressing it creates cider.

This is a picture, from the internet, not from my secret apple cider farm, of a single grindstone mill for making apple cheese.

The cheese is then taken and layered, traditionally with rye straw, but now often with burlap and put into a press. There are small presses in the backyards of Ohio now, but at one time there were huge ones! Completely made of wood, even after metals became readily available, because it was said metal would spoil the flavor of the cider, the mills dwarfed the men it took to run them. Ruins can still be seen, if you know at what you are gazing. Large, 2' square beams, often with a roof over them for rain protection and added weight with enormous wooden screws on each side would house the press and the farmer would turn the fulcrum for the screw, lowering the weight down on the press with the layered apple cheese inside and out would come a flow of rich, orangey brown cider.

This shows the layering of the apple cheese on a small version of a single screw press.

This is a small double screw press. Small enough to be in a barn- thus still in great shape. Behind it you can see the  grindstone mill for the apples to be mashed into cheese.

And cider, although purchasable in the market as a seasonal treat, like eggnog, is still made in backyard cider presses. I think they have to keep it hushhush, as today legislators in their great wisdom have ordained it illegal for a family to drink the milk from their own cow.  (I sigh, shake my head and now will have to deny milking our sheep.) But, I know a little shed, beside a small orchard out on a backroad, where I can go inside, gather a few gallons of real cider and put my dollars under a rock on the table. Prohibition has come again, just now to homemade cider and sweetmilk. Can you imagine how the good wives of the early 20th century would gape if you told them 100 proof alcohol is legal, but milk and cider from their own hand is not? Someone, somewhere, is having a good laugh at us and feeling just "peachy".

Rain, Grain, Pain, Refrain.

We had a little test of rhyming last evening, mostly to see if Youngest understood the principles of rhyming, and then the timing for rhyming. I began with "fork", because it was in my hand. I have to say we had a rocky start; "rail?" Oh my. And "snork? lork?" okay, those rhyme, but trying for actual words. With laughter, the rhyming did improve.
Rain.
good for Grain.
still a cold Pain.
REFRAIN, please, rain.

The week was full of rain, cold rain. Homecoming week, there was an astonishingly long parade around the townlet of Ashville, followed by a pep rally- blessedly moved inside, then Homecoming football- in the cold rain, and the next night's Homecoming Dance, in the rain, naturally.
My parents were kind enough to come for the weekend, to experience Middlest's volleyball games- mercifully an indoor sport, and attempt to witness Eldest's band performance (not experienced due to weathernasty). Always fun to see them, I wished for better, fairer weather.

The band marches past in the wet.

And truckload upon damp truckload of cheerleaders! The convertibles full of Homecoming and Pumpkin Show Queens either were creeping along, filling with water, or had kicked out their riders, and put up the top.

So, here am I, hoping for sunshine, and warmth, and gladness to be back outdoors!