So Long, Cave

For the past 4.5 years, this has essentially been my office view - the golden spire of nearby DU set against often-white capped Rocky Mountains. Not bad, eh?

And then, of course, there's the garden ...

Despite being right up against a major interstate (I-25), I have found so much peace here. I realized tonight that I'm completely ensconced in an area deep in prayer; nearby Iliff School of Theology, the huge seminary down the street, and all the usual desperate praying that goes on at the very nearby University of Denver. ("Please God, help me pass this final!", "Please God, help me get laid!", "Please God, I'll never drink again!", etc.)

In any case, something has made me feel incredibly safe here and I could happily stay a contented troll living anonymously alongside a giant river of humanity, but change is calling. I've spent many an evening in my cave being self-indulgent and puttering around in my head - writing, yoga, music, movies. It was here I first experienced being 'snowed in' and all I can say is, I am all for it.

Most of all, I'm going to miss Eliot, the adorable 5-year-old girl who lives beneath me:

She lives with her dad, Graham, a nice young man who takes fatherhood quite seriously. I can often hear him singing to her at night and I'll miss hearing her giggles come up through the water heater. Sigh. Hopefully, there will be other children in my life soon.

On my final night in the cave, I am filled with gratitude. Though my first couple of months were rocky, it proved to be a very soft landing. 

Hi-Fi v. Wi-Fi

It's fascinating to me that as Americans become fatter, our technology slims down. So much of our communication and entertainment in previous decades has come from bulky, brown items and now they come in tiny slivers of silver and black. Anyone remember when the television was part of a 'console' that made it look like a sleek piece of furniture?

Though my livelihood depends on the latest technologies, though I am completely reliant on my iPhone and MacBook Pro, though I worked at technology Ground Zero, Macromedia (Adobe), in San Francisco before, during and after the dot com frenzy, though I am a WIRED subscriber and a paid blogger .... I am also crazy about old technology.

First thing every morning, I fire up an ancient Packard-Bell Hi-Fi AM/FM Phonograph Stereo Console unit to get my daily NPR dose. When the dear old lady who lived below, Esther, was finally moved into an Alzheimer's Home, they had me come down and take anything I wanted. I laid my eyes on this beauty (circa 1950s?) and it was LOVE.

The sound is incredible - note that the entire bottom half is hiding several speakers. I also love to play my many, many vinyl records on this baby. It's what she was made for. Do you know what doesn't sound incredible? This:

Though my father's heart was in the right place when he gifted me with this multi-tasking stereo, it sucks deeply. Designed to play CDs, LPs, cassettes and the radio, it only performs about 40% of those tasks. No doubt it was Made in China and while its old-timey face is meant to pull my nostalgia cord, all it does is hold up plants and piss me off. In the donation pile it goes. Cheap, fake efforts are no replacement for the real thing. 

Confession: For the last decade or so, I have been dutifully bending to my favorite yoga video of all time: Ali MacGraw Yoga Mind & Body. Filmed in New Mexico's ethereal White Sands National Park with a rich soundtrack by Dead Can Dance and led by Yoga Master Erich Shiffmann, it is stunning. It literally birthed my lifelong yoga practice (for myself and others) and I never, ever tire of it. All this from a $15 videotape.

That's right, video tape. We're talking VHS, baby. Sure, I bought the DVD version but it's simply not up to snuff. And while I have gone through several DVD players since the technology arrived, my VHS player is a friggin' soldier that refuses to die. Technically, it was a 'gift' from Bob, an old boyfriend who bought it along with a television as he was tired of visiting me and having no entertainment technology available. This was perhaps 1993.

So, at least once or twice a week, I fire up the old gal - the crunchy noises she makes to start, stop, forward and rewind do sound ancient - and we do yoga together. For reasons that may be ridiculous, I have no intention of getting rid of the Signature 2000 or her dutiful partner, this giant, boxy television:

 And yes, that is Jethro from the Beverly Hillbillies.

(Which reminds me that our family used to have a tiny b/w TV in the kitchen. Mom kept it for years and I adored it. One day in front of my brother and I, she discussed getting rid of it. I protested loudly: "You can't get rid of it - it only plays the Andy Griffith Show! It's like magic!" She laughed while my brother turned it on and sure enough, "Aunt Bee, have you seen Opey?" My brother freaked out and my mother stopped laughing. She did get rid of it, saying it gave her the "creeps.")

So, here's the funny thing. Shortly after moving into my Milwaukee Street Cave, nearly 4.5 years ago, I somehow lost the remote control for the old style TV. Happily, this led to more in-depth guitar practice for one is no longer expected to constantly get up to change channels and/or endure commerials. I mean, it's 2010, fer chrissakes.

Unhappily, this has led to a horrible twitchy finger when I finally do get a remote in my grubby mitts. Visiting family or staying a private hotel room, I simply go nuts. I'm in such complete control that I am totally out of control. My fingers become infected with ADHD and I get drunk with power. Not pretty. 

So, what to do with all these funky old technology? Use it as decoration, like I do now with this old rotary?

Maybe I'm more like my mother than I realized. The woman still plays 8-track tapes and every time I hear that click over sound, I chuckle to myself. I must have listened to Boston's first album and Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers Damn the Torpedoes eight gazillion times through this technology. Which reminds me, does anyone remember Tom Petty's tongue-in-cheek technology commentary on Full Moon Fever? Against a background of of barnyard noises near the beginning of Track 6, we hear Tom politely explain:

"Hello, CD listeners. We've come to the point in this album where those listening on cassette, or records, will have to stand up, or sit down, and turn over the record. Or tape. In fairness to those listeners, we'll now take a few seconds before we begin side two. [pause] Thank you. Here's side two."

And what of my sub-woofer and giant speakers when all I need is my laptop and the two small speakers that accompany it? My many other VHS tapes from days gone by? My boxes upon boxes upon boxes and photo albums full of negatives and print photos? All my cassettes, especially those beloved mixed tapes?

 I'm only 44 and already my entire life is museum-ready.

Me Want Chickens

Although I am excited about moving to a co-housing community, it also means I have to put off my dream of having chickens for at least a year, unless I can convince them ...

In the meantime, we went on a Chicken Coop Tour in and around the Denver area. (Many thanks to Denver Urban Homesteading who organized the tour and the DUH's insane-in-a-good-way, James Bertini, who enjoys breaking the law as much as he loves being a lawyer.) We met so many beautiful birds and enthusiastic owners - it was inspiring. We also discovered how many different ways there are to house these fabulous feathered souls.

Some coops were just tiny dog houses and some were hi-tech pre-fab coops - not cheep - ha! In some backyards, the birds ran wildly around the backyard, taking dirt baths, foraging through garbage or whatever. While others had the corner of the garden perfectly spotless for the chickens and everything was obsessively organized.

My favorite might be James and Irina Bertini's old camper, formerly a favorite homeless hangout, now refashioned into a chicken hangout. Here's the back door:

And the inside:

And the whole kit and caboodle, which also includes a pen for geese:

 But everywhere we went, we found giggling kids who delighted in all things chicken. Besides all the fresh eggs - which are so much better than what you buy in the store - it's great for kids to know exactly where their food is coming from. Hell, it's better for adults too.

Ah, someday ....

The Dog Stays

Though I like to think my animal spirit is a horse - strong, fast, sexy - truth is, I'm more like a snail - ravenous, pesty and sloooooow. I'm simply not good with change, I'm either wildly impulsive or near-stagnant, not much middle ground.

And so, the dreaded move from my beloved Milwaukee Street Cave has begun. (Anyone need a feather boa?) Moving is one of those modern necessary tasks that nobody loves. I was speaking to my mother about it the other day and she moaned, "Oh, I HATE moving!" Mind you, the woman has not moved since the early 1960s. After all these decades, the memory is still fresh in her mind. 

Sifting through life's so-called treasures, one item at a time, presents the black and white question: Keep or throw? Donate or pack? Some good comes of this skin shedding, of course. When I moved from San Francisco to Colorado, I loaded up the guitar my father had bought me at Costco, asking myself, "Why do I have this? I can't play it. Why keep it?" Driving the instrument across the country actually guilted me into taking lessons and for that, I'm grateful.

But this story is about the glass dog.

When I lived in San Francisco, I used to find random cool stuff near the trash can. (A very common scenario in the transient Bay Area, actually.)  One day, I came down and saw this delicate glass dog sitting next to the bin. What to do? I can't walk away from an adorable animal, even a fake one, so I picked him up. I meant to donate him to Pets Unlimited before I left but he ended up getting mistakenly packed away by one of my friends.

When I arrived in Colorado and found myself quite suddenly alone (not the original plan at all), I had the luxury of time to really go through my stuff and donate even more crap to the Salvation Army on Colfax. Every Saturday for several weeks, I'd do a big drop off; the staff even learned my name and would say, "See ya next week!" 

One of these days, I loaded up a bunch of clothes, books and whatnot and put the glass dog in the front seat, finally ready to pass him along. When I arrived, I unloaded all the goods, got my receipt and got back in the truck. Suddenly, I was struck by an intense feeling of loneliness and an overwhelming sadness over my situation. I burst into tears, moaning, "What am I doing here? I have no friends! I'm totally alone! WAH!" If you are a human being, than you know the feeling.

I must have sat there for a full 10 minutes with my head in my hands, dripping tears on the steering wheel, when I finally opened my eyes and saw the glass dog, sitting next to me, staring plaintively. I'd forgotten to unload him and sad as it is to admit, that glass dog was my only friend on earth at that moment. I was beyond grateful.

Laughing through red, swollen eyes and a snot-clogged face, I just shook my head and put the truck in drive: "C'mon, buddy. Let's go home."

A Dragon of Fear Has Been Slain

Last night, for the first time ever, I went to an open mic and performed music on stage. By myself. Willingly. In front of real live humans and everything.

I met up with my pals, Steve and Daniel, at Swallow Hill, probably the best atmosphere in the world for this kind of experiment. (Steve also performed and he was so funny and delightful.) Each performer was not only super talented but they all had their own songs! Good Lord. I'm going to have to find out where crappier musicians play if I think about doing this again.

Anyway, I made it up on stage and the host asked about my gear. "I don't have a guitar or anything. I'll be singing a capella," I said. His eyes got real big.

Since comedy is my one useful skill in the world, I tried to charm the audience with humor. "Yeah, I thought we were going to a comedy open mic (this is actually true) so I'm not really prepared but I already put lipstick on and brushed my hair so I thought I should do something..." 

And that's when I belted out a Beck-inspired version of Hank Williams' "Lonesome Whistle." I did okay. It certainly sounded better in the ladies room a few minutes earlier but still not as good as my empty living room. But hey, nobody died. And they clapped. Best of all, when I got offstage, the host said:

"The only thing scarier to me than performing a song with no musical accompaniment is doing comedy. You, my dear, must have very thick skin." 

Hopefully, it will grow thicker and I can get more performances under my belt. These days, my mantra is: "I don't know what I'm doing but I'm doing it."

Boo to Columbus Day

This is not a formal protest, just the registration of a lifelong annoyance and Man-o-man! This holiday really pisses me off.

I remember as clear as day, sitting on a wooden chair in school (2nd grade? 3rd grade?) and the teacher talking about how in 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue and 'discovered' America. Having already studied Native Americans, this threw me for a loop. I raised my hand asking how can somebody get credit for discovering a land that already had people?

Had Eddie Izzard been my teacher (FANTASY!) he may have responded: "With the cunning use of flags."  And he would have been absolutely correct.

Sadly, Mr. Izzard was not teaching at Mark Twain Elementary in the 1970s so I was undoubtedly given another explanation about how the Spanish explorer 'discovered' a place he thought was Asia (thus providing the nickname 'Indians' to the local residents) and claiming it for Queen Isabella I. In other words, a land is not discovered until hordes of white people arrive and set up 11,000 Starbucks.

It's one of those traditional American school subjects that I could never get my head around. Much like the day we were taught about slavery in the U.S. ("What do you mean 'buy people,' you can't BUY people!" I drove my teachers nuts on this.)

While I realize that CC's trip meant the opening of the land for trade and development to the Western world, it certainly meant the slaughter of so many native tribes and I'm not sure that's worth celebrating.

Seems silly to honor a navigator who got lost. Count me out.

New Horizons

No, I'm not moving to a retirement home, but I am moving into some pretty scary territory: Co-habitation with a member of the opposite sex. 
Now, I realize I'm a bit of an anomaly. Most folks fear snakes, public speaking and/or nudity, jumping out of airplanes - that sort of thing. I'm totally fine with any of those. Spiders too. Swear to Yoda - put a snake in one hand, a spider in the other, make me give a speech, rip off my clothes and shove out an airplane and I'd call it a good day.

It's the double 'M's' that freak me out: Marriage & Mortgage, those time-honored trappings of adulthood. I feel pretty silly about these hang-ups (okay, maybe not the mortgage thing anymore) especially since they are such common milestones in our society.

So I've arrived at a point in my life where the idea of standing still has become scarier than moving forward - no matter how many reservations and fears I may harbor. Good news is, I hyper-ventilate a lot less than I used to while pondering them. Also, the hives no longer appear. Progress, right? I mean, people do it EVERY DAY, right? Sheesh.

My partner in this endeavor is a very, very, very brave and completely insane man whom you may or may not know but for privacy/SEO sake, let's just call him Kirk. He's one of my best friends and steady supporters and I like to think I am the same for him. Kirk has been through a lot in the last few years, processing big changes and looking after the needs of others. The time has come for Kirk to learn how to become a Selfish Motherfucker.

I can teach him this.

Meanwhile, I've been, as my mother might say, "lollygagging" though life with numerous sessions of "fiddlefarting around" and my selfish ways must now cease. Kirk can teach me this.

 Y'see, when a person has lived on their own for so many years, they get used to having their own way about pretty much everything but the problem is ....... Um, actually. There is no problem. Living alone is friggin' awesome.

Oh! Unless you choke and die alone in your apartment and nobody finds your body for weeks. I always forget about that one.

Nevertheless, ClizBiz craves personal growth - ready or not. Truth is, I've been quietly seeking this unique living situation (more on that later) and it has been seeking me. And so here we are. Which is why the boxes are coming out of storage and the daily emotional highs/lows that come with imminent change have commenced.

 Please pray for Kirk.

Final Tally on Smile Train Donations

My generous comedian friends backstage at the Saturday night show.

It's been a month since our Smile Train comedy improv benefit shows and I just now sent off the final check package to New York; the happy delay was caused by the fact that donations continued, despite the shows being over. Ultimately, we raised $2,150.44!

It tops the amount raised last year and is enough to fix 8.5 kids! This makes my heart sing like you cannot believe. Smile Train also has a matching program going on right now (thanks to some wealthy benefactor) so there's a chance it will end up being three times that amount, which would be fantastic.

There's just no way this would have happened without the tireless efforts of Steve Loukas, my comedy husband. (In the photo's center, in the wig braids.) He is the driving force behind so many of the important details and I would never want to do this without him. Steve and I were freshman members of the Rodents of Unusual Size (who also donated their funny bones to the shows) and he's now is the brilliant leader of The Denver Wigs. (They brought down the house the other night, btw, you should absolutely check 'em out.)

I'm also especially grateful to Monkey's Uncle, who donated their considerable comedic talents, and Intentionally Left Blank, another fabulous group (and freakishly good looking I might add) who put on a wonderful show. (Again, Steve made all that happen - I just stood around, being charmed by them.)


Also, thanks to Bess Chachas who skillfully handled all the sound and lights for the Saturday night shows. And, of course, to Dave and Bob, co-owners of the Avenue Theater, who generously donated a huge portion of their sales to the cause. Plus, they are just super sweet guys in general.

Finally, big thanks to all the donors who put money towards such a wonderful cause. (Big thanks to Reid Kirkpatrick who donated $300 and even got his employer to donate $100 more - amazing.) I really appreciate all the hard-earned money you gave up but not as much as the kids do. Thanks to ya'll, they'll be smiling forever.

I'm Not Here Right Now - Please Leave A Message

Photo by Reid Kirkpatrick

Here's me dancing in a disco fog at the incredibly fun Wild Ivories last Friday night. The image from the dueling piano bar aptly explains my mental whereabouts lately. I'm happily reclining on a cloud of serious disconnection. Not sure if it's age or just fatigue with the world and all its problems but I'm skating dangerously close to apathy - not like me at all.

Goodbye to Buffy

My heroes, compliments of TheQuarterBin

Sometime in late 2002, I found myself in the back seat of a San Francisco cab, with a boy I very much wanted to kiss. As the car sped along with the city's twinkling lights whizzing by, he turned to me and whispered somewhat plaintively:

"Please ... please .... PLEASE tell me that you're into 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer."

Because I wanted his lips on mine, I lied outright: "Of course. I love it!"

And we kissed.

In truth, I hadn't seen a single episode and the whole romance tumbled down soon after but the moment always nagged me. What was so important about a stupidly-named television show? How could it possibly be an obstruction to making out? And who was this Buffy chick anyhow? Surely she couldn't be that amazing.

Oh, how wrong I was. In April of 2008, I finally got around to seeing what all the fuss was about. Buffy the Vampire Slayer:Season 1, Episode 1, was put into my DVD player and the journey began. To try and recreate the feverish anticipation of the original viewers when it aired on the WB, and then UPN, back in the day (1997-2003), I viewed one episode at a time, one disc at a time, while alternating on my Netflix queue with films.

Last night, with great sadness, the DVD player spit out the final disc and I groaned aloud. A seven-year show, 144 brilliant episodes, and it was all over for me, seven years after its actual demise but still, I mourn. I cannot begin to describe how much I will miss these characters and even the writers, directors and producers, as I obsessively watched every commentary and extra that was available. Thank god for the mad genius that is Joss Whedon, who has given popular culture such an amazing heroine.

As TV writing goes, it doesn't get any better; there is simply no fat or fluff to be found. I kept waiting for the show to lag, for the characters to become predictable, for the entire premise to fail. Instead, every episode was like a rung on a ladder and you found yourself going deeper and deeper into the world of Sunnydale and all the demon residents of the Hellmouth. The amount of action and comedy packed into one hour (not to mention some real tear-jerkers) was relentless. A typical exchange: 

Buffy: So, what you been up to?
Amy: I've been a rat for three years. 
Buffy: Oh, right. 
Amy: You? 
Buffy: Dead.
Amy: Yeah, I heard. Bummer.

And then there's Spike. Good lord, he's just pure walking sex. Truly. (Angel? Oh, please. No contest.) I get quickly turned on hearing even a few notes from a Billy Idol song based solely on the resemblance, which, as we all know, is a look that Spike had first. Of course, Spike also had a way of delivering truth that could be counted on, and even that was hot. My favorite Spike speech:

"You're not friends. You'll never be friends. You'll be in love till it kills you both. You'll fight, and you'll shag, and you'll hate each other until it makes you quiver, but you'll never be friends. Love isn't brains, children, it's blood -- blood screaming inside you to work its will. I may be love's bitch, but at least I'm man enough to admit it." 

--Spike, speaking to Buffy and Angel, in Season 3

Or maybe it was this one, said in exasperation to Willow during Season 4. He was tied to a chair but he'd finally had enough of her white American guilt at the Thanksgiving table:

"You won. All right? You came in, and you killed them and you took their land. That's what conquering nations do. It's what Caesar did, and he's not going around saying, 'I came, I conquered, I felt really bad about it." 

Arrrrgh. I could go on and on about each character but to love Buffy is to understand why Joss made it in the first place. He created Buffy to redeem every helpless female victim that has ever been portrayed in film, television, opera, novel or comic book.  Buffy is the anti-victim and, as a result, the show is the most entertaining version of feminism that has ever snuck past you.

Also, it should be said that it was the first show I can think of that portrayed lesbian love in a normal, non-porny way. Willow's discovery ("I think I'm a little gay.") was just another layer of growth in her ongoing evolution - from pigtails to the most powerful woman in the universe. Best of all, it made perfect sense.

[SPOILER ALERT] In the final moments of the last show, Willow induces magic to bring out the inner slayer in every capable woman in the world. (Turns out the world will need it, since there's a Hellmouth under Cleveland too, Giles casually informs us.)

Watching it again with Joss commenting, I learned that the final scene that was shot - the last shot of the last show of the last season - was a wordless frame showing a battered woman in a dingy trailer, about to be struck by her abusive husband. Now suddenly infused with slayer strength, she stands up to him and the look in her eye says that things are going to be very, very different from now on.

And that, my friends, is what makes Buffy so special. Also, Sarah Michelle Gellar, who played Buffy so perfectly reminded me of my best friend, Lisa, who is also blonde, beautiful and super strong.

And finally, to that boy, wherever he is .... Joe, I finally understand. And you were absolutely right.

Bravo!!!!

Compliments of Manny the Movie Guy

Mr. Magic Thumb

Recently, I found myself in a delightful place called the Belly Up, a tiny bar in Aspen which regularly features high quality (and sometimes, big name) live music. Reid and I were there to check out Asleep At The Wheel, those Grammy-winning Kings (and one Queen) of Texas Swing. I'd seen them before at my fave music fest, Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, but it was a gas to seem them up close.

Naturally, the dance floor was jumping and there was one shy-looking fellow who stood practically on the stage lip, moving around like crazy. So, I tapped him on the shoulder.

"You wanna dance?" I shouted over the music.

For a minute, I thought he might reject me. He looked a little scared, but then quickly smiled. "Okay," he said warily, "but I really don't know what I'm doing...." 

And we were off.

Clearly, the fellow was being modest because he had great control and spun me all over that floor. I'm pretty sure I yelled "WHEEEEEEEE!" a couple of times. However, it wasn't long before I realized that the hand he was using to conduct the spins - his right - felt ... different. It felt extra smooth and, well, it was missing a few fingers.

As in, ALL OF THEM. 

That's right, this shy little man magically spun me - and several other gals - around that floor using ONE BAD ASS THUMB. Reid said we looked amazing and encouraged me to dance with him again. "He looks so happy when he's dancing!" he said.

What a wonderful reminder that it's better to focus on what you have than what you don't. Dancerman, wherever you are - two thumbs up!

Katrina Anniversary

Mary Mahoney's in Biloxi, MS - note the water line marker behind the bar.

With all the big five-year remembrances going on around Hurricane Katrina, I thought I'd throw my hat in the ring. I posted about it almost obsessively back then, even though my blog was just weeks old.

My brother, Robert, had moved his family to the Mississippi Gulf Coast just TWO MONTHS prior and then gone missing during the storm. (I gave a plaintive, weepy radio interview on KABC-AM which I still can't listen to without bursting into tears.) Nothing like having your loved ones at the center of a major natural disaster to keep you interested.

Creative feeding spots were a common site post-Katrina.

Though I don't live in the South, a great number of people and animals that I love reside there and so, a part of my heart does too. The native souls are warm, generous and tougher than you can imagine. They are also creative, resourceful and know how to enjoy the day without too much fret about tomorrow. I'm here to remind ya'll that Mississippians gave us the blues, jazz, rock-n-roll and Barq's Root Beer. The Teddy Bear and William Faulkner. Parker Posey and Jimmy Buffett. Tennessee Williams and Brett Favre. Morgan Freeman and John Grisham.

Oprah and Elvis.

Need I go on? 

Anyway, I was reviewing my post-Katrina flickr page the other day and there are some haunting pics there. Surely, it was a tough time but luckily, the people are tougher.

The Community Garden

It's odd that I had zero interest in gardening until I moved from one of the most fertile states to one of the most arid. The main factor was probably space, something I never really had in California but in Colorado, there's room to stretch out.

About four years ago, I noticed things being dug up and moved around in my backyard rental. I remarked to the building manager that it was a shame since I was planning to grow my own vegetables. To my great delight, the landlord (a super cool lady named Amy) heard about my lament and immediately incorporated a raised bed - just for me! - into the new plans. The garden was such a success that earlier this year, Amy added two more raised beds for my neighbors and voila! The Milwaukee Street Garden was born.

Our garden when first planted, May 22nd.

Growing food together has really intensified the fun factor and enlivened our neighborly bond. We exchange observations about plant behavior and share laments about slow growth. And, like most gardeners, we want more bees!

Naturally, we look after one another's "babies." With all the traveling I do, this has been a blessing. I tell them when I am going out of town so they know to water mine when they water their own plots.

Of course, we also share the bounty. The general rule is: No direct harvesting. If anyone has extra to share, it goes on the picnic table and then it is first-come, first-serve. My nuclear bomb-sized zukes always find a happy home and I scored some yellow cucumbers the other day that I did not have to grow myself.

My plot, sometime in July.

Our collective roster of veggies and herbs include: yellow zukes, regular zukes, Japanese eggplant, cucumber, beets, basil, rosemary, lettuce, spinach, peas, cilantro, sunflower, mint, chives, bell pepper, jalapeno, parsley, thyme, New Mexico peppers, cinnamon basil, onions, squash and several varieties of tomatoes. I have not purchased fresh produce from a store in over a month. (On top of this, we also have Concord Grapes, which ripen in the fall, and an apple tree in the front yard.)

Eliot

Our backyard has now become a friendly meeting place for the entire building. One recent evening, I was out checking my tomatoes and chatting with Graham, who looked up at his sunflowers, wondering when he should harvest. He took a big, yellow head down and explained the process to his adorable five-year-old daughter, Eliot, who squealed in delight. Karin watered her tremendous pumpkins while her son, Ewan, ran around the yard chasing Bodi the cat. My studly neighbor duo, Chris and Tim, cooked up some chicken wings on the grill and we exchanged sports jokes. I doled out bite-sized pear tomatoes, bright yellow, to the kids and they gobbled 'em up with big juicy smiles.

My visiting friend, Kristin, came down the stairs looked upon the scene and said to me, "Wow. You've got a good thing going on here." 

The Exploding Garden, on 8/24/10.

Indeed I do!

Growing your own food and feeding oneself is beyond liberating and it requires very little effort. Turns out, the seeds know exactly what to do. (Must be that whole 'nature' thing I keep hearing about.) For a few gloriously delicious months, I don't pay to eat tasteless, mass-produced produce from from Guam or Mexico. When the season ends and I am forced to once again purchase a cardboard tomato, I feel like crying. 

In the meantime, I celebrate.