tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58493276426101845632024-03-12T21:02:51.169-04:00Days of TransitionWe are partners who transitioned to a new place, from city to country and into the house of our dreams. But settled or not, life never stands still. Every day is still a day of transition.Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.comBlogger424125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-20724112356968931162011-10-01T18:10:00.002-04:002011-10-01T18:33:16.910-04:00North Carolina News<div class="mbl notesBlogText clearfix"><div>This story won't make it to national news, but I know some of you will be interested.<br />
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The Republicans who were ushered into the state legislature as a result of the 2010 midterm elections lost no time reviving the same-sex marriage issue. They have scheduled a state-wide referendum on a constitutional amendment which declares marriage to be a union between one man and one woman. A majority of North Carolinians, 56%, are against such an amendment; this number has held steady over the past several years. More Republicans than Democrats are in favor of the amendment, however, as might be expected.<br />
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The Republican sponsors of the amendment scheduled the vote on this referendum to take place during the May primaries. Obama is running unopposed. Guess who will <i><b>not</b></i> be showing up at the polls in droves to vote in the primaries?<br />
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The majority of the citizens of North Carolina are against this marriage amendment, but the majority will not vote. The Republicans know this and have cynically rigged the outcome, the will of the majority be damned.<br />
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And my Republican friends wonder why I don't join them.....</div></div>Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-19352252146314455452011-08-30T10:50:00.004-04:002011-08-30T16:19:50.098-04:00WEATHER DRAMA IN THE ALBEMARLE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEJMqyDVgxiTKRIAJKP_o5SLDyGSKOVnoG3WwBoGevTGF7gOKfj6mpv0XC__xDC9D78F1oMgqLZonb_n8V8u4ctfX5-oXcHnZRCzVmlzfh8li6VswCQHaCb3mmUmyXlwep4UBxBNkDoj8/s1600/IMG_1816.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEJMqyDVgxiTKRIAJKP_o5SLDyGSKOVnoG3WwBoGevTGF7gOKfj6mpv0XC__xDC9D78F1oMgqLZonb_n8V8u4ctfX5-oXcHnZRCzVmlzfh8li6VswCQHaCb3mmUmyXlwep4UBxBNkDoj8/s320/IMG_1816.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">On Saturday, August 27, Irene came to call as promised. For a week, we had been hearing about this major hurricane that appeared to be following the classic northeasterly path, laying waste to the islands of the Caribbean. As the days passed, we watched as it drifted substantially eastward, sparing, for once, the Florida coast, but bearing straight down on the Outer Banks, the barrier islands of North Carolina. Lovely as they are, those unstable sandbars where never serious contenders when we thought of moving to North Carolina. We settled instead on what is called the “Inner Banks,” the land directly north and west of the Albemarle Sound, off the Little River, which is one of the 5 major rivers that drain northeastern North Carolina and feed the Sound. (A “sound” is basically a bay. Chesapeake Bay could be called Chesapeake Sound and it would mean the same thing. Rehoboth Bay? Rehoboth Sound. That’s the easiest way to think of it. North Carolina's two major sounds, Albemarle and Pamlico, are enormous bodies of water that separate mainland North Carolina from the Outer Banks and the Atlantic Ocean.) We decided on this inland area because it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> inland, relatively protected from the coast-hugging storms that frequent this part of the country at any time of the year. As unpleasant as Irene turned out to be, it could have been a lot worse, judging from the damage sustained on the Outer Banks themselves. We definitely made the right choice.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But of course we didn’t know that as we watched Irene approach. We had already experienced two major storms here: the already-legendary nor’easter of November, 2009, while we were still in the Edenton rental house, and Tropical Storm Nicole in September of 2010. It was during Nicole that we first witnessed two opposing phenomena: first our back yard filled with water as Lunker Creek, normally a gentle meander but now swollen with rain and pushed by the wind, crept ever higher into the wetlands that surround the rear of our house and eventually into the back yard; and then, as the eye passed and the wind reversed, the water disappeared from the yard and indeed, from the creek itself. It was the most graphic illustration imaginable of the wind tides (as opposed to the lunar tides the rest of the world is familiar with) that drive the waters around here. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Could Irene be any worse? Well, yes. For one thing, there’s always Hurricane Isabel to remember. This 2003 storm is the local benchmark for meteorological devastation, and our more seasoned neighbors always have it in mind when they hear of the approach of another Big One. We’ve seen the pictures of downed ancient trees and ruined homes; their fear is well-founded. And then of course there were the frantic reports of the TV talking heads, without which no storm of any consequence is complete. We hung on to their every word, avidly watching the various modeled storm tracks. On Friday, the day before the storm hit, we were told that it would make landfall early the next morning on the Outer Banks as a Category 2 storm (with winds of 96-110 mph), and then, strengthened as it made its 13 mph procession northeast over the local intra-coastal waters and got closer to us, momentarily increase to a Category 3 (111-130 mph). Whew!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">By the time we heard that, we had already prepared as much as we could. We laid in extra food, secured in one way or another anything outside that could move, taped all the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that line the back of our house, and primed the generator (and stocked 25 gallons of gasoline to run it—we could have limped along on lights, fans, the gas cooktop and the TV for weeks). The thought of leaving never entered our minds--we wanted to be here in case anything untoward did happen so that we could remedy it on the spot. We’d never have rested easy worrying about our boat, porch furniture, etc., from a distance. We felt secure in our decision to ride it out for several reasons. We knew that this house was well-constructed and would weather the storm. We also knew that it was built high enough off the ground so that for creek water to breach the back deck, much less enter the house, this storm would have to be of truly horror-movie proportions. As worrisome as all the reports were, they never indicated anything approaching that magnitude. Last, but by no means least, we have a Community Emergency Response Team (CERT) here, neighbors who have had specific training to deal with these very eventualities and offer their informed assistance. (We mean to take that training ourselves; unfortunately the most recent was the day after we’d hosted a big neighborhood party and could barely motivate ourselves out the door. This storm clearly demonstrated the usefulness of the training. Next time!) Storms, no matter how big, don’t last forever. We felt safe.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Saturday morning dawned blustery and very rainy. Our weather station, which measures conditions at the end of our dock, had collected about 3 inches of rain overnight, but the water at that time had not yet gotten into our yard. We lost electric power at about 9 AM, but the generator kept us going, and phone and internet service were so far uninterrupted. I spent much of the morning taking pictures and posting up-to-the-minute progress reports to our far-flung friends and family on Facebook. (Steve donned in his yellow slicker suit and took movies outside.) Internet and phone service went down at about noon, and then our only connection with the outside was the TV and very spotty cellphone service. (Up to then, I had been so prompt with my Facebook updates that I really became more concerned about our friends worrying about us than about anything in our immediate situation.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The storm continued glacially upon its path and the hours rolled by. It had weakened to Category 1 (74-95 mph) by landfall (which occurred almost exactly where predicted) and never gained strength over the Sound, but the wind and rain were still steady and ferocious. The one bit of excitement for the rest of the day was around food (of course): I had planned on roasting a chicken for dinner but we discovered right away that the generator couldn’t support the draw of the electric oven. The generator conked out and it seemed to take forever to figure out how to make it work again. (We were neglecting a pivotal circuit breaker.) I ended up frying a 6 lb. bird. (Today’s chickens are regular Dolly Partons—it’s a mystery to me how they can stand on their spindly chicken legs carrying all that breast meat.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Between 4 and 5 PM the eye passed us, over the Sound to the southeast of Elizabeth City. That’s quite near us but we did not have that other-worldly experience of seeing the clear blue sky and utter calm of the eye when it is directly upon you. The rain subsided a bit and the sky lightened, but we remained in storm conditions. We finally tired of the incessant yakking of the weather people on TV, so we watched a movie. By the time night fell, we knew that the wind had reversed and the storm was moving on. Steve suited up and took a flashlight to the end of the dock, and came back to report that the creek was emptying. That was the best news of the day, a sure sign that the worst was over. At around 9 PM, the house was still feeling clammy and too warm, and we were wondering how sleeping would be without air conditioning. As if on cue, the humidity and the temperature dropped as the strong back winds of the storm came in from the northwest. Sleeping was wonderful. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sunday dawned gray but relatively dry, and with the normalization of the wind, the creek had filled up again, temporarily rain-swollen. (Our weather station had collected a total of 6.5 inches of rain.) Water was about 4 feet into our back yard at 7 AM; by the end of the day it had mostly receded and now, Tuesday, everything is where it’s supposed to be.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We came through pretty much unscathed, with one skinny, already-dead tree down in the wooded area of the front, and another tree and a couple of large wax myrtles fallen in the wetland on the south side of the house. The cleanup still feels massive, however, what with all the downed limbs and pine tails littering everywhere the eye falls. We got half of the front cleaned yesterday; today’s rain gives us a rest from all that stooping and loading. We’ll get back to work tomorrow and by the time we’re done it will be looking like nothing ever happened. (We are creating the mother of all burn piles, however!) The neighborhood as a whole came through well, and luckily Isabel remains a benchmark as yet unmatched. There are some downed trees here and there, and a couple large ones actually uprooted in the common area near the community boat ramp. But all the houses are undamaged and the main thoroughfare was never impassable due to downed trees. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We are all safe and sound, thanks to the vagaries of Mother Nature’s steering currents, and to the planning inspired and advised by our ever-wonderful neighbors. The wisdom, born of hard experience, of our “pioneers,” (anyone who’s been here longer than us!), and their willingness to share it, is priceless. We never want to go through something like Hurricane Irene again, but of course, we will, and there’s no doubt some future storm will be worse. We chose to live in this storm-prone region. How lucky we are to be in such a community.</div>Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-25798004681406237982011-07-18T14:29:00.001-04:002011-07-18T14:45:13.892-04:00My Comment to CongressOn Wednesday July 20, Congress will be reconsidering DOMA (the "Defense of Marriage Act," one of Bill Clinton's most disastrous "third-way" compromises) for the first time since it was enactted 15 years ago. The Human Rights Campaign asked for comments from those whom this inhumane law affects directly. Here's what I said:<br />
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I am a 65-year-old federal retiree in a same-sex domestic partnership of 32 years. Because of DOMA, my partner is not eligible for any survivor benefits from me, nor can I add him to my health insurance. In order to ensure that he is looked after if I should die first, I have been forced by this situation to take out a life insurance policy. As to health benefits: He has a chronic health issue which we must cover in the individual insurance market at exorbitant rates; in fact, as I write, he is in severe pain which we cannot treat because on the individual market he cannot get coverage for the condition for a year. Members of congress: I am on the exact same FEHBP as you; imagine yourselves in this ridiculous position to know my frustration. The federal government is shooting itself in the foot with this outdated law, discouraging talented potential civil servants from applying for employment because they happen to be gay and can get humane treatment for their family members in the private sector. For heaven's sake drag yourselves into the 21st century.Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-22042109791418371332011-07-15T14:56:00.011-04:002011-07-15T20:07:16.779-04:00What a trip!This promises to be a long read, so sit back. I've <i><b>italicized</b></i> some place names in case you want to scroll through to things that interest you more, and I've also linked the places either to a corresponding Picasa album, or to websites about them. Click on anything underlined to find some kind of link.<br />
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We returned from our big road trip this past Tuesday, July 12. We put 2500 miles on my little 2001 Prizm and it's still running like a top. First, we traveled from here, in the extreme northeast corner of North Carolina, to Raleigh, in the middle of the state, and from there to Asheville and Hendersonville in the far west. (If we were to go directly from here to Asheville, it would be the equivalent in miles to the distance between here and New York City. That's how long North Carolina is.) And we went on from there.<br />
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We visited our friend Ann in <i><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/pcv6971/2011TripRaleigh?authkey=Gv1sRgCJaZmvO6xqGFZQ"><b>Raleigh</b></a> </i>who, even after all the times we'd been there, managed to come up with new things to show us. <a href="http://www.ncartmuseum.org/">The North Carolina Museum of Art </a>there is a cutting-edge design second to none, affording me, at least, one of the most satisfying museum experiences of any kind I've ever had. The stark white, rectangular simplicity of its exterior almost hides the fact that its sides are actually a series of louvers, set to open and close automatically depending on the intensity of the sun. The interior is also full of subtle but cutting-edge technological advances, all in exclusive service, like the space itself, to the art on display; there is nothing to draw the eye elsewhere. The collection is big and representative of every art form or era you can think of, from Egyptian sarcophagi to Greek sculpture to Roman glass, on through Meso-American, all the stages of Eurpoean, and on and on. If you are ever in Raleigh, visit this museum. You won't be disappointed; I've merely skimmed the surface of its features. Also in Raleigh, we visited the <a href="http://www.ncsu.edu/jcraulstonarboretum/index.php">arboretum</a> at NC State--useful for us to see what grows best here.<br />
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We had several revelations on this trip. The next was <i><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/pcv6971/2011TripAsheville?authkey=Gv1sRgCJST-eroutjW9QE"><b>Asheville,</b></a></i> North Carolina. If it were nearer the coast, and despite all the love and hard work we've put into where we are now, we'd move there in a heartbeat. What a fun, funky place! A mid-sized city of about 70,000, it's nestled beautifully in various valleys of the Blue Ridge and has as many fun things to look at and do as cities twice its size, only it's better, precisely because it is smaller and very accessible. Our hosts were Frank and Rick, old friends from Arlington--the guys who were the surrogate parents for our cats and kept us looking decent with good haircuts--who up and decided to move to North Carolina (but too far away!) about a year after we did. Features: restaurants, restaurants and more restaurants. We counted three Thai restaurants in as many blocks on one street. Architecture: Asheville crashed hard in 1929, after being home to the Vanderbilts and their ilk. It could never afford urban renewal; as a result, it is a city where, architecturally, time stood still. It has one of the highest concentrations of authentic art deco design in the country, buildings have been restored to their original luster, and are not mere museum pieces but are full of bustling life. Street life: the Friday night drumming circle must be experienced. It starts out simply enough in the main park downtown. As the evening progresses, it becomes more and more crowded, until towards midnight people are grooving shoulder-to-shoulder to the constantly-evolving beat. Sheer joy. On top of all that general grooviness, there are street musicians and performance artists on every corner. It's New York, it's New Orleans, and it's in the middle of the Blue Ridge Mountains. What a place! (And I dare not forget to mention <a href="http://www.groveparkinn.com/Leisure/TheResort/">The Grove Park Inn</a>, a fabulous stone-faced structure built into the side of a mountain in 1913 and serving only the most elite clientele ever since. We were allowed in to avail ourselves of the buffet there--our first major pig-out of the trip. You simply couldn't stop yourself from going back for more, the dishes were so varied and so well-prepared.)<br />
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While in Asheville, we also took two major tours of <i><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/pcv6971/2011TripAshevilleBiltmore?authkey=Gv1sRgCIqw-P7vu_Tbbg"><b>Biltmore</b></a>,</i> the summer retreat built by George Vanderbilt. It's a beautiful place worth the time (and considerable expense to get in). Not only is it architecturally interesting, the reforestation of the surrounding land required post-construction gave birth to the American forestry movement. The <a href="http://www.cradleofforestry.com/">"Cradle of Forestry"</a> museum is nearby.<br />
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From Asheville we traveled about 20 miles down I-26 to the small city of <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/pcv6971/2011TripChuckAndSandyHendersonville?authkey=Gv1sRgCP-j_pC-6pz5bA"><b>Hendersonville, </b></a>NC, where Peace Corps buddy Chuck and his wife Sandy hosted us in their gorgeous log home high on a wooded hill, and gave us a big dose of the mountains we had only looked at while in Asheville. We hiked to various waterfalls and peaks (in particular <a href="http://www.chimneyrockpark.com/">Chimney Rock</a>) and got the workouts we were beginning to need after that Grove Park Inn orgy. All in all these two stops gave us a welcome megadose of Western North Carolina, causing us to marvel at the diversity of this state, from the flat, hot coastal plain we call home to the beautiful, green and rolling countryside out west.<br />
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Next stop: five hours west to <i><b><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/pcv6971/2011TripNashville?authkey=Gv1sRgCLPfm-bKobyhFA">Nashville</a>.</b></i> We fell in love with the place. It has great energy, almost entirely devoted to show business. We did the obligatory tours of the <i><a href="http://countrymusichalloffame.org/">Country Music Hall of Fame</a></i> and the home of the Grand Ole Opry, <i><a href="http://www.ryman.com/about/">Ryman Auditorium</a>.</i> (Even if you aren't a country music fan, these places are iconic parts of the American cultural landscape and deserve attention. And some of the huge names associated with them--Loretta Lynn, Tammy Wynette, Conway Twitty--really transcend genre and are simply great in their own right.) Both these places were amazingly tourist-friendly, with photographs allowed everywhere, even inside the Ryman. The Hall of Fame tour included <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/RCA_Studio_B">RCA's Studio B</a></i>, where Elvis and other pop music legends created the sound tracks of most of our lives. The very Steinway grand on which Floyd Cramer played "Last Date" stands there in the middle of the room, and anyone is free to sit at it and doodle. There's no telling how many times the strings on that baby have been replaced, but the warm sound was familiar.<br />
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Aside from the expected tourist haunts we were also lucky enough to have had a real, live honky-tonk recommended to us in the beating heart of the city, on Broadway. Broadway in Nashville is a combination of Bourbon Street and Times Square, crammed by night with rowdy people rubbing shoulders as they snake up and down the sidewalks lined with storefronts. From every one of these doorways pours the sound of the best of the young musicians who've made their way to this music mecca, reaching for the brass ring, singing and playing their hearts out. We found our way to <i><a href="http://robertswesternworld.com/">Robert's Western World</a></i>, where the <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4WNO4tchUk">Don Kelley Band</a> </i>and an incredible 24-year-old guitarist, JD Simo, play. (The last song in the set in the linked video features him playing a "Ghost Riders in the Sky" the likes of which you won't see anywhere else.) Without question, Simo is the current generation's answer to Clapton, Richards and Hendrix. He is mesmerizing; we'll be hearing much more from him. Robert's Western World charges no minimum and provides free refills of non-alcoholic drinks. They serve burgers and fries; the bands make money there literally by passing the tip jar. (They all have regular, paying jobs in music--they just come to Robert's to keep their performing mojo in shape.) Our only complaint about Robert's was the volume. It's a tiny room but it is amped for an arena. The musicians were wearing ear plugs; they should have been provided for the audience, too. For a while there I was half expecting my ears to start bleeding, but they didn't, and we stayed because the band, and especially JD, was so damn good!<br />
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We loved Nashville and will be back, but July 4 beckoned, so we headed north to <i><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/pcv6971/2011TripMJCincinnatti?authkey=Gv1sRgCLO62-qF0qvPTQ"><b>Cincinnati</b></a></i>, to be with still more dear friends, Michele and John John's the cook; Michele, who was a Peace Corps volunteer with me in the same city in Ghana, is the hostess with the mostess. We had a relaxing and well-fed sojourn there, with just a couple of outings. One day was spent on a drive in the countryside along the Ohio River, where we saw <i><a href="http://www.jotravels.com/grant/">Ulysses Grant's birthplace</a></i> (it was closed) and then took a ferry across the river into Kentucky and the quaint waterfront town of <b>Augusta</b>, where a <i><a href="http://www.rosemaryclooney.org/">shrine to Rosemary Clooney</a></i> has been erected. Clooney was originally from down the road in Maysville, but toward the end of her life she used this little house in Augusta as a retreat. Sad to say that aside from being able to say we've seen it, there isn't much to recommend this place. The house is entirely filled with Clooney's career memorabilia, with no attempt at all to re-create how it looked when she was in it. There are some rather yummy pictures of nephew Georgie as a very young man, and the docent has some interesting stories to tell. But in our opinion this attraction is not all it could be and would take second place to any other diversion you may have in mind.<br />
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Our next took stop took us across Ohio and just over the Pennsylvania line to <i><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/pcv6971/2011TripPittsburgh?authkey=Gv1sRgCNHmx8OnoPqebA"><b>Pittsburgh</b></a></i>, and the nearby, iconic attraction of the Frank Lloyd Wright house, Fallingwater. Pittsburgh itself was another revelation, with hilltop views to rival those of San Francisco, looking down on gleaming, adventurous new architecture along its three rivers. Andy Warhol was from Pittsburgh, and the museum there devoted to his life and work is definitely worth the time it takes to explore its seven easily-navigated floors. And you must take the Monongahela Incline, a tram that carries you up the side of Mount Washington to Grandview Avenue and a series of breathtaking views of the city. It's hard to believe that with its smoke and coal dust (the U.S. bituminous coal industry got its start here) Pittsburgh was until recently one of the darkest and most unhealthy places in the country; those Grandview Avenue sights were barely visible. <br />
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And then there is <i><a href="http://www.fallingwater.org/">Fallingwater</a>.</i> Brilliantly conceived and engineered outside, it is downright uncomfortable inside for anyone over 5'10" tall, and dark, to boot. Wright was 5'8" on a good day and built to his own scale (which he modestly referred to as "human"), right down to installing permanent benches in the great room that are so low to the floor they would present difficulties climbing off of for anyone of average height. He liked rooms to be havens of space and light, so he constructed the hallways between them to resemble caves, creating rooms that would seem to burst open as they were entered. In the guest room, my 6'4" frame literally could not extend itself to its full height. Fallingwater is far off the usually trodden path, a good hour southeast of Pittsburgh, beautifully situated in rhododendron-strewn hills. Despite this remoteness, its fame and the Wright mystique draw thousands yearly; we experienced it as a very busy place. Reservations are required; children under 6 years of age are not allowed. We were disappointed--Wright's hubris is evident throughout--but still recommend it as a destination, if only to see it in person and, if you are of a certain limited stature, actually enjoy being inside it.<br />
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Our next stop was a short hop from western Pennsylvania to <b>Reading</b>, in the east-central part of the state, to visit a nephew of Steve's. Reading is on the fringes of Pennsylvania Dutch country, and one of the main attractions we looked forward to was the <i><a href="http://www.kutztownfestival.com/">Kutztown Folk Festival</a></i>, hoping to find a Penn-Dutch hex sign to add a splash of color to our house. We need a big one--3 feet across--and didn't see any in that size that caught our fancy, so we'll end up buying one online anyway. The festival itself was fun, though, the biggest county fair you've ever seen, on steroids. It was definitely worth the trip. The big surprise for us about the Reading area is that it is a haven for antiques. We stumbled upon the city of <b>Adamstown</b>, which has more antique malls than we'd ever seen in one place. And that is "malls," not mere single stores. We did two of these malls and it took us 4 hours to look at everything. We found a jewel, too: a beautiful Murano glass bird for only $48. (But we found another one even cheaper--see below!)<br />
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Adamstown and its antique malls must be copying its bigger neighbor, Reading, when it comes to shopping, however. Reading, in case you didn't know, is the place where outlet malls got their start. The <i><a href="http://www.mallseeker.com/vf-outlet-village.aspx">Vanity Fair Outlet Village</a></i> sits atop a long rise in Reading, dominating the town like some Acropolis of the commercial. It must be seen to be believed.<br />
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From central Pennsylvania we headed off to our last stop, a very short drive into Sussex County, <i><a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/pcv6971/2011TripDelaware?authkey=Gv1sRgCM_d7sKQs7zRZw"><b>Delaware</b></a></i>, where we visited another dear Peace Corps buddy, Marilyn, and her husband Wayne. We had a chance to visit our old haunts there, including two favorite antique shops in Millsboro, and the now-vacant lot, part of somebody's front yard, that was once our beloved little postage stamp with its trailer, where we spent 4 glorious summers. We took a day trip down to Berlin, MD, where we visited yet another couple of antique shops (and we found another Murano bird--this one for only $18!) and had lunch at the Atlantic Hotel--all old, friendly favorites ready for a visit. Marilyn and Wayne were the perfect hosts, great, relaxing, funny company. We walked the boardwalk at Bethany, and they sent us off with a wonderful picnic breakfast on the beach. It was the perfect ending to a perfect trip.Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-34994131853590283192011-04-28T11:23:00.000-04:002011-04-28T11:23:25.661-04:00HumilityThis started out as a rare day, one with absolutely nothing planned. I got the idea to take<i><b> <a href="https://picasaweb.google.com/pcv6971/TourOfTheFrontYard42711?authkey=Gv1sRgCPTF8ILYzOeT_gE#">a lot of pictures of the front yard and post them for you</a></b></i>. I've been telling everybody about all the hard work we've been doing; might as well show the fruits of that labor. So I took the pictures early this morning, uploaded them, and posted them everywhere to my non-blog friends. Then came the wonderful responses, then came lunch, and then came something unexpected: the owner of the lot next door, whom we've never met, is having his land cleared. The sound of such industry drew us out to see what was happening, and what this heretofore heavily wooded expanse would give in the way of construction possibilities. (So far it appears to be a lovely piece of land.) And now here we are, it's 1:30 PM, several hours after I meant to sit down and do what I'm doing now. See why I haven't been writing much? Even when nothing is planned, life happens. And no matter what else you may think of that, it must be admitted it's much better state of affairs than the alternative.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">* * * </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Next day: OK, I'm back. Got waylaid with a trip to town, then dinner, etc., etc...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I want to thank all of you for your gently applied but steady pressure on me to keep writing. It makes me believe that all that stuff I wrote in the years before this big life change must have meant something to quite a few someones, and for that I am flattered and humbled. I wish I were a more dedicated writer and could just shut the rest of life off for an hour or two each day to produce something. If I were single (or had all those hours alone during the day, as I did before we moved here) there's no doubt these pages would be fuller. But what I call "F&B life" (for "flesh-and-blood") goes on relentlessly in this partnership, and it appears to have more compelling calls than this does, when calls there are. And so I write less. I've never been one to say "never"; I will not simply end the blog, because that would be as much of a promise to keep to as any other, and I know I will always want a place to write when the spirit moves. So I will slog along, even if my readers dwindle down to a mere two or three. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The discovery of a "gay scene" here in one of the notches of the Bible Belt has been gradual and very interesting for us. While we are perfectly happy with each others' company and that of the everyday people with whom we come in contact, it's still nice to have a stable of friends with similar life experiences, whatever they may be, to call upon. I've often remarked upon the kind helpfulness of the people we've met here. What I haven't mentioned is the fact that that helpfulness even extends all the way to helping us find other gay people (though the word "gay" is never uttered). First, our cross-creek neighbors made it their mission to introduce us to the guys who run <i><b><a href="http://www.theonleyplace.com/">The Onley Place</a></b></i> up in Belvidere--the former square dance caller and his partner who now own and operate this wonderful, well-attended performance venue. We have had a couple of fun, laughter-filled evenings with them and see the possibility of a good friendship. Another time a painter, contracted by our builder to do some touch-up work, asked us, in the course of general conversation while he was here, if we "got around" much. Not knowing where he was going with that question, we answered that yes, we'd been here a while and had explored up and down the Albemarle, etc., etc., but he said, "No, I mean have you gotten to <i>know</i> any <i>people</i>, you know, folks you guys could hang out with." The light came on. It was amazing. This kind man, a total stranger, apparently saw us from a mile away and wanted to help us. He told us about another couple who live right up in Hertford. One of them is the main hairdresser for the ladies--and some men--of the county (wouldn't you know??? But stereotypes do have factual basis!); his partner is a mail man. The painter told them about us--gave them a call while he was here, as a matter of fact (big news!!)--and we eventually got around to making a haircut appointment and met them. So not only did we get the best haircuts we've had since we've lived here, but we've expanded our circle of gay friends by two, thanks to this kindness of a stranger. (We actually have haircuts scheduled for late this afternoon and then will go out to dinner with the guys. Blanche Dubois must be smiling from wherever she resides between <i>Streetcar</i> productions.) </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I have had a pipe dream of gathering enough gay people here to have a good dinner party like the ones we used to have in Arlington. I envisioned myself as the keeper of a sort of salon, introducing interesting people to each other. Of course, it took very few conversations to realize that, this being a relatively small community, most of the gay people around here already know each other. Not only that, but they have definite opinions about each other, too, so you have to be careful about who sits with whom. I'd been naively thinking that in my big-city way I could create a network of gay people in this place, so benighted before our arrival. But no. We are entering a community already well established, and we'll have to learn to fit in with them, not they with each other. Lessons in humility are never out of date.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We are expecting our share of the big storms that have been marching across the South this week. Right now it's only partly overcast, but the wind is strong and it's clear something is on its way. We dodged a few bullets two weeks ago when tornado warnings were issued for a line very close to us. So far no dire warnings, but you never know....</div>Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-22009235061004040782011-03-21T10:10:00.003-04:002011-03-21T10:16:06.742-04:00A night on the townFriday night we went out with our new friends Gene and Steve to see the <i style="color: #cc0000;"><a href="http://perquimansrestoration.org/Wagon_.php">Belvidere Wagon Train</a></i>. This historical observance, interesting in its own right, had the feel of a country fair, with happy crowds strolling among musicians and food vendors. It was a beautiful, warm evening that served as a great excuse for us to get together and to know each other better. <br />
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It's stretching things a bit to call Belvidere a "town"--it's more a collection of houses with a store, a restaurant, and a post office. But what a store and what<i> </i>a restaurant! The grocery carries all the staples you would expect in a country store and is unremarkable until you work your way back to where the meats are kept. There, your eyes suddenly feast upon hanging rows of hams, pork bellies, poultry and sausages smoked on the premises, and a cold-case full of beautiful steaks, cuts of pork, and home-made sausage. We didn't buy anything but I was reminded of the old joke about the lady standing in line at a fast food restaurant who says, pointing at the menu posted on the wall, "I'll just have side orders--that side and that side." I wanted it all!<br />
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The restaurant is in a converted historic home and serves excellent, homemade southern-style cooking at low prices, a good place to go for a simple, well-prepared meal if we don't feel like cooking. (And as for that post office: it serves all the people dotted in farms and homesteads within a radius of many square miles, so it is consequential despite its smallness. Its closure, if that ever happened for misguided reasons of economy, would create hardship for many.) <br />
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Both Gene and Steve are locals born and bred, with roots that go all the way back to the original English settlers in the region. Steve is, among many other things, a history buff, and has become the go-to person for anyone doing research on the area. (I joke with him that he <i>is</i> the local historical society, but for all intents and purposes he is precisely that, since the actual institution does not yet exist in the county.) He has traced real estate records and family trees deep into history; a drive with him along the back roads of this rural county--roads and scenery where the uninitiated would see nothing but endless fields dotted with occasional houses in various states of liveability--becomes as fascinating as a tour of any city. <br />
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The evening also had its share of big laughs, thanks in part to the fact that Steve has so many aunts and uncles. Practically everyone he passes, it seems, is a cousin. Once, as we passed some antique artifact, Steve said, "My cousin made that." He forgave me for observing that he seems to be related not only to every person in the county, but every thing.<br />
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The guys are in the middle of a project Steve and I know only too well: the re-creation and customization of a very old house into something that will be completely their own. As they walked us through the rambling old place, showing us rooms both original and added on, and walls that were put in to create new spaces, we felt we were in very familiar territory. They still have a way to go, but they have plenty of time, and the finished parts are on their way to being a comfortable place they can be proud of.<br />
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Of course, for all the familiarity, there are some differences from what we had in Arlington. Our old place just had a small yard with bird feeders in the back. Steve and Gene have a collection of peacocks, some chickens, a horse and a jackass--which they've tried to mate to get a mule, but the mare is so far having none of that--in addition to the usual dogs and cats. The closest we ever got to anything that exotic was the neighbor's pot-bellied pig, who occasionally escaped his back yard enclosure for forays into our petunia patch. When we called Animal Control, we had to repeat the story a couple of times before anybody would believe us. Here, Animal Control wouldn't even be involved--heck, I'm not sure it even exists. The critters belong where they are and nobody bats an eye.Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-31843158426895315302011-03-15T11:11:00.002-04:002011-03-16T08:22:23.797-04:00Making senseThis coming Saturday, the 19th of March, we will be in this house for one year. We mentioned this milestone to one of our neighbors the other day, and she said, "it seemed it took you forever to get here, and now it seems you've been here forever."<br />
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She was right. Those of you who accompanied us on the roller-coaster that brought us here know only too well what that "forever" was like. And now, since neither Steve nor I can stand to live in situations that seem only temporary, it does feel like we've been here forever. The house has that lived-in look. We were quick to fill the walls with our favorite things, from pictures to shelves of art glass that we have collected over the years--old friends which, for as long as we're both alive, belong nowhere else. The outside is still a work in progress (as it always will be), but the dreamed-of sweep of green in the front is now a reality, the splashes of color we wanted dotting the landscape are appearing, and the incredible natural diversity of the waterfront--a diversity made visible by the work we put into clearing out the invasive wax myrtle--is an endless pleasure. These early spring days are, in a word, delicious. We've had a few 70-degree days, when the breezes are perfect and the views in every direction are stunning, and we pinch ourselves to make sure this beauty is actually our reality.<br />
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We visited our old house in Arlington a few weeks ago. The new owners are wonderful, so respectful of the work we left behind, careful to remain true to our design, while looking to put on their own stamp, as well they should. They've done well by it. The place looks beautiful, but we were both struck by how <i>small</i> it is. The front and back yards combined would fit into our back yard alone here, and the house itself seemed tiny, like a dollhouse, a miniature. Without our realizing it, our personal horizons have broadened. As big a space as 2.5 acres is, it seems normal now. Driving 15 miles to the grocery store, the idea of which was once daunting--even irritating--is as nothing now. I do it nearly every day. We do still miss the compactness of the waterways in Delaware, where we could hop in our boat and actually <i>go</i> somewhere, to Lewes for lunch or out to Rehoboth Bay and be joined by hoards of others enjoying the water just like us, but the wilderness of the upper reaches of the Little River here, with its countless osprey nests, its wildlife sightings, and the seasonal changes in the landscape, more than compensates. <br />
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And yet there is more on my mind these days than mere rhapsody. Life in all of its chaos is upon us. Even as I revel in my own surroundings, horror, both man-made and natural, dominates the news. Events in the Middle East started out with such hope. Hope still exists, but at the same time Libya reminds us of the cruelty humans can visit upon each other. As I write, parts of Japan seem to be at a previously unimagined precipice, a possible nuclear holocaust even worse than the bombs we dropped on them 65 years ago. In our own country, events in Wisconsin and Michigan are distressing, and our national congress--the people we elected to represent our interests--are forever mired in grandstanding, constant electioneering, tossing red meat to "the base," interested, it seems, only in their own short-term survival as politicians instead of the welfare of the nation. We long for the "good old days," as if they ever existed.....<br />
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Like Candide, I cultivate my own garden. If I can create beauty for myself perhaps my example will influence others. It's all I can do; I am otherwise powerless over the Qaddafis of the world, the earthquakes, the nuclear meltdowns, the craven ignorance of the powerful. Beauty and its opposite have always existed simultaneously. "How can this be?" is a useless question--it just is. The best we can do is make our own sense of the senseless.Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-65418982178670328402011-01-26T15:29:00.003-05:002011-01-26T15:38:43.714-05:00EatingA favorite story of my mother's ran thus: mere weeks after I was born, long before I was supposed to be on solid food, I cried all the time. She took me to the doctor, who took a look at me and simply said, "he's hungry." (Dr. Davis, my pediatrician, had already demonstrated great wisdom by pronouncing, as soon as I made my entry into the world, that I would grow to be 6 feet, 3 inches. I beat him by a mere inch). So my mother hauled me home, filled her baby bottles with oatmeal, cut the nipples off the bottles to allow me easy access, and I shut up. I've been eating on demand ever since.<br />
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I was lucky in that my mother, while not a "gourmet" cook (this was a rarefied designation during her 1940s and -50s heyday) was adventurous. She loved onions and was never afraid of garlic. She gave us milky oyster stew and smoked finnan haddie as a matter of course--these seafood delicacies were things she herself had grown up with. I can remember when oregano made its first appearance in our house--she called it or-a-GA-no, thinking it had come from Oregon, I guess--and it went into anything Italian. She loved eggplant but nobody else in the family did, so she went without until those breaded eggplant sticks went on the market. We all loved them. And then there were Chef Boyardee Raviolis. (Yes, raviolis. Who knew "ravioli" <i>was</i> the plural in Italian?) She opened up a can of them for lunch one day and I was hooked for life--I could barely stop eating them then, and as a guilty pleasure I will very occasionally snarf down a can even now.<br />
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As I entered my double-digit years I became interested in the sandwiches my parents made for their weekend lunches. There came a day when I decided I was tired of cream cheese and jelly and I asked my mother to make me a sandwich like the ones the grownups were having. She came up with a comely pile consisting of Lebanon bologna, Swiss cheese, onion, mustard, and lettuce, encased in two big slices of pumpernickel. It was my favorite sandwich for years. It's only in retrospect that I marvel that these exotic ingredients--smoky and sharp Lebanon bologna, pumpernickel bread--were regular fixtures in our suburban 1950s kitchen, but then again, they were always available in the plain old A&P store where my mother shopped. (So was liverwurst, another relative rarity today.) Maybe these foods were entirely run-of-the-mill back then and they only seem exotic now, since we have become so conscious and afraid of cured meats. Nobody eats these things any more. More's the pity, but I have to admit we are having fewer heart attacks.<br />
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Given this happy and loving relationship with food, it's only natural that I should have become a cook. My mother started me off down that road, too, leaving dinner ingredients in the kitchen for me to prepare when she and my father went out on a Friday night. I started cooking for myself in earnest when I finally got into off-campus housing in college. A favorite recipe was the "Pepper Steak" in a Good Housekeeping meats cookbook I found at a grocery checkout counter somewhere in the 1960s. I put the name of the dish in quotes because it wasn't fancy French <i>steak au poivre</i>--no, this was just round steak cut into strips and cooked in a tomato sauce with green peppers. Over rice. Delicious! And I had a favorite comfort food decades before that term ever even came into use: beef stew. I clearly remember calling my sister from my attic apartment on Maxwell Street in Lexington, Kentucky, where I was going to school, asking her how to make it.<br />
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As I moved into adulthood, I became friends with people who were actual gourmet cooks. They helped me put a few fine points on my native appreciation for good eats. And then came Julia Child and her inestimable influence on American foodways. She ushered in a true culinary revolution for which I, for one, was completely prepared. I and millions of others have been kids in the candy store (no pun intended but it is cute) ever since. <br />
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The very best part of this love affair with food, for me, was the fact that for the first three decades of my life I maintained the metabolism of a teenager. I stayed rail-thin no matter what I ate, or how much--there was never any penalty to pay for these profligate eating habits I was born with. It was only as I entered my 40s that I began to notice that my clothes were becoming tight in all the wrong places, and I was presented with a problem many people have always had but I was flummoxed by: I was gaining weight. At first it was a novelty, but soon enough it became a nuisance and a grave matter of vanity. Ralph Cherry? Fat? No way. My first encounter with the word "slender" was when I overheard my Aunt Grace use it in reference to me. I was less than 10 and I had to ask what it meant. "Thin" isn't just what I am, it's <i>who</i> I am. <br />
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So I came to sensible eating habits and exercise relatively late in life--and again, I was helped in these endeavors by the national revolution in health-consciousness that seemed to come hand-in-glove the fore-mentioned culinary awakening. I have ceded a few pounds to the years through compromise: I am not a natural exerciser, and if the weather doesn't allow me to take my usual strenuous walk I go without; and, dammit, I love my food! I've come to a way of thinking that sometimes allows food to be mere nutrition: breakfast is always nonfat yogurt with some fresh fruit (unless we are splurging on a Sunday brunch), and lunch is usually a salad, even when dining out. We do not have the usual American snacks in the house. No cookies, no crackers, no crunchy grease flavored with salt in plastic bags. My reward for all this discipline is dinner, which most times is cooked by me, and I let myself go with it.<br />
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The hardest things to deal with when you're perpetually trying to be "good" are the Christmas holidays, and visits with friends who are also good cooks. I enjoy baking but never do it because there are only two of us to feed, and a typical cake or batch of cookies will blimp us out in no time. I had great fun over the recent holidays making five different kinds of cookies to give away to our neighbors. I exercised some neglected kitchen muscles and we even saved ourselves a few cookies.<br />
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Cooking friends are something else again. How do you say "no" to the offer of yet more cookie recipes or a couple of jars of to-die-for home-made pimento cheese spread? Politely, I hope, and in the full and respectful knowledge that we're all just trying to share the love. All I have to do is try to button my pants to remember that too much "love" renders normal clothes downright uncomfortable and makes me short of breath going up the stairs.Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-65259338394815911812011-01-16T12:51:00.000-05:002011-01-16T12:51:57.679-05:00FOOD!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit1mnxlaQFpZp0lQgs9YDj2GHNlYUxk6DJ_bwuGT1yd3gJ7xkEUwP_mNWLATTae12mk5_JxBiL5eevBjMeFRaxER3vk43Y2WrVgc5I_iGh6VXoIbsgVvtbxrqER9oGlgWInLCERRsoIQw/s1600/Bevs+Potato+Frittata.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit1mnxlaQFpZp0lQgs9YDj2GHNlYUxk6DJ_bwuGT1yd3gJ7xkEUwP_mNWLATTae12mk5_JxBiL5eevBjMeFRaxER3vk43Y2WrVgc5I_iGh6VXoIbsgVvtbxrqER9oGlgWInLCERRsoIQw/s320/Bevs+Potato+Frittata.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Bev's Potato Frittata</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">OK it's not Friday, but the food muse calls. I finally made something new this morning that's worth sharing, and since we're going on a little trip to Raleigh at the end of the week I won't even be here to put this up as a Food Friday post, so you're getting it now. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">This stick-to-your-ribs breakfast dish is what I always ordered at our favorite Sunday morning breakfast joint back in our Delaware days. We'd drive into Rehoboth Beach to visit what we called "Bev's" after the proprietor. The place did have a formal name, but we never really knew what it was. It was attached to a motel on Wilmington Avenue, in the second block back from the beach. Bev always had a cheerful greeting at the door for us and, after taking care of other customers, she'd stop by our table and bring us up to date on the current conditions of the restaurant biz in that tourist town, and on the indignities visited upon her by the owner of the mobile home park where she lived. (The owner was a famous local fat cat about whom it was great fun to dish. You loved to hate him.) We were shocked the first time we went there after a season away to discover Bev had sold the place to her next-door competitor and retired. We never had a chance to say goodbye. Now, Bev's is gone and the lady herself is no longer a part of our life, but she lives on in this dish.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">This frittata incorporates all the traditional "big breakfast" ingredients into a single, artery-clogging masterpiece. It has your sausage, your bacon, your eggs, your cheese, your home-fries with onions and peppers all right there. It's a once-every-few-months extravagance...and if you have a cholesterol problem there are low-fat substitutes. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The sugar in the potatoes adds depth of flavor and helps them brown. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">For the eggs:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">6 slices bacon</div><div style="text-align: left;">3 breakfast sausage links (I use hot links with sage), cut into chunks</div><div style="text-align: left;">6 eggs</div><div style="text-align: left;">1/2 cup sharp cheddar cheese, grated</div><div style="text-align: left;">1/3 cup chicken stock</div><div style="text-align: left;">1/2 tsp salt</div><div style="text-align: left;">pepper to taste </div><div style="text-align: left;">1 tablespoon unsalted butter</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">For the potatoes:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">2 tsp. olive oil</div><div style="text-align: left;">3 small Yukon gold potatoes, cut into small chunks (I don't peel them--up to you)</div><div style="text-align: left;">1 medium onion, coarsely chopped</div><div style="text-align: left;">1/2 large red or green bell pepper, coarsely chopped</div><div style="text-align: left;">1 tsp. salt</div><div style="text-align: left;">1 tsp sugar</div><div style="text-align: left;">pepper to taste</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Cook bacon until crisp in a large oven-proof skillet, remove to paper towels to drain. Crumble bacon. Pour off excess bacon fat from skillet but do not clean skillet. In same skillet, cook sausage chunks until no longer pink, remove and set aside with bacon.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Whisk eggs in a medium bowl, add salt and pepper, stir in grated cheese.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Over medium high heat, bring chicken stock to a boil in the skillet in which bacon and sausage were cooked. Deglaze the skillet, scraping all fond off the bottom of the pan until it is smooth. Continue cooking stock, stirring occasionally, until it has reduced to a syrupy consistency. When thickened, stir into beaten eggs.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Place pat of butter in warm deglazed skillet and allow to melt while preparing potatoes. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Cook potatoes: </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Heat olive oil in a non-stick skillet, add potatoes, onions and bell pepper. Sprinkle with salt, sugar and pepper, toss all to combine. Cover tightly and place over medium high heat. Let cook without stirring 5-7 minutes to allow carmelization of potatoes to begin. Lift lid, toss potatoes once or twice to re-distribute, then cover again and allow to cook another 5 minutes without stirring. Repeat this process until potatoes are cooked through and as brown as you want them.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Assemble frittata;<br />
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Preheat oven to broil, if your oven requires it, and move an oven rack to a position immediately below the broiler, leaving just enough room for the skillet. Distribute bacon, sausage, and home fries evenly over melted butter in oven-proof skillet. Pour in egg mixture, shake skillet to make sure eggs settle into all crevices between meats and potatoes. Cook over medium heat for 5-7 minutes, or until cheese melts and eggs begin to set. Remove skillet from stovetop and place under broiler, cook for about 5 minutes more, or until top of frittata is set. <br />
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Remove skillet from oven and place on a rack, allowing residual heat in the skillet to finish cooking the eggs. Cut into serving-size portions and enjoy.<br />
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</div>Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-43945034853333539032011-01-11T10:06:00.000-05:002011-01-11T10:06:58.526-05:00Words on a cozy dayIf there are ever days designed for staying indoors if you don't have to go out, this is one of them. The sky is leaden, filled with water liquid and solid, both of which forms are now falling upon the landscape simultaneously. The temperature isn't expected to climb out of the 30s. This house, its inviting glass facade designed for more temperate conditions, struggles to remain comfortable. The electric bill covering mid-December to mid-January testifies to the fact that our heat pump has been running almost non-stop. The lovely fireplace, designed mostly just to be that, lovely, does a little bit to remove the chill but sends most of its heat up its flue. So today we are socked in, dressed in fleece and soft woolens.<br />
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But this is only one day. Most of the time, though the air is still cold, the sun is bright and it invites us out to survey the scene. And life itself continues to bring smiles.<br />
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Yesterday we made the last major purchase that will be done with funds from that hard-earned home equity loan: a new engine for our boat. It's a state-of-the-art machine with less horsepower than the old one (which came with the boat when it was new in 1995) but as much or more get-up-and-go because of improvements in technology. We should be able to do what we always did in the boat, just more quietly and efficiently. The biggest treat will be for our neighbors and the wildlife with whom we share this space: huge clouds of oil smoke will no longer billow from our dock when we start our motor. We felt like we were driving a floating jalopy down the river whenever we started up. Now, with its new seats and engine, the boat is like new. We should be able to take longer trips without fear of engine failure or breaking the bank on fuel. <br />
<br />
We have made friends with another gay couple here, both natives of the Albemarle whose roots trace back to the original English settlers and even the local native-Americans. This is a welcome event and, to me, surprisingly significant. We are in no way exclusive in our choice of friends--indeed, our closest friends tend to be childless couples more-or-less our age, hetero and otherwise; we seem to have the most in common with them. What we enjoy most in social life is diversity, and this was something of a discovery, possible only in this new place, where we have found the pool of potential friends to be overwhelmingly white, straight, and older. The homogeneity here made us appreciate--understand, even--the diversity we left behind in Arlington. Our little street was a smorgasboard of people white, of color, straight, gay, young and old. Columbia Pike, the commercial drag a mere stroll away, is a bazaar of multi-ethnic groceries and dining opportunities. We have come to miss that vibrancy, that stimulation. So meeting somebody here who is "diverse" like us is a welcome development. And these guys seem hungry for new blood--they are very clear that they want to cultivate our friendship and we look forward to getting to know them better. We are honored, really, because they are rather famous here for the quarterly "Prairie Home Companion"-style entertainment they write and produce--a showcase for very impressive local talent--at their venue, <b><a href="http://www.theonleyplace.com/">The Onley Place.</a></b> They are confirming for us the impression we already had: there are gay people around here but, as with other sensitive personal considerations, such as politics, nobody is in your face about it. They just go about their business like everyone else, just happening to be, in this case, gay. We find this very comfortable because it's exactly the way we've lived our lives all along. We hope we can build a critical mass of gay people around us and then mix them with our "built-in" friends--our white, straight, old but wonderful neighbors--and be one happy group. We want people of color and of different cultures to be a part of the mix, too--they may be harder to come by here, but our doors are open!Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-89953175593390477012010-12-27T14:26:00.002-05:002010-12-27T15:24:29.246-05:00An Albemarle SnowfallThe term "snowed in," after having been used so lightly by us for untold years in Washington, D.C., has demonstrated its literal meaning now that we've experienced a major snowstorm here in the so-called sunny south. Coastal North Carolina received 6.5" of wondrous white in the previous 48 hours, and it wasn't ready for it.<br />
<br />
Today was the day to get moving after too many days of that good thing we all dream of: a fire, good food and drink, and a favorite entertainment, be it a beloved movie on TV or a favorite singer coming through the speakers. The path between the fireplace and the refrigerator becomes ever deeper as the weight of the snacks consumed is transferred from the fridge to our bodies. Clothing other than the snuggly, loungey things we've been wearing to complete that homey picture seems foreign. The sun, dazzling against the uninterrupted blanket of white, beckons us back to life.<br />
<br />
The first thing I did was to take a broom and knock the heavy snow off the young pines in the yard, hoping to help them stand upright once again. Steve replenished all the bird seed, three feeders depleted in a day by our usual chickadee and woodpecker visitors plus an entire flock of red-wing black birds that have just discovered the free feast. (One or two of these beauties are welcome, but this many will scare everybody else away, so we hope this is temporary, a result of the weather.) Then we <b style="color: #20124d;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/pcv6971/December272010?authkey=Gv1sRgCI3F04SIjaz_7AE#"><i>went for a walk on our street</i>.</a></b> <br />
<br />
Our constitutional completed, we decided to load up the SUV with our ever-accumulating trash--our normal output plus the extra Christmas boxes and paper--and take it to the dump. The two-mile trip there on Deep Creek Road was the first hint that we are in a place that officially Is Not Accustomed To This Weather. Deep Creek Road, the only way out of here, has not seen even the glimmer of a plow. (With all the farmers and their manly toys around here, you'd think otherwise, but maybe a plow is not a plow is not a plow.) We got out to New Hope Road, an even more vital artery, carrying the entire population of Durant's Neck out to US 17, and saw that it, too, was innocent of a plow blade. Ditto Woodville Road, which takes that same population north to Elizabeth City. And the dump was closed.<br />
<br />
So here we are, socked back inside. The car is still full of trash. Tomorrow we have to take a 60-mile drive to Ahoskie so Steve can visit his pain specialist, all on heavily traveled but "back" roads, State-maintained, not part of the US Highway or Interstate system. That should be interesting. And we're looking forward to visitors from DC for the New Years celebration. They're arriving Thursday and some shopping in Elizabeth City needs to be done. This is the last day of indolence, voluntary or enforced. Tomorrow real life resumes, ready or not, slippery roads, closed dump and all.Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-90917638843560631222010-12-06T09:44:00.003-05:002010-12-06T09:52:50.983-05:00Reluctant techieI know I've been away much longer than I'd led either you or myself to expect I'd be, but I do have a string of good excuses. Between enjoying the company of and cooking for visitors over a long and wonderful Thanksgiving weekend, and just performing the everyday functions that keep this Ship of State afloat, I've been deep in modern technology. You might even say deeply <i>mired</i> in modern technology.<br />
<br />
The first thing that happened was completely unexpected: I got a Kindle for my birthday. I had been agnostic on this particular subject and hadn't planned on doing anything to jump off the fence. I have taken to some of the new media storage opportunities absolutely like a duck to water with no second thoughts: I was tired of the clutter created by hundreds of CD jewel boxes (not to mention nearly that many vinyl LPs) and had no qualms about digitizing all of them, storing them on my Ipod, and in one way or another divesting myself of the originals. (Yes, LP jackets were works of art and iconic of certain times of my life. But the memories sustain me and there is still, protein deposits willing, more storage space in my brain than in this house.) I am also a huge fan of Google's Picasa and other digital photo storage sites. I take more photos now than I ever did before, simply because I know I can "develop" them myself electronically, edit and enhance the ones I decide to keep, and print only the ones I choose to. I will never get rid of the old paper photo albums I have, but I have indeed digitized most of the photos in them.<br />
<br />
The last bit of "old" storage I had to deal with was books. And somehow they were different.<br />
<br />
While I am not one to re-read many books, and I never underline passages or make margin notes in any book I read, I like some of them enough to keep for no other reason than to have them around. They're pretty, they're architecturally friendly to a house's interiors--somehow they just "fit," in ways that plastic CD containers and LPs lined up in rows did not. I was getting worried about the ever-accumulating pile of books we created as we finished reading them, but was content with giving them away. And then came the Kindle.<br />
<br />
This little gadget is a true Siren. It works via a wireless computer connection--I merely need to be sitting near my computer to purchase a "book" (I make no claim that it is the real thing) from the Amazon website (for prices much, much lower than the hard-bound versions). It appears on my Kindle in a matter of seconds and then is simply there, available for me to take it up when the time comes. I can store hundreds of these "books" on it, or, if I decide they are taking up too much space, I can simply delete them, knowing they are stored permanently in my account at Amazon for retrieval at any time. And the Kindle even has an embossed leather cover that feels like an actual book. In short, I became a convert in a matter of minutes--Steve pushed me off the fence with this unexpected gift and I'll be purchasing e-versions of books from now on when I can. (Some titles have not yet been digitized and I will happily buy them in the traditional form.) We won't get rid of the real books we already have and love. But we will be adding to that collection at a much slower pace now. To my more orthodox book loving friends: my apologies. To me, the word is the word is the word, regardless of the format. When the typewriter came into being there were purists who bemoaned the demise of ink and paper. Modern convenience trumps the old ways, and "tradition" becomes precious, antique. And it appears I'm OK with that.<br />
<br />
That doesn't mean, however, that these new media storage methods don't come with their own special headaches. Somehow during the Thanksgiving weekend I found the time to travel to the Apple Store in Norfolk and replace my aging Ipod classic with a new one--still a classic, but with double the storage space. I had thought that the Apple people would have some way of simply transferring the content of my old Ipod to the new one there at the store, as happens when you by a new computer. But they didn't. You have to populate the new Ipod yourself.<br />
<br />
In theory, that's not a difficult task. You simply dock your new Ipod, open the I-tunes app, and let the downloading begin. But I don't keep my music in the I-tunes app. I have way too many tracks to store on my hard drive--there would be no room for anything else if all my songs were stored there. Whenever I get new music, I load it into I-tunes so that it will be in the library and, most importantly, so the Ipod can retrieve it and store it. After that, I transfer the new MP3 files to an external drive and delete them from my hard drive. <br />
<br />
So putting all my songs on the new Ipod has meant putting the music back on the Itunes app--back on my hard drive--so the Ipod can read it from the app. The storage problem was immediate--my computer got not even halfway through retrieving the external files before it told me it had to stop for lack of space. And then there's the Ipod itself--for some reason it doesn't sync properly. If I load ten new tracks, it may pick up only five of them. As a result, my Ipod is full of incomplete files, and the only way to fill in the gaps is to find the original album folders on the external drive, compare them with what made it to the Ipod, download the individual missing files, and then re-sync the Ipod, folder by folder. It is an unbelievably pains-taking and time-consuming process--the worst kind of nerdy detail work that only a retiree with time on his hands would ever put up with. Return the faulty, poorly-syncing Ipod? What? And go through all this again? I'm too far down this road to turn back, I'm afraid. I've been at this project for about a week. I'm up to Eva Cassidy. (Artists are listed alphabetically by first name. Yes, I'm only on "E." I just finished 300+ Edith Piaf files. That was special.)<br />
<br />
So that's my life at the moment. I'm up to my eyeballs in MP3s. If you've read this entire mind-numbing account, congratulations--you're as crazy as I am. Now I'll wade back in.Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-60594237509879513402010-11-12T11:03:00.000-05:002010-11-12T11:03:52.243-05:00Always the Peace Corps<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsG9pTQtY1gIWfbupfnG0H5VbJVHaTeXM7i2Dydvxas7iAGsdQWHdvLzRcmYo9brRZeDQtwF8b4ya1DtjkWtN2SU5KC7v6ELXvEfWyN_wJU67buRfCSm7683lLEnTao8jb4idfbJO7MyA/s1600/IMG_1165.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsG9pTQtY1gIWfbupfnG0H5VbJVHaTeXM7i2Dydvxas7iAGsdQWHdvLzRcmYo9brRZeDQtwF8b4ya1DtjkWtN2SU5KC7v6ELXvEfWyN_wJU67buRfCSm7683lLEnTao8jb4idfbJO7MyA/s400/IMG_1165.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Autumn is finally creeping into coastal North Carolina. Above is the current view from our front porch. I think the mix of hardwoods and evergreens that grow naturally here and which we were able to keep on the property is beautiful--the hardwoods provide a year-long show as their leaves emerge and mature through a season, while the evergreens, almost all young-ish loblolly pines, so straight and tall, give a permanent splash of green through the worst of winter, and whisper soothingly as a breeze passes through their needles. It's a constant "sh-h-h-h," a gentle reminder to keep quiet. I know this is could be a generic description of any forested landscape; the miracle is that we <i>own</i> this little patch of one, or at least have it on extended loan. We know that if just the right wind storm blew through here, we could lose a sizable chunk of the wood standing out there, so like all other good things in life, it's best to savor and appreciate this beauty while it's there.<br />
<br />
I have an interesting afternoon in store today. The Peace Corps, as part of the observance of its 50th anniversary, is interviewing retired employees for their impressions of the agency and how it has changed (or in many ways remained the same) over the years. I got wind of this project and presented myself and my unique history with the Peace Corps to their Public Affairs office, and the resulting video interview will take place today, here in my home. <br />
<br />
I became a volunteer in 1969, when the Peace Corps had been in existence a mere 8 years. Though I never planned to, I ended up with a more-or-less permanent association with the agency (in the 1970s it was off-and-on) until I retired as staff in 2003. My professional work made me an integral part of almost every facet of volunteers' lives with the Peace Corps, from recruitment, through placement and preparation for overseas training, to the management of the programs in the countries where they served. And being gay, I witnessed and was instrumental in changes touching the experience of all minorities who seek to participate in the Peace Corps. In 1970, I nearly left service early because of an emotional crisis brought on by the fact that, for fear of being booted out, I felt I couldn't tell anyone I was gay. Now, because of initiatives that I and many colleagues helped put in place, diversity of all kinds within the Peace Corps community is sought and celebrated, and specialized training is given to staff in the particular needs and perceptions of various groups. Gay <i>couples</i> are now being placed together in overseas jobs! This is a milestone I never thought I would see (and still wonder at how it will work). <br />
<br />
I will be 65 years old tomorrow. In 1969, little did that silly, gangly child of 24 dream that his words about this adventure, which turned out to last so long, would be thought worthy of capturing and keeping --in high-def, yet!Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-3213425645364981242010-11-10T14:18:00.000-05:002010-11-10T14:18:51.143-05:00Music, music, music pt. 5I really didn't mean for this narrative to meander on for so long, but there is now an unexpected wrinkle which throws an entirely new light for me on this music business.<br />
<br />
I have a very dear friend from college days who happens to be one of the most sought-after vocal coaches in show business, a behind-the-scenes power who counts some of the biggest names in all of music, from opera to pop to country, among his grateful clients. Feeling like one of those morons who go on about all their symptoms with their doctor friends but importune anyway, I worked up the courage to ask him for some pointers on how to treat an aging voice that has not been used for music in many years. I was embarrassed to ask this busy man for free advice, and expected something perfunctory as a nod to our friendship, and nothing more. Instead I got a whole session with him, over the phone. And that's where the "but...." comes in. I am now in a musical identity crisis.<br />
<br />
In that coaching session I discovered that the musical part of my character has changed; that much of what feels "right" for me to perform nowadays really doesn't fit at all with the crooning, "pretty" sound by which I have, from my earliest memory, defined myself as a singer. (And that includes much of my own stuff,) An unexpected realization was that all that mellow tone can actually get in the way of a lyric and impede honest expression. If I really do want to perform honestly for people in any venue from my living room on up, I have a whole new singing technique to learn and internalize, a whole new identity to take on. <br />
<br />
I know this "dilemma" sounds like nothing so much exaggerated self-importance in someone who has yet to take any step forward at all beyond recognizing an old dream. But it's a core part of how I identify myself to myself. The question I'm grappling with now is whether or not it might be best just to let fond memories be--at this age I'm quite satisfied with who I've been in the past and who I am now; I really have nothing to prove. Is all the angst of learning a new trick or two worth the chance to stand up on the stage of the Onely Place? Do I even care? The fact that I'm asking the question makes be think perhaps I don't......<br />
<br />
If you've read this far, thank you for indulging me. I'm working this out as the words emerge. "Music," the issue, is now a work in progress. If there's anything new to report in the future, I will.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, we'll go to the December show at the barn and enjoy it. And we'll become friends with those guys, whether I sing on their stage or not.Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-17654596633448512352010-11-09T15:16:00.004-05:002010-11-09T15:22:28.442-05:00Music, music, music pt. 4So I told you all the preceding to tell you this: I've lately been inspired to pick up the guitar and take a few baby steps towards using my voice again for something besides conversation. The inspiration came from a visit we made a month or so ago to a local performance venue that was unknown to us, <b><a href="http://www.theonleyplace.com/">The Onley Place.</a></b> Of course, there's a story there:<br />
<br />
We had always wondered why, down here in the brass buckle of the Bible belt, our elderly cross-the-creek neighbors were so welcoming to us frankly as a gay couple. They welcomed us warmly from the very beginning and made no bones about the fact that they "got it" regarding Steve's and my relationship, and that they were fine with it. It turns out that for a good 20 years they were members of a large group of square dancers that met just for the fun of it on Saturday nights. Their caller and his male partner, both raised just a few miles from here, ran that enterprise. Everyone loved these men and the good times they created with their dance parties. As time went on, though, the dancing started going into decline. Dancers aged and fell victim to aches and pains that made movement no longer enjoyable, to the point where now, they get together to socialize but they no longer dance.<br />
<br />
One of these two guys, the caller, inherited the family farm, deep in the country a bit to the north of where we live. For the past several years the two of them have been restoring the buildings on it, and part of the restoration was the conversion of the barn into a performance space, called the Onley Place after the family that worked that land for so long. Our neighbors took us with them to the most recent show to see if we would like it and also expressly to introduce us to the two entrepreneurs, knowing we had not met any other gay people here and very much wanted to. <br />
<br />
We had a wonderful time. Every three months, these two men put on a sort of dinner-theater/Prairie Home Companion-style entertainment in which they feature local performers who represent a diverse collection of musical styles, everything from cabaret (a duo who have been regulars on the Raleigh scene for 17 years--who knew???) to jazz, to American standards, to country. The catered food is plain and pretty much what you get here: fried chicken, pork barbecue, hush puppies, coleslaw, potato salad--but very good for what it is. For all of $20 per person, you and a couple hundred other happy people from miles around get to enjoy a nice meal and a good, old-fashioned variety show, complete with corny skits and musical entertainment that is all good, at least, and sometimes really top-notch. (They featured a local 17-year-old saxophonist when we were there who is on his way to college and then, there's no doubt, to a stellar career in music.)<br />
<br />
It was that experience that set my imagination going. It's exactly the kind of venue and audience that I would be very comfortable working in and for, and I realized that if I was ever going to get back up on a stage, this was the ideal situation. I decided to start working towards and audition.<br />
<br />
My guitar work is, as expected, terribly rusty, having been unpracticed for at least 10 years. I have no callus on my fingers, so merely pressing the strings to make a musical sound is painful. The picks and strums I practiced so hard on for years are part of my muscle memory and are still there, but sloppy. The voice is still there and surprisingly undamaged by lack of use. I need a lot of work, but could with time get myself back to my previous level.<br />
<br />
But.....<br />
<br />
Next time: A surprising discovery--the final installment.Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-62124831794681750642010-11-05T08:00:00.008-04:002010-11-05T08:19:05.794-04:00FOOD FRIDAY!<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">TURKEY MUSHROOM MARSALA GRAVY</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Sorry, no picture this time--I mentioned this gravy in a previous post this week and somebody asked for it, so I promised I'd share it today. Since I won't be making it until Thanksgiving, so have no picture of it (and gravy pretty much looks like gravy--not much to take a picture of, anyway), I going commando with this one.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
A note on stock: I let my turkey stock simmer very slowly almost all day, while preparing the bird and roasting it, just adding a bit of boiling water occasionally as it cooks down. I use all the giblets and chunks of carrot, celery and onion, one each, straining them out when it's time to use the stock. The vegetables lend a subtle vegetal sweetness to the finished product, and the Marsala, though sweet itself, adds more of a nutty depth of flavor. You know something is there but would never guess it was a sweet wine.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">1 tablespoon unsalted butter</div><div style="text-align: left;">1 teaspoon olive oil</div><div style="text-align: left;">2 cups fresh mushrooms--white, brown, or shiitake--thinly sliced</div><div style="text-align: left;">2 teaspoons brandy</div><div style="text-align: left;">1/2 cup Marsala</div><div style="text-align: left;">4 cups turkey stock (see comments above about stock)</div><div style="text-align: left;">2 tablespoons corn starch</div><div style="text-align: left;">1/2 cup cream (optional)</div><div style="text-align: left;">salt and pepper to taste</div><div style="text-align: left;">fresh lemon juice</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Heat butter and oil in a large heavy saucepan. Add mushrooms and brown lightly over medium high heat, about 8 minutes.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Add brandy to the pan if using, raise heat, and cook until brandy is reduced to a syrupy glaze.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Make a paste of the cornstarch and 1/4 cup of the stock. Deglaze turkey roasting pan with another cup of the stock and separate fat. Add cornstarch paste and the deglazed turkey drippings to pan with Marsala and remaining stock, stir and simmer until sauce has reached a light, creamy consistency, 10-15 minutes. This also where, if you want, you can chop up the giblets, shred the meat from the neck, and stir them in. (The liver will have added great body to the stock but will be inedible after boiling all day.)</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Just before serving add cream if using and simmer a few minutes longer. Adjust salt and pepper and add lemon juice to taste (starting with a teaspoon) to brighten flavor.</div>Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-44474272135209261112010-11-04T15:36:00.003-04:002010-11-04T18:04:06.900-04:00Music, music, music pt. 3The Peace Corps became spiritual home for me and remained so until I retired from it in 2003. It wasn't a complete joy ride at the beginning--I left Boston in 1973 to become a recruiter, working out of an office on the Chapel Hill campus at the University of North Carolina. That wasn't a permanent position, however--had to be at headquarters in Washington, D.C., to land one of them. I moved to DC and discovered I couldn't even attract flies at the Peace Corps, much less a job: I didn't qualify for anything. Normally that makes no difference for returned volunteers, as long as they apply for a job within one year of completing their overseas service. During that window, they are given preferential treatment for staff positions--"non-competitive eligibility"--meaning as long as you have some relevant experience and you're not hanging from chandeliers you can probably get a job. My problem was that I had waited longer than a year, so I was treated like any civilian walking in off the street. I got temporary positions and was well-accepted by colleagues and bosses, but couldn't land anything permanent because I didn't have a year of qualifying experience under my belt. One thing led to another. Deals were made and broken. I spent most of the 1970s either doing temp jobs at the Peace Corps or working for the DC office of the AAA--and making music.<br />
<br />
I continued to compose, sang at parties and had the occasional club gig. I really got pretty good--I'm still quite proud of my output from that period. But the essential pull of my life was still towards stability, and then a new wrinkle appeared--I actually wanted to settle down with somebody. I was nesting! This latter development was an utter surprise. I had never imagined myself "married" in any way; I truly enjoyed single life.<br />
<br />
Nineteen-seventy-nine was a signal year in my life. I was 33 years old. I was still a green-stained map marker at the AAA, but I had also landed a regular singing gig at the Potter's House, one of the most respected coffee houses in DC. Then by sheer chance I ran into an old Peace Corps colleague, someone I knew from one of my temp incarnations at the agency a few years before. He worked in the Peace Corps travel office and told me they had an opening and that I should apply for it. (Lo and behold, all those years working at the AAA made a difference after all, giving me the year--and then some!--of relevant experience I needed to qualify for something!) I knew and liked everyone in that office, and they liked me--I was virtually assured I'd be hired; the application was a mere formality. <br />
<br />
Then in July, 1979, I met Steve. Here at last was someone I could take home to Mom. Steve and I were perfect complements in virtually every way. He could do things I couldn't and vice versa. He was a loner by nature and so was I, though I was and am still a bit more "social" than he--another complementing attribute. I moved from the<br />
DC rooming house I'd been living in to the little Virginia garden apartment complex where Steve was--we didn't move in together right away, but we were near each other. I literally forgot about the coveted Potter's House gig--I stood them up one too many Friday nights and they fired me. It was a relief. My starving artist days were over. I started the Peace Corps job at about the same time Steve and I rented a house together in 1980, and in 1981 we bought the house in Arlington, where we stayed until we left for this new North Carolina adventure in 2009.<br />
<br />
I stayed with music performance for several more years. I still sang at parties, and I joined the Paul Hill Chorale, a prestigious choral group in DC which did several engagements a year at the Kennedy Center. Composing, however, which requires a great amount of solitude, came to an end. I didn't miss it because I no longer needed the singing as a crutch to make myself special. I was now <i>living</i> many of the things I had imagined in my songs, and the real thing was better. <br />
<br />
Music performance receded in importance, as well--I quit the Chorale after 10 seasons. We still had my piano, taking up a huge space in the living room, and from time to time I'd plunk on it, but eventually I stopped that, too. (It was a big deal to give that old baby grand away, but I found a family whose young daughter was just starting lessons, and I knew the piano would get more loving use in a week than I'd given it in years.) Though music no longer plays the big role in my life it once did, I still identify completely with performers when I see them at the top of their game, and occasionally I fantasize about being back on the stage, performing. But other things became important and I have no regrets. <br />
<br />
Next time: I said all that to say this.Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-22590045695817945532010-11-03T11:07:00.006-04:002010-11-03T12:54:16.646-04:00Music, music, music pt. 2I was 27 years old when I got home from the Peace Corps. If I had any doubts about what I would do next, the stultifying, nothing-ever-changed atmosphere of hearth and home convinced me: singing was a way back into my own life as much as anything else, an escape from the conventional everyday-ness of living in suburbia and looking for a career in some office. (I admit I was in for a pleasant surprise from my parents when I sat down with them to tell them of my plans. They were entirely supportive of the singing idea--perhaps out of relief that I had settled on <i>something</i> as I marched toward the big 3-0; perhaps because they identified somewhat with the performer in me and wished they'd had a chance to do something like it themselves.)<br />
<br />
A friend from my time in Ghana had settled with another friend of hers in Boston and had already told me I'd be welcome to join them. Boston, with its abundance of university students, and all those coffee houses with all those open mikes, was the ideal venue for a budding singer. So off I went, seeking my fortune. But I wasn't all starry-eyed, oh no...I knew it would be a good month or so--maybe even 6 weeks--before that music-fueled fortune started accumulating, and that some sort of job would be necessary to tide me over during the interim. A solution arose out of necessity: I had to get some maps of the city, so I went to the downtown office of the auto club--the AAA. The people who worked there were mostly young and cool looking, and I figured the work couldn't be too bad, talking to the public all day and interacting with copasetic co-workers, so on the spur of the moment I asked if they were hiring. They were, and they took me on, practically on the spot. Thus began my first life lesson, Reality 101.<br />
<br />
It turned out that what I saw in the walk-in part of the AAA office was the mere tip of an enormous iceberg. Walk-ins were served in the lobby of a building in which the AAA occupied another floor, and the folks working in the lobby rotated in and out of it, probably as a tacit admission on the AAA's part that being able to see outside every now and then is a necessity for the maintenance of sanity. Most of the employees were working in what can only be called a public-service sweatshop. Upstairs, there were row upon row of tables in a windowless room where people did nothing but put green lines on maps, fulfilling orders for Trip-Tiks that AAA members had called in. There was a bank of 6 phone cubicles, staffed by other employees who answered phones all day, taking orders for routings or giving advice about tourist sites. (We kept a list of the crazy requests we got: a driving route to Bermuda--we told the member the bridge hadn't been finished yet; a "drive along the coast" from Boston to Los Angeles; a route that could get you from Boston to California in 3 days, hitting the Grand Canyon along the way; a tour of the "Fingering Lakes of New York....").<br />
<br />
No matter where you worked in this tourism factory, there was a strict and universal dress code. Even if the public never laid eyes on you, men had to wear a tie, and, in 1972, pant-suits for women were forbidden. <br />
<br />
The scariest part of the AAA experience was the lifers there--the middle-aged people who had never done anything in their lives but work at the AAA, and who were dead serious about the organization and the concerns of its members. It was quite an eye-opener after having spent two years on a life-changing adventure. I looked at these pale people whose imaginations carried them no further than the next order of Carlsbad Cavern brochures, and whose eyes were weakened from gazing at too much small print, and felt dread. Could I ever be one of them??? There's nothing like a scary alternative future to spur your ambition in another direction.<br />
<br />
But I was in for another shock. I discovered I was emotionally exhausted after playing the good, buttoned-down AAA employee by day and didn't really feel like pounding the open-mike pavement at night. I did hit one or two, and I succeeded at least in being invited back, but in the process of "succeeding," I quickly saw that singing wasn't something you did for a mere 40 minutes once a week or so. Singing--show business--is a way of life. It requires faith, utter determination, overpowering ambition and the willingness to see yourself as a commodity in a competitive market place. <br />
<br />
And you need to be <i>young</i>. The people I met singing were kids who did nothing but sing. They hung around with peers who had the same burning need for recognition. They compared notes on which venues were best, and they sang for and to each other. They were either fresh out of college or had never even attended, having committed to this life as teenagers. They were willing to live on the edge of poverty in their late adolescence on the chance that they would strike gold before they were 30. But I was already on the warm side of 30 and facing the fact that I was tired of being poor. I wanted nothing so much as a stable roof over my head and the predictability of an ordered life.<br />
<br />
So there I was. The one "career" idea that had fed my imagination for years had come a cropper. I was stuck in a soul-deadening job that didn't even afford me the ability to drive to the places I was describing every day, digesting the discovery that I may be a singer but I lacked an important corollary attribute to make a living at it: complete, all-consuming ambition. I was clear about what I didn't want--the AAA was a great teacher. But what did I want? Whatever it was, it wouldn't be conventional. (Order I needed. Convention was still anathema, as it remains.) Returned Peace Corps Volunteers often jokingly ask, "is there life after the Peace Corps?" In my case, it turned out there was. And it was back at the Peace Corps.Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-47081166691117460152010-11-02T15:48:00.000-04:002010-11-02T15:48:02.215-04:00Music, music, musicI've mentioned here many times that I "used to" sing. Music is to my life as is my skin or my hair--I was born with it, and it's just there, whether or not I'm actually listening to music or not. (There is <i>always </i>a melody in my head.) When I was in the womb, my mother's voice singing "I'll be loving you, always," and "Five-foot-two, eyes of blue" was accompanied by her heartbeat. My sister, nine years older, was deep into the classics in her piano studies by the time I was born. Chopin, Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, Brahms, Schumann, Schubert, even the Czerny exercises...all of these, plus the popular music of the day, were my aural mother's milk.<br />
<br />
We were not an especially cultured family, nor was formal education a factor. Neither of my parents finished high school. It's simply that as ubiquitous as music was in the 1940s and 50s on the radio, just as is today, it was also more personal. People made more of their own music then than we do now. Pianos were not unexpected pieces of furniture in living rooms. People played banjos and guitars, and house parties often ended with everybody singing songs, or indeed were held for the sole purpose of getting together to sing. Parties at our house always ended with everybody standing around the piano, highballs in hand, singing--<i>harmonizing</i>--while my sister played. <br />
<br />
I was a kid who never gave much thought to what I would do in life. The only overriding ambition I ever had was to get into the Peace Corps. I did, and then it was done. At the advanced age of 27 I hadn't a real clue what was coming next, but the idea of singing for a living was always somewhere in the back of my mind. <br />
<br />
I had a the kind of voice that in the 1940s would have consorted well with one of the big bands--I could have been a crooner. But my consciousness as a performer was awakened during the 60s folk era, so that was what I did. When Joan Baez hit the scene, the die was cast. I was completely bowled over, blown away, thunderstruck, by her entire presence. Her singing voice was indescribably beautiful, her guitar arrangements were simple but interesting (and always musical to the core), and her understated performance style allowed her songs to shine in all their ancient beauty, and the characters in them to come to life. Her first record came out when I was a senior in high school, and I made it my business to get all her subsequent releases as soon as I possibly could after they hit the stores. I shut myself in my room with those records and my guitar until I learned all of her picks and strums. By the time I got into the Peace Corps, I was the guy with the guitar. I led singalongs and sang some solos, mostly Baez material. Finally, towards the end of my time overseas, I began writing my own songs in preparation for what I had decided would be the next step, a singing career. (Cat Stevens helped me in that decision. I had begun to see that the Baez guitar style didn't really fit with the kind of songs that were coming out of me. Stevens's unique rhythmic strumming was the key that allowed me to compose.)<br />
<br />
More next time.Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-19365181363859544842010-11-01T15:13:00.003-04:002010-11-01T17:39:56.663-04:00One thing leads to the next....I've wanted to do a big Thanksgiving dinner for a crowd for a very long time. For the past 30-odd years, though, I lived in the area grew up in (and where the rest of my family was), so I never got the chance. My sister had the big house, she had all the kids and grandkids--even our parents, when they were still living, ended up near her. Perforce, holiday family get-togethers gravitated to her place.<br />
<br />
In many families where all the kids are grown and on their own, mothers and dads, who by now are grandparents, are the glue that still holds family holidays together. That's how it was for us. Things have changed, though, in the decade since our parents passed on. My sister hasn't cooked Thanksgiving dinner in a few years, lately going to her daughter's house near her instead. One other daughter lives two-thirds of the way across the country; another lives nearby but does her own thing, and the fourth lives with my sister but does not cook.<br />
<br />
So this year I'm getting what I wished for--my sister decided to get away from the DC area and come down here for Thanksgiving. (It will be her first visit to this new house.) We decided to invite a few more friends; finally, I'm getting my crowd to cook for.<br />
<br />
I woke up this morning fiddling mentally with the menu. Soon enough my mind landed on the Marsala gravy I love to make with the turkey drippings. I remembered the recipe was in a pile of about a hundred others that I've collected over a relatively short time--maybe the past year and a half (if I have any hoarding tendencies at all, it is in the area of recipes, I fear)-- that have been lying about in messy piles. I couldn't put them away because the three-inch loose-leaf notebook I mount my recipes in is already filled to bursting. I needed a new one but had never gotten around to getting one. The Marsala gravy problem put the dynamite where it was needed to get me moving.<br />
<br />
So instead of writing this morning, we decided to go to the office supply store to get a new notebook. And more three-hole plastic sleeves to protect the recipes. And some tabs for them. Oh, and we need groceries. And batteries from Wal-mart.<br />
<br />
Two hours later we were back home. Had to eat lunch. Had to start catching up on the TV shows we DVR'd last week but never had a chance to watch because we had company all week who did not share our taste in TV shows. ("Who's Jon Stewart? What rally?")<br />
<br />
Finished watching some of the shows, then finally got around to separating the recipes into piles by type (beef, pork, breads, salads...). All that's left to do now is to slip the recipes into their plastic sleeves, put the sleeves in the new notebook, and write the tabs. There'll be room in this new notebook for another hundred or so recipes, at least, so I'm good for another year!<br />
<br />
And that's why I'm late today.Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-5087298476793329512010-10-25T07:59:00.003-04:002010-10-25T15:40:27.684-04:00House guests all week.....No, I'm not crapping out on you already. We are entertaining guests this entire week and I probably won't have much time for navel-gazing. I might be able to squeeze one good post in, but if not, see you next week.Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-33025439401124607612010-10-22T09:02:00.005-04:002010-10-22T15:14:36.520-04:00FOOD FRIDAY!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibS-KI4wLBvFu8M6bhoOlbZTmoYUWTDsr4G3acYnkk8xt_GdvWF-1DCp-9SjQHOiAS2y7-SPLwoDAG6N8x80RJ966SKCvcAn9_iNvDUW9r93bNrXuW9NOY5ZMbkrnpt_NAHzmhtajev-4/s1600/Rice+Pilaf+with+Peanuts+and+Raisins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibS-KI4wLBvFu8M6bhoOlbZTmoYUWTDsr4G3acYnkk8xt_GdvWF-1DCp-9SjQHOiAS2y7-SPLwoDAG6N8x80RJ966SKCvcAn9_iNvDUW9r93bNrXuW9NOY5ZMbkrnpt_NAHzmhtajev-4/s400/Rice+Pilaf+with+Peanuts+and+Raisins.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: small;">PILAF</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I don't have anything really new in the way of food, at least to me, to tell you about, but I did have this recipe, and the photo, in the files, waiting to be shared. Glad to have the chance today.<br />
<br />
Despite its Middle-Eastern origins, it seems that "pilaf," at least in today's American cooking vernacular, is just about whatever the cook wants it to be. This is a version given to me 20-or-so years ago by a friend who lives in Baltimore, and it's come in handy over the years. It's a very simple yet delicious side dish that harmonizes well with more showcase entrées. As with all things that appear to be simple, the key to success is in the technique. <br />
<br />
1 tablespoon olive oil<br />
2 medium shallots, minced<br />
2 cups rice<br />
1 cup raisins, light or dark<br />
4 cups low-sodium chicken broth<br />
1 teaspoon salt<br />
Pepper to taste <br />
1 cup cashew pieces (salted is OK)<br />
<br />
Preheat oven to 350 F.<br />
<br />
Heat oil in a Dutch oven. Add shallots and sauté until soft. Add rice and cook, stirring, until rice is thoroughly coated with the flavored oil and just begins to color. Add raisins and stir to mix, then add broth, salt and pepper. Bring to a simmer, cover tightly, and place in oven to bake for 1 hour. <br />
<br />
Meanwhile, pan-roast cashews in a dry pan over high heat until they take on a good deep brown, taking care that they don't burn. As soon as the desired color is reached, remove pan from heat, place cashews in a bowl and set aside.<br />
<br />
Remove rice from oven and let rest, covered, for 5 minutes. Remove cover, sprinkle cashews over evenly. Fluff rice, distributing cashews throughout. Adjust seasoning and serve.Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-37294445965894129882010-10-21T14:47:00.004-04:002010-10-21T21:06:17.540-04:00UpdateThe best way for me to describe the gorgeousness of this day is to tell you I cut the grass just for an excuse to spend some time outside. It's in the 70s (mid 20s C) and there is a steady, strong breeze that makes all the pines whisper.<br />
<br />
We are in the land of Bermuda grass. Bermuda grows easily from seed down here; it thrives in ungodly heat, can withstand drought and grows well even in poor soil. The major drawback is that it browns out over the winter, much like zoysia. The accepted solution to that, we have learned, is to throw down some winter rye seed. At first we thought this practice, very popular here, was for cosmetic purposes only--no matter what time of year, you can always have a carpet of green. Lame. Who wants to be mowing the lawn in the middle of winter? But when we learned that rye grass also nourishes the soil, we were sold. The dirt we have here is "soil" only by the most liberal definition of the word. It's half pure clay and half fill sand. The clay may have some micronutrients for plants blessed with the wherewithal to root in it, but there is little to no organic material. So we planted the rye, and now it is beginning to grow, verdant and thick. As long as we have days like this, I'll love mowing it.<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>I realized I never brought many of you up to date on the hamstring injury I had last May. I'm happy to report that the leg is entirely normal now, to the point where I've been able to resume my walking routine, which I had neglected since we left Arlington a year and a half ago. The worst part of that experience was really the wait to see a specialist who could teach me what to do--almost a whole week, during which I navigated on flat floors only via a face-up crawl I'd seen disabled people in Africa use. (Yes, they really were my inspiration for mobility. The Peace Corps pays you back in uncountable and unexpected ways.) That was something of a fun adventure for about a day, and then callus set in in places I'd never dreamed it could be. A week was more than enough.<br />
<br />
The results of the orthopedist visit were dramatic, if a bit anticlimactic, because after all that pain and all that crawling, the solution was so simple. The doctor asked me if I had crutches. I said I did, but I couldn't use them because it hurt too much to hold my leg up. He had me stand facing a table, with my hands on the table. This I did, with my leg in a position that kept my foot off the floor. "Straighten your leg and put your foot on the ground," he said. I did. And just like that the pain disappeared. I was on two feet for the first time in a week.<br />
<br />
When I got back home I started practicing movement on the crutches. In less than a minute I saw the that crutches were in the way. I called the doctor to ask if I had to use them, and he said I did not. So I put the crutches down, stood up, and voilà, I was walking.<br />
<br />
Turned out that having the leg bent actually<i> works</i> the hamstring, flexes it. The muscle is relaxed with the leg extended. Who knew????<br />
<br />
It was a few weeks before my leg felt entirely normal, and I had to be careful about some positions that caused a burn where the tear had occurred. But I was very glad to see that my body can still heal fairly quickly from such a nasty injury.<br />
<br />
And how else could I push a mower around, anyway?Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-31862151689093558692010-10-20T10:37:00.007-04:002010-10-21T09:38:35.293-04:00A rite of passage and other fun stuffGuess what? I go on Medicare next month! On November 14 I will hit the magic age of 65, when Uncle Sam takes over the bulk of my health care costs. (Sixty-five???? I am in shock, this is not possible! Remember when you couldn't wait to get older? I was so happy to turn 30, thinking I'd finally "arrived" as an untrustworthy adult! Somehow the current milestone lacks cachet. I'm no longer looking to "arrive" anywhere any time soon, that's for sure.<br />
<br />
It's almost scary, the way Medicare just appears in your life. A big envelope from the Social Security Administration shows up in your mailbox about 3 months prior to the magic day. In it are a few boilerplate brochures that purport to explain how it all works, and a flimsy paper thing bigger than any other card you carry, but which happens to be your Medicare card. The idea momentarily flits through that this is just a sample, that a "real" card, made of plastic with a magnetic strip and that will fit with all your other cards, will be arriving, but no. This is the actual card which by necessity must be on your person at all times, or at least close by. If you don't get it laminated or in some other way protect it, it will never last the thirty or so years you intend to use it (if you're lucky). <br />
<br />
The Medicare premium for 2010 is $110 a month. It will automatically come out of my monthly Social Security payment. I only net $116 a month from Social Security as it is, since as a career Federal employee the only Social Security-eligible quarters I have come from summer jobs I had when I was a teenager and a few other short-term private-sector occupations I had over the years. I called to ask if my premium could come out of Federal retirement pension instead, but was told that I had no choice in the matter. If you get enough in Social Security payments, your premium comes from them. So, what was once pin money will become--what? Dust money? In practical terms, I will not be aware that my bank account is being enriched by a whopping $6 every month.<br />
<br />
As the saying goes, they get you coming and going. Under normal economic conditions, Social Security makes a yearly Cost Of Living Adjustment (COLA) to your monthly stipend. However, the COLA is pegged to inflation, and since OMB has ordained that there has been no inflation for the past two years, there have been no COLAs. There was none for 2010 and there will be none for 2011. But that doesn't stop Medicare from upping its premiums. If I had started with it in 2009, my premium would have been $96 a month and, since there was no COLA for 2010, it would have remained that amount for this year. But somehow, even though there was no COLA, the premium for 2010 is $110 a month. (If I had any sense at all I'd be sorry I'm not a year older, just so I could have saved $9 a month!) As long as there is no COLA, my premium will not go over $110, but that is small comfort.<br />
<br />
Oh. And Medicare doesn't cover all of your medical costs. There are still co-pays and some conditions that are not fully covered, and for those costs, you must have a "supplemental" policy. The supplemental payment to a provider combined with whatever Medicare pays should make for no out-of-pocket medical expenses on your part. But the supplemental policies are the same policies that were available to me as a non-Medicare participant, the same array of plans offered under the Federal Employee Health Benefit Plan (FEHBP). And even though I will be using a plan only to supplement Medicare, thereby reducing my cost to it by a great deal, I get no break on my premiums. To put it in a nutshell, when you're on Medicare you end up paying at least two premiums--one to Medicare and one to the supplemental plan. Add to that optional plans, such as "Part D" for prescriptions and separate policies for vision and dental, and you're shelling out more than twice what you were paying just the previous year to keep yourself healthy. And of course, these private supplemental plans are under no constraint to freeze their premiums because there is no COLA. Those payments, which like clockwork rise every year, <i>do</i> come out of my retirement pension, which has also not increased in two years for the same "no inflation" reason. In 2011, therefore, I will realize a net loss in income because of all these new medical costs. If this is progress, give me the Dark Ages.<br />
<br />
Don't even get me started about Steve's medical situation, the fact that he is now paying for an individual policy, and I can't get him on my plan because Congress refuses to recognize us legally coupled...Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5849327642610184563.post-18091558802716224542010-10-19T09:23:00.005-04:002010-10-19T13:42:38.641-04:00In defense of FacebookSpeaking of habits, I've developed one new one that I count as good, but I know not everyone would agree with that assessment. It's Facebook. It has given me contact with wonderful friends I thought I had lost forever; it provides portals to fascinating news stories and new music; it has a couple of Scrabble-type games that I'm addicted to and which don't require you to give up any information about yourself in order to play. (Yes, all this wonderfulness does have the potential to get out of hand, but it can be controlled. More on that later.)<br />
<br />
In the "BF era" (Before Facebook), my morning routine was to take a walk, shower, have breakfast, finish the two hours of Morning Edition on NPR (the first having been heard on my walk) and then head to the computer to write something here. Now when I head to the computer I first go to Facebook. I catch up on personal news of friends and interesting tidbits from all manner of media that those friends may share. Of course, I must also check the word games. All that can take long enough. On this particular morning, though, NPR music featured a new album by Bryan Ferry--a rare event by a unique performer whom I like very much. I ended up listening to the whole album. By the time I even started here, then, I'd already been at the computer for well over an hour. That's excessive, I agree, but, it's also rare. Facebook as a part of my morning routine is here to stay.<br />
<br />
Facebook naysayers don't like the site because they think it's intrusive. Agreed, it can be, but it doesn't have to be. Just as plain old common sense comes in handy in all other of life's endeavors, its use need not stop at the Facebook door. Example: the site is full of fun questionnaires whose purported intent is to analyze certain of your personality traits and how those traits of yours compare with those of others. Don't fall for them. They're likely surveillance tools that transmit what you say about yourself to marketers who will then add targeted spam to your inbox. As to privacy settings: they're what you make them. You don't have to post a profile picture; indeed you don't have to divulge anything at all about yourself except an email address. Once you join, the "friend" database is easily searchable, making it possible for you to reach out only to people with whom you'd like to be in contact--others don't even have to know you're there. It's actually possible to join Facebook and then hide from unwanted attention.<br />
<br />
As I mentioned above, Facebook is more than a mere social network; it's a matchless source for information that is either fascinating or important, often both. The Internet already allows us to sample literally any media source in the world. If you come upon a compelling article, you can instantly share it with your friends on Facebook via the link in the article, which these days is provided by all major media outlets. I get important information from publications to which I'd don't subscribe myself--indeed sometimes have never even heard of--and likewise I share articles that I know others would have no chance of seeing in any other way. I find this one of the most valuable aspects of the entire Facebook phenomenon.<br />
<br />
Well. I had no idea I'd be going in this direction when I sat down at the keyboard. As some kind friend once told me, "it's your blog, you can write what you damn well please." All this verbiage demonstrates to me just how big a thing Facebook has become in my life. If you haven't tried it, do! We can play a game of Wordscraper!Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10007305231270037503noreply@blogger.com16