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Here there be dandelions

Actual photo of actual dandelion from my actual yard. Note that it is growing in a patch of Dutch white clover. Smart plant!

My yard is full of dandelions!! Whahoo!! Allow me to explain:

Twenty-some years ago, a developer bought a tract of land from a farmer who was retiring and had no one to carry on after him. The land had been used to pasture cattle, being a little too rolling to make easy fields for crops. The developer scraped away the good Kentucky topsoil that had been built up over thousands of years and sold it. Then he graded the rolling hills to make good postage stamp-sized lots and built houses on them, laying sod directly over the compacted clay hardpan that now comprised the soil surface. (I’ll give him credit for one thing, though: he left the existing trees, mostly choke cherry and locust, in the ravines and along the fence rows. I bless him for that.)

The new homeowners dutifully watered and fertilized and pesticided the sod, artificially sustaining it on its tilth-less foundation. They kept this up for fifteen years, maintaining a very respectable-looking lawn of artificial turf. Then some nature-nuts moved in (that’s us) and made the yard quit cold-turkey: no more watering, no more dope.

The first summer was unseasonably cool and rainy, so the yard got a chance to ease into this new, clean life just a bit. The next summer was hotter and drier, and the ill-adapted sod grass fared poorly. We put compost on the yard, but the hardpan had such low absorption capacity that the first good rain washed it away. Crabgrass loves infertile soil with poor drainage, however, and took over the bare patches. We were just glad that SOMETHING was growing.

The next year, we spread Dutch white clover seed. The rains carried much of it away, but enough found a toehold to make a few lush, green patches. Several shallow-rooted species of “weed” began to appear, and we rejoiced: it was a beginning.

Now to the dandelions: last year (year five) was the first year dandelions appeared anywhere other than the raised flower beds. Dandelions have deep taproots; they will not grow where the soil is too compacted to penetrate. Once they do start growing in compacted soil, though, their taproots help to loosen it. Their presence in my yard indicates an improvement in soil quality, both in fertility as well as tilth. There remain places in the yard where they will not yet grow, but this year’s crop is a big step forward.

Another year or two of dandelions and we might be able to grow some grass.

Calling all math nerds!

I have discovered a new brain food: Romanesco Broccoli, also known as Roman Cauliflower. The edible flower heads of this incredible brassica grow in chartreuse nested logarithmic spirals. Check it out:

This lovely photo is from The Nutmeg Polymath, whose blog entry on this fabulous fractal food caught my eye and got the wheels turning in my head. If I can figure out how to manage it, you’ll be seeing these babies growing in my yard. How much more ornamental can a vegetable get?

(For more information and amazing photos, visit John Walker’s Fractal Food page.)

Baseball is upon us

Yes, I am a baseball fanatic–not a mere “fan.” I’m one of those crazy people who understands why Benjamin Sisco keeps a baseball on his desk in Star Trek: DS9. I actually believe all the mystical mumbo-jumbo in every baseball movie ever made. I own not one but TWO decks of baseball-themed tarot cards: The Tarot of Baseball and The Baseball Tarot. (If anyone knows of others, please let me know.) Now that we live near Cincinnati, my Mother’s Day gift is tickets to see my beloved Reds.

Both my kids are in their fourth year of Little League baseball. Last year they fell into the same age division and were thus on the same team. This offers clear and compelling (to me) evidence of the existence of the gods of baseball: having only one team schedule to follow left me time to grapple with some serious health issues I was facing.

This year the older child has moved up into the highest age division, the major league, while the younger child remained in the minor league. This means that, between practices and games for the two teams, I can count on one hand the number of days each month we will NOT be at the ballpark.

Both teams have played their season openers, and both won. Hurray! I have now logged the first four of 75+ hours (not counting the playoffs) I will spend on unforgiving aluminum bleachers, eating hotdogs and giant pretzels, rain or shine. I feel ridiculously and unaccountably euphoric.

It’s baseball season. And I’m in heaven.

Thank the baseball gods.

The head case

A woman had problems thinking and making decisions, so she went to see her doctor. After running a series of tests, the doctor informed her that her head was filled with rocks.

“Is that a serious condition?” she asked with concern.

“It’s not life-threatening, if that’s what you mean,” the doctor replied. “But it can make it difficult to function, as you’ve found.”

“What can be done about it?” the woman asked.

“The only treatment is to open your skull and remove the rocks,” the doctor said. The woman consented to the treatment and the doctor scheduled her for surgery.

She was groggy for a bit after she woke up from the anesthesia, but her head was finally empty and she was able to think clearly for the rest of her life.

Too much

“Too much of a good thing can be wonderful.” — Mae West

As I wandered the aisles of a large chain bookstore the other day, I experienced a growing sense of unease. I paused between the Philosophy and the New Age Spirituality sections and sought to put my finger on the cause. A few minutes later I murmured, “There are too many books in the world.” Even as one part of my mind reeled in astonishment, I looked about me, nodded my head, and repeated, “There are too many books in the world.”

Coming from a hopeless bibliophile and former aspiring writer, this is nothing less than shocking. Stranger still, my profound love of both reading and writing has led me to this uncomfortable conviction. There are not enough days left to me in this life, nor hours in those days, to read all the books currently in print that I want to read. Likewise, such a surfeit (dare I say glut?) of books makes it extremely unlikely that anything written by me will ever find it’s way into print, let alone to a retailer’s shelf. These twin realizations sank in like fangs, the venom of their import so debilitating that I had to leave the bookstore at once. I may not be able to go back.

I have long been a great fan of Mae West, and the quote at the top of this posting is one I have claimed at times as a personal motto. Now I find myself sadly and reluctantly amending it to fit my present state: Too much of a good thing can be simply too much for me.

Silence and comfort

I’ve not been writing much of late; I’ve been too lost in a life turned suddenly labyrinthine and well-nigh impenetrable. A couple poems have wrenched their way out, but with such great effort that the results seem pale and feeble. So I have sat in wordless darkness, waiting.

When you are still enough, silence becomes palpable. It becomes something you can feel, a physical pressure against the skin. Stranger yet, you can actually even hear it. I have finally been still enough for long enough to begin feeling and listening my way out of the labyrinth. And now the words are coming back, but in unexpected ways.

I’ve begun writing again, in halting bursts, in a black-and-white school composition notebook, in pen. I suppose it’s the writing equivalent of comfort food, harkening back to earlier times and simpler pleasures. Not all such memories are happy, but that doesn’t appear to matter. It seems there are some things I cannot say through a keyboard and the crisp legibility of Times Roman.

Passing on the merry

I just posted a comment at George Snell’s blog (http://hightalk.net/2009/12/18/merry-christmas-goodwill/) on the best gift I’ve ever given. George wants to collect 1000 comments before midnight Christmas Day to raise awareness of (and donations for) Goodwill Industries and all the important and amazing work they do in our communities.

Stop by and give George a verbal high-five, then drop some green on a local charity of your own. Make sure you spend a couple hours in the next week or two doing something for someone else, entirely unsolicited: lend a hand or an ear to someone who isn’t expecting it. You’ll be glad you did.

Olfactory overkill

I have been sitting at a work table in the library for an hour or so. Exactly three minutes ago, a woman sat down at a table at least 25 feet away from me. She did not walk past me to get to this table; it’s located closer to the door than the table where I am seated. The perfume she is wearing is so strong that I have begun to feel nauseated.

I have to find somewhere else to sit. Now.

The heart condition

Once there was a woman who felt a dull, constant ache in her chest. At first she paid no attention to it, thinking it was indigestion. The pain didn’t seem to grow any worse, but neither did it diminish.

The woman eventually became accustomed to the ache so that she hardly noticed it. One morning she realized she no longer felt it all. At first she was relieved to be free of pain after such a long time, but soon she noticed that she didn’t feel anything else either. She went to see a doctor, who scheduled a series of tests to determine what was wrong.

When the tests were completed, the doctor called the woman into his office to talk with her about the results.

“I am sorry to tell you this,” said the doctor, “but your heart has turned to stone.”

“Are you certain?” the woman asked in disbelief.

“Quite certain,” replied the doctor. He showed her the test results, all of which clearly indicated that her heart had indeed become stone.

“What is the treatment?” asked the woman.

“I’m afraid there is none,” replied the doctor. “The condition is permanent. But the good news is that you no longer feel anything, so this discovery cannot affect you.”

The woman realized he was absolutely correct; she felt neither grief nor dismay at the news. She shook hands with the doctor and thanked him before leaving the office.

The king and the tern

Once there was a king who lived near the sea. He liked to walk along the beach in the mornings, where he especially enjoyed watching the shorebirds in flight. The way they swooped and dove and rode the wind thrilled him, and he often found himself wishing he could soar as they did.

In time the king befriended one particular tern who regularly glided along beside him on his walks. The two became close companions, and the king invited the tern to come live with him in his palace. The tern agreed, being very fond of the king. The castle was spacious and lovely but not very conducive to flying, and the king no longer went walking on the beach, with his friend so close at hand.

Years passed. Recalling one day how inspiring it had been to see the tern in flight, the king suggested that it accompany him on the beach as when they first knew one another. To his surprise, the stiff sea breeze tossed the tern like a leaf, bouncing it off rocks and slamming it into the sand. Rescuing the battered bird, he asked it what was wrong.

“I’ve been too long away from the sea,” explained the tern. “My wings aren’t used to riding the winds as they once did.”

Dismayed at this discovery, the two friends sat on a large piece of driftwood and talked. They decided the tern could regain some or all of its flying prowess, but not if it returned with him to the palace. The king didn’t want to be parted from his dear companion, but he could not rule his kingdom from the beach.

Together they sat at the water’s edge, listening to the pounding of the surf and considering the possibilities.