We are having a holiday party on Sunday, and in preparing for it I have been frequenting the same stores two and sometimes three times in the same week (yes, yes, I am very organized in some ways, hopeless in others). There are very few "box stores" or chains in our little town, and so the stores I have been visiting are small and locally owned, and you can tell that they appreciate the business from the excellent customer service I have been experiencing, even at this crazy busy short-tempered time of year.
Here are some examples of my shopping experiences that I just can't picture happening in the big city or at a chain store. Ok, maybe they would at some place like Bi-Rite Market, but Bi-Rite is the exception to the rule in many ways.
Case Number One: Wreath purchase at Ben Franklin
As you may have read in my previous post, I am trying to exorcise my inner Martha Stewart, and decided recently to *purchase* a wreath (the horror!) instead of lovingly crafting one by hand from the cedars in our fire road (cedars were donated today to a Women's Shelter -- thanks Martin and Neil, for doing the heavy lifting). My, but I do digress. Back to my stellar purchasing experience. It was a small thing, but so appreciated.
Now that you know that I am the type of person not only to purchase a wreath, but to purchase a fake plastic wreath, I might as well admit that I got the kind with the pre-installed LED lights. This is our nod to Christmas lights on the house this year, as we are unable to find the ones we purchased six houses ago in Portland.
Time-crunched, I pleaded with the cashier at the wreath store (Ben Franklin) for batteries to power the lights on the wreath. In order to figure out what size I needed, she attempted to pry open the battery case on the wreath, to no avail. Another cashier came to assist and after considerable effort, she succeeded. Unfortunately they did not carry the correct size battery, but the sweet cashier offered to tape the battery case loosely back together so that I did not have to ruin my nails going through the same effort she did to pry the thing open. How thoughtful!
Case Number Two: Above and Beyond Copying Service at Country Copy
Country Copy knows me well. They did my holiday party invites (and even came up with cute red envelopes instead of the boring white ones I had found). They did my soap labels (and cut them to size, saving me a bunch of work). And now I was asking them to do my song books. Basically, I threw a bunch of song sheets at them and told them I wanted copies, kind of like a little book.
When I came to pick up the copies (a full day early), not only had they folded them into nice little booklets, they found the perfect cover art and text and created little covers for them (no extra charge). I love these people!!! I'm sorry, but this really would NEVER happen at Kinko's.
Case Number Three: The Hunt for Star Anise at SPD Market
I saved the best for last. In another time-saving effort, I was trying to purchase all of the party supplies at one market. Ok, two markets, but only one *grocery store* (the ham is coming from the German deli). I found everything I needed at trusty SPD (and ran into the one requisite acquaintance while I was at it -- you can't shop at SPD without seeing someone you know). Everything that is, except star anise. A little-used spice, but an essential one for my favorite mulled wine as well as my Christmas morning citrus salad in star anise simple syrup.
I asked the nice ladies in the deli, and they didn't think SPD had it, but told me to look in the spice section (which I had just torn apart) and the bulk section (which I was 99% sure did not have it since they don't carry any spices beyond chili powder in bulk). I thanked them and moved on to the refrigerated section, planning to circle back to bulk on my way to the cashier.
Probably five minutes later, a green apron-wearing young man approached me in the household cleaners aisle. "Are you the lady that was looking for the star anise?" I answered hesitantly: "Yes?". "Oh, Ma'am, we don't have any." This clerk hunted me down on the opposite end of the store during their busiest time of the year to let me know that I didn't need to keep searching. Now that is customer service. The best part? The customer next to me told me that she had plenty of the stuff at home that she was never going to use, and I was welcome to it if I happened to be going through her part of town. !!!
I love living in a small town.
postscript: Don't worry, I found the star anise in bulk at the hippie grocery store. There will be mulled wine on Sunday.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
Guest Post from Erika: On Being in Control
Here's one that Pawlene could teach me a lot about. Pawlene has very little control over her life. She chooses where she sleeps, and that's about it. She depends on us (me) to feed her, give her water, protect her from danger (Peter), and clean out her litter box (We tried to get her to "go" outside and the poor thing actually held it until we let her back in, at which point she RAN to her cat box to relieve herself. Sigh.) So she has no control over anything, and yet she seems perfectly content. Ok, we take pretty good care of her, but STILL.
I, on the other hand, wrestle daily with the issue of being in control of anything, most of all my happiness, which should be under my control, RIGHT??? Here is an example: I read an article about "creating happiness" that suggested that small things make a big difference. For instance, making your bed will give you a little burst of seratonin or whatever those happy-making chemicals are in our brains. You make the bed and then each time you walk by your neatly made bed, you sigh with happiness. All is right in the world. I figured I would give it a try. I made our bed. I made Peter's bed. I smiled and felt content. Less than 10 minutes later, Peter had pulled all the covers off of his bed. The author of that article clearly does not have a two and a half year old.
The holidays are a particularly trying time for control freaks like me. I actually felt like I had everything under control with our holiday preparations until Peter was hit by a double ear infection (no pre-school for him!) and I was flattened by a strange flu-like illness, despite the fact that I got my flu shot early in the season in order to be in control of my health come flu season. Sigh.
My low point might have been today, as I prepared to cross "Make holiday peanut brittle" off my list. First, I put my favorite Christmas CDs on the stereo to create the appropriate festive atmosphere. I quickly discovered that one of our speakers (which had mysteriously "fixed itself" while Martin was home) has blown out again. Not to worry! I figured out how to make all of the sound come out of the remaining functional speaker and cranked it. Didn't sound half bad.
Back in the kitchen, I gazed out of our picture window at the new squirrel feeder that I installed this afternoon in an effort to distract the squirrels from our BIRD feeder. Yes, I know. I was always one of those people who scoffed at feeding squirrels, but the birds have all but abandoned their feeder and I have grown attached to the furry little rodents (see previous post), so just preventing them from eating the bird food was not an option.
The squirrels are ignoring their new feeder. Instead, the new juvenile squirrel I've been watching was hanging upside down, just like mama taught him, and scarfing the bird seed out of the bird feeder, right next to the darned squirrel feeder. Ok, well I can't control squirrels. I turned to the task at hand: peanut brittle.
For my 40th birthday celebration, I made the peanut brittle recipe from the Tartine cookbook and it turned out beautifully. Froze perfectly as well (I just found some leftover in the freezer and it was still tasty!). It was also easy to make, as I remembered.
The trouble started when the sugar didn't seem to be dissolving on schedule. Impatient, I assumed that the concoction's cloudy appearance had to do with the dark corn syrup and not the un-melted sugar. Wrong. Step two is to heat the stuff up to 264 degrees. It started smoking by 220. By the time it got to 240 I had to throw the kitchen alarm in the mud room and turn the stove top fan up to high. I'm not sure the temperature ever got to 264, because I literally could not see the thermometer through the smoke.
Picture all of this happening with Bing Cosby crooning in the background and squirrels thumbing their noses at me through the picture window.
At any rate, I'm throwing out this batch of brittle as soon as it gets cool enough to handle (I tasted it, and even Julia Child would have trouble selling this as "blackened brittle").
At least I checked off (most) of the rest of my list today. Checked off or otherwise eliminated. "Make wreath" was downgraded to "Buy wreath" and then I had to move that one to another day because I was overwhelmed by the selection at the craft store. I know, I know. The holidays are not about how beautiful your house looks (thank goodness!) or how delicious your treats are. I just want to make a nice space for my family and friends to gather, and I want to feed them special treats. It's how I show love and appreciation. So my peanut brittle may not be perfect. Tomorrow I'm going to try toffee instead. And let the squirrels eat whatever they want.
I, on the other hand, wrestle daily with the issue of being in control of anything, most of all my happiness, which should be under my control, RIGHT??? Here is an example: I read an article about "creating happiness" that suggested that small things make a big difference. For instance, making your bed will give you a little burst of seratonin or whatever those happy-making chemicals are in our brains. You make the bed and then each time you walk by your neatly made bed, you sigh with happiness. All is right in the world. I figured I would give it a try. I made our bed. I made Peter's bed. I smiled and felt content. Less than 10 minutes later, Peter had pulled all the covers off of his bed. The author of that article clearly does not have a two and a half year old.
The holidays are a particularly trying time for control freaks like me. I actually felt like I had everything under control with our holiday preparations until Peter was hit by a double ear infection (no pre-school for him!) and I was flattened by a strange flu-like illness, despite the fact that I got my flu shot early in the season in order to be in control of my health come flu season. Sigh.
My low point might have been today, as I prepared to cross "Make holiday peanut brittle" off my list. First, I put my favorite Christmas CDs on the stereo to create the appropriate festive atmosphere. I quickly discovered that one of our speakers (which had mysteriously "fixed itself" while Martin was home) has blown out again. Not to worry! I figured out how to make all of the sound come out of the remaining functional speaker and cranked it. Didn't sound half bad.
Back in the kitchen, I gazed out of our picture window at the new squirrel feeder that I installed this afternoon in an effort to distract the squirrels from our BIRD feeder. Yes, I know. I was always one of those people who scoffed at feeding squirrels, but the birds have all but abandoned their feeder and I have grown attached to the furry little rodents (see previous post), so just preventing them from eating the bird food was not an option.
The squirrels are ignoring their new feeder. Instead, the new juvenile squirrel I've been watching was hanging upside down, just like mama taught him, and scarfing the bird seed out of the bird feeder, right next to the darned squirrel feeder. Ok, well I can't control squirrels. I turned to the task at hand: peanut brittle.
For my 40th birthday celebration, I made the peanut brittle recipe from the Tartine cookbook and it turned out beautifully. Froze perfectly as well (I just found some leftover in the freezer and it was still tasty!). It was also easy to make, as I remembered.
The trouble started when the sugar didn't seem to be dissolving on schedule. Impatient, I assumed that the concoction's cloudy appearance had to do with the dark corn syrup and not the un-melted sugar. Wrong. Step two is to heat the stuff up to 264 degrees. It started smoking by 220. By the time it got to 240 I had to throw the kitchen alarm in the mud room and turn the stove top fan up to high. I'm not sure the temperature ever got to 264, because I literally could not see the thermometer through the smoke.
Picture all of this happening with Bing Cosby crooning in the background and squirrels thumbing their noses at me through the picture window.
At any rate, I'm throwing out this batch of brittle as soon as it gets cool enough to handle (I tasted it, and even Julia Child would have trouble selling this as "blackened brittle").
At least I checked off (most) of the rest of my list today. Checked off or otherwise eliminated. "Make wreath" was downgraded to "Buy wreath" and then I had to move that one to another day because I was overwhelmed by the selection at the craft store. I know, I know. The holidays are not about how beautiful your house looks (thank goodness!) or how delicious your treats are. I just want to make a nice space for my family and friends to gather, and I want to feed them special treats. It's how I show love and appreciation. So my peanut brittle may not be perfect. Tomorrow I'm going to try toffee instead. And let the squirrels eat whatever they want.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Squirrel Acrobatics
Many of you (well, a few of you anyway) might be waiting for a new post from Erika that shines a weak beam of light onto the tangled knot of emotions that is motherhood. Or perhaps an update on our current living situation -- are they staying in Nevada City or what?
Well, Erika is currently concentrating on her writing for children (more on that at a later date), and so I give you:
Squirrel Acrobatics! Before you write us off as country hicks with WAY too much time on our hands, mind you a certain Michael Ward who reviews jazz and cabaret shows in San Francisco and recently interviewed John Waters was *riveted* by this phenomenon, which has become increasingly daring and complex in the last few days:
Ok, back to holiday madness.
Well, Erika is currently concentrating on her writing for children (more on that at a later date), and so I give you:
Squirrel Acrobatics! Before you write us off as country hicks with WAY too much time on our hands, mind you a certain Michael Ward who reviews jazz and cabaret shows in San Francisco and recently interviewed John Waters was *riveted* by this phenomenon, which has become increasingly daring and complex in the last few days:
Ok, back to holiday madness.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Guest Post from Erika: Our Epic Weekend
While Pawlene dealt with her own drama this weekend, I am choosing to tell this tale from our perspective. Some background: Last November, I ran a half marathon in Monterey with dear friends Lynne and Simon. It was a blast. So much so, that I decided to do it again this November. Only by myself. And in Nevada. NOT Nevada City, for those of you who are still confused about where we live. This race took place in the Valley of Fire, which is about 45 miles northeast of Las Vegas, Nevada.
I decided it would be fun to make it a family affair, and so, way back in August when the average temperature in Nevada City was hovering around 85 degrees, I asked Martin if he thought it would be fun to fly the plane to Nevada for a race. He mumbled something about unpredictable weather but the answer I heard was "Sure! It should only take 2 and a half hours." (as opposed to a 10-hour drive). Cue the Gilligan's Island theme song.
Fast forward to last week. On Monday I got an e-mail from Martin with the subject line: "weather outlook not good so far". Ever optimistic, I pushed him to explore variations on the theme of flying directly from Nevada City to Las Vegas (the closest airport with car rental service). The weather predictions became increasingly dire as our departure date approached. I packed extra clothes and plenty of snacks, and left Pawlene a little extra food and water, just in case.
And then, Friday morning, at 7:35AM, Martin said: "We have to leave right now." Luckily, I had baked highly portable breakfast muffins and mostly packed the night before, so I only forgot a few critical items (poopy diaper bags/barf bags - oh dear). We were out of the house by 8:05 (those of you with toddlers can appreciate how miraculous this was) and at the airport shortly thereafter.
The plan was to head towards Truckee/Reno (the closest mountain pass) and cross over to the good weather on the East side of the Sierras as soon as possible. But the closer we got to Reno, the thicker the clouds became, until the clouds got just a little too close to those big mountains for our comfort. Martin made a U-turn and we headed south, where we were able to find clear passage to the East just a short while later. Crisis averted, or so I thought.
The rest of the trip to Overton was uneventful, and we even had time to explore the Valley of Fire on Friday, previewing the stunningly beautiful race course. Perhaps due to the fact that several million years ago the Valley of Fire was underwater, the entire park looks like the landscape of a dry, oversized goldfish bowl, with wild shapes and holes and colors. Peter had a grand time.
He poked his head through holes.
He went on a hike.
He climbed BIG rocks.
He learned that it is ok to draw on things other than paper (something we have been discouraging at home), but only if paper has not been invented yet.
He got really dirty and ate potato chips (HEY! That must have been while I was running the race.)
Ah yes, the race. Here is the deceptively un-hilly road that served as both the start and the finish. The rest of the route was extremely hilly, windy, and beautiful. Unfortunately the uphill portion of the race coincided with the head wind part of the race. Ouch! I did finish all 13.1 miles, and survived, but it wasn't pretty. Here is me, looking happy because: a) I am on the downhill, b) I am on the last tenth of a mile, c) I am getting a big smile from my favorite little guy.
By now, my dear readers, I am sure that you are thinking "What a whiner! This journey was hardly epic!" Just wait.
After the race I caught my breath, corrected my official time (2:15:56, don't laugh), and drank chocolate milk. Mmmmm, chocolate milk. We sped back to the hotel, checked out only a half hour late, and drove to Las Vegas, where the Apache was waiting for us. After checking and re-checking the (very bad) weather reports, Martin decided that our best bet would be to fly to Reno (only an hour and a half drive from Nevada City) and check in with Grass Valley weather along the way to see if it was clearing up. We took off just as it was starting to rain in Las Vegas.
The flight to Reno was quite smooth, and the scenery was magical. We got to see a beautiful rainbow and a full moon in the same flight. Unfortunately Martin could not reach the Grass Valley weather line (we later found out this was because the power was out due to a ferocious snowstorm) and so we decided to land in Reno, where it was just starting to snow.
An attempt to reach my dear Aunt Brooke, who lives in Reno, was unsuccessful because she was dining with her daughter in Minnesota (darned Thanksgiving holiday). But her husband Tony suggested (in jest?) the Peppermill for a good night's sleep. And so we found ourselves, just hours after leaving the stark, outrageous beauty of a rocky desert, in the middle of the kind of sensory overload that only a high-end casino can provide. I have no pictures of this portion of our trip because I was completely overwhelmed by the noises, lights, and WAY over-the-top decor of this place. But the price sure was right for a room for the night (half of what we paid in Overton) and I got to satisfy every single possible post-race craving at the basketball court-sized buffet. Chinese? Sure! Mexican? Right over there. Prime Rib? But of course. And don't forget the Wall of Desserts. They aren't kidding. Did I mention the fake rain forest that we were sitting in, complete with waterfall, thunderstorms, and MOVING larger than life-sized tree branches? Ok, maybe I need to get out more.
Sadly, the three of us were in bed and asleep by 9:00pm, which means we missed out on the dance club (open til 4am), the gambling, the 17 other restaurant options, and whatever other vices the Peppermill had to offer. We did have breakfast in the Italianate "Biscotti's" restaurant in the morning though. Fake charming leaded glass windows! Real blown-glass light fixtures! But I digress.
A call to Grass Valley Airport revealed that either 8 or 18 inches of snow had fallen on the runway overnight, either way making it impossible for us to land a plane there. Another call let us know that our neighbors (and everyone else on our street) had lost power the night before. Oh dear. Poor Pawlene. A third call: highway 20, aka the fastest way home, was closed, and chains were required on the rest of the (longer) route.
So we tucked the Apache into bed at the Reno airport, bought some chains for our rental car, and started the journey home by car, 24 hours after we left the hotel in Overton. It was slow going, but we made it back to Grass Valley in just under 3 and a half hours. Next challenge: digging the Subaru out from where we parked it at the airport.
Since I was the one wearing Goretex hiking shoes and not beautiful, brand-new, as-yet-un-water-proofed, black leather cowboy boots, I volunteered to trek through the virgin snow out to where the Subaru was parked and try to get her up the ramp and out to the gate. Have I mentioned how much I love my Subaru? She started right up and I let her warm up as I cleared the mounds of snow from off of the front and back windshields. I had to clear the hood too, because the snow was piled so high that I couldn't see over it.
Cursing my lack of foresight in purchasing "performance" tires instead of snow tires, I crossed my fingers and gunned it. We made it all the way to mid-way up the second hill before we got stuck. And stuck we were. Martin put Peter on his shoulders and hiked out to help me, boots be darned. After strategizing with his big engineer brain, he figured out a way to get the car out of the ditch (gee, I didn't know there was a ditch there under all that snow!) that I had slid into. A few lurches, a few turns, and a few more massive revs of the engine, and I was out. The rest of the drive home was uneventful, and we even made it up the driveway without incident.
However, with less than 30 minutes to go before dark, we had to figure out how to light and heat our snow-covered, powerless house. The good news was that everything in the refrigerator and freezer was still good because the temperature in the house never rose above 40 degrees. Poor Pawlene! (She was fine, curled up in the comforter when I found her).
We hauled some (thankfully dry) fire wood onto the porch and I searched for candles and flashlights while Martin went to the store to get supplies (I had "storm supplies" on my shopping list for next weekend, heh). We decided to go out for Mexican food because a warm, dry restaurant was better than the alternative (eating nothing, without a working stove, or barbequeing in the snow, and then not washing the dishes for who knows how many days). When we came home, Martin tested out the old wood stove in the living room. After a few smoky tries, he got it cranking with the flue OPEN and we warmed the place right up. Well, we warmed that one room up anyway. At bedtime I piled on the quilts (two down comforters and a thick hand-sewn quilt, pulled on some long underwear, and the four of us (Pawlene was SO happy that we were home) snuggled into bed. The power came back on around 10pm (Yay!). Lots of people are still without. It started raining this morning, and I imagine all that snow will be washed away with this new storm, unless the temperature drops again. For those of you who have visited and enjoyed the view out of our kitchen window, here is what it looked like this morning. Our resident squirrel was certainly happy that I replenished the bird feeder last night.
Now I am off to collect our Thanksgiving turkey, who met his demise just a few hours ago, a short distance up the road from us. Hopefully the power will stay on through Thanksgiving dinner, or I'll have to dig a hole in a snowbank to keep the big guy fresh until cooking time. Nothing like country living!
Editor's Note #1: I know you Minnesotans are laughing at what I am calling a snowstorm, but remember, I'm a wimpy Californian!
Editor's Note #2: If any of you New Yorkers are laughing, think again. YOU live in a city where the roads are instantly cleared and the power NEVER goes out. Well there was that one time, but still.
I decided it would be fun to make it a family affair, and so, way back in August when the average temperature in Nevada City was hovering around 85 degrees, I asked Martin if he thought it would be fun to fly the plane to Nevada for a race. He mumbled something about unpredictable weather but the answer I heard was "Sure! It should only take 2 and a half hours." (as opposed to a 10-hour drive). Cue the Gilligan's Island theme song.
Fast forward to last week. On Monday I got an e-mail from Martin with the subject line: "weather outlook not good so far". Ever optimistic, I pushed him to explore variations on the theme of flying directly from Nevada City to Las Vegas (the closest airport with car rental service). The weather predictions became increasingly dire as our departure date approached. I packed extra clothes and plenty of snacks, and left Pawlene a little extra food and water, just in case.
And then, Friday morning, at 7:35AM, Martin said: "We have to leave right now." Luckily, I had baked highly portable breakfast muffins and mostly packed the night before, so I only forgot a few critical items (poopy diaper bags/barf bags - oh dear). We were out of the house by 8:05 (those of you with toddlers can appreciate how miraculous this was) and at the airport shortly thereafter.
The plan was to head towards Truckee/Reno (the closest mountain pass) and cross over to the good weather on the East side of the Sierras as soon as possible. But the closer we got to Reno, the thicker the clouds became, until the clouds got just a little too close to those big mountains for our comfort. Martin made a U-turn and we headed south, where we were able to find clear passage to the East just a short while later. Crisis averted, or so I thought.
The rest of the trip to Overton was uneventful, and we even had time to explore the Valley of Fire on Friday, previewing the stunningly beautiful race course. Perhaps due to the fact that several million years ago the Valley of Fire was underwater, the entire park looks like the landscape of a dry, oversized goldfish bowl, with wild shapes and holes and colors. Peter had a grand time.
He poked his head through holes.
He went on a hike.
He climbed BIG rocks.
He learned that it is ok to draw on things other than paper (something we have been discouraging at home), but only if paper has not been invented yet.
He got really dirty and ate potato chips (HEY! That must have been while I was running the race.)
Ah yes, the race. Here is the deceptively un-hilly road that served as both the start and the finish. The rest of the route was extremely hilly, windy, and beautiful. Unfortunately the uphill portion of the race coincided with the head wind part of the race. Ouch! I did finish all 13.1 miles, and survived, but it wasn't pretty. Here is me, looking happy because: a) I am on the downhill, b) I am on the last tenth of a mile, c) I am getting a big smile from my favorite little guy.
By now, my dear readers, I am sure that you are thinking "What a whiner! This journey was hardly epic!" Just wait.
After the race I caught my breath, corrected my official time (2:15:56, don't laugh), and drank chocolate milk. Mmmmm, chocolate milk. We sped back to the hotel, checked out only a half hour late, and drove to Las Vegas, where the Apache was waiting for us. After checking and re-checking the (very bad) weather reports, Martin decided that our best bet would be to fly to Reno (only an hour and a half drive from Nevada City) and check in with Grass Valley weather along the way to see if it was clearing up. We took off just as it was starting to rain in Las Vegas.
The flight to Reno was quite smooth, and the scenery was magical. We got to see a beautiful rainbow and a full moon in the same flight. Unfortunately Martin could not reach the Grass Valley weather line (we later found out this was because the power was out due to a ferocious snowstorm) and so we decided to land in Reno, where it was just starting to snow.
An attempt to reach my dear Aunt Brooke, who lives in Reno, was unsuccessful because she was dining with her daughter in Minnesota (darned Thanksgiving holiday). But her husband Tony suggested (in jest?) the Peppermill for a good night's sleep. And so we found ourselves, just hours after leaving the stark, outrageous beauty of a rocky desert, in the middle of the kind of sensory overload that only a high-end casino can provide. I have no pictures of this portion of our trip because I was completely overwhelmed by the noises, lights, and WAY over-the-top decor of this place. But the price sure was right for a room for the night (half of what we paid in Overton) and I got to satisfy every single possible post-race craving at the basketball court-sized buffet. Chinese? Sure! Mexican? Right over there. Prime Rib? But of course. And don't forget the Wall of Desserts. They aren't kidding. Did I mention the fake rain forest that we were sitting in, complete with waterfall, thunderstorms, and MOVING larger than life-sized tree branches? Ok, maybe I need to get out more.
Sadly, the three of us were in bed and asleep by 9:00pm, which means we missed out on the dance club (open til 4am), the gambling, the 17 other restaurant options, and whatever other vices the Peppermill had to offer. We did have breakfast in the Italianate "Biscotti's" restaurant in the morning though. Fake charming leaded glass windows! Real blown-glass light fixtures! But I digress.
A call to Grass Valley Airport revealed that either 8 or 18 inches of snow had fallen on the runway overnight, either way making it impossible for us to land a plane there. Another call let us know that our neighbors (and everyone else on our street) had lost power the night before. Oh dear. Poor Pawlene. A third call: highway 20, aka the fastest way home, was closed, and chains were required on the rest of the (longer) route.
So we tucked the Apache into bed at the Reno airport, bought some chains for our rental car, and started the journey home by car, 24 hours after we left the hotel in Overton. It was slow going, but we made it back to Grass Valley in just under 3 and a half hours. Next challenge: digging the Subaru out from where we parked it at the airport.
Since I was the one wearing Goretex hiking shoes and not beautiful, brand-new, as-yet-un-water-proofed, black leather cowboy boots, I volunteered to trek through the virgin snow out to where the Subaru was parked and try to get her up the ramp and out to the gate. Have I mentioned how much I love my Subaru? She started right up and I let her warm up as I cleared the mounds of snow from off of the front and back windshields. I had to clear the hood too, because the snow was piled so high that I couldn't see over it.
Cursing my lack of foresight in purchasing "performance" tires instead of snow tires, I crossed my fingers and gunned it. We made it all the way to mid-way up the second hill before we got stuck. And stuck we were. Martin put Peter on his shoulders and hiked out to help me, boots be darned. After strategizing with his big engineer brain, he figured out a way to get the car out of the ditch (gee, I didn't know there was a ditch there under all that snow!) that I had slid into. A few lurches, a few turns, and a few more massive revs of the engine, and I was out. The rest of the drive home was uneventful, and we even made it up the driveway without incident.
However, with less than 30 minutes to go before dark, we had to figure out how to light and heat our snow-covered, powerless house. The good news was that everything in the refrigerator and freezer was still good because the temperature in the house never rose above 40 degrees. Poor Pawlene! (She was fine, curled up in the comforter when I found her).
We hauled some (thankfully dry) fire wood onto the porch and I searched for candles and flashlights while Martin went to the store to get supplies (I had "storm supplies" on my shopping list for next weekend, heh). We decided to go out for Mexican food because a warm, dry restaurant was better than the alternative (eating nothing, without a working stove, or barbequeing in the snow, and then not washing the dishes for who knows how many days). When we came home, Martin tested out the old wood stove in the living room. After a few smoky tries, he got it cranking with the flue OPEN and we warmed the place right up. Well, we warmed that one room up anyway. At bedtime I piled on the quilts (two down comforters and a thick hand-sewn quilt, pulled on some long underwear, and the four of us (Pawlene was SO happy that we were home) snuggled into bed. The power came back on around 10pm (Yay!). Lots of people are still without. It started raining this morning, and I imagine all that snow will be washed away with this new storm, unless the temperature drops again. For those of you who have visited and enjoyed the view out of our kitchen window, here is what it looked like this morning. Our resident squirrel was certainly happy that I replenished the bird feeder last night.
Now I am off to collect our Thanksgiving turkey, who met his demise just a few hours ago, a short distance up the road from us. Hopefully the power will stay on through Thanksgiving dinner, or I'll have to dig a hole in a snowbank to keep the big guy fresh until cooking time. Nothing like country living!
Editor's Note #1: I know you Minnesotans are laughing at what I am calling a snowstorm, but remember, I'm a wimpy Californian!
Editor's Note #2: If any of you New Yorkers are laughing, think again. YOU live in a city where the roads are instantly cleared and the power NEVER goes out. Well there was that one time, but still.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
White Stuff
We woke up to this today:
Thought it was snow, but upon closer sniff (yes, I DID actually venture outside this morning), it's actually hail. Sure feels like snow, although the temperature has risen to a balmy 44 degrees. Poor kid needs mittens and some warmer boots. I plan on just staying next to the heating vent for the next few months.
Martin re-filled the bird feeder this morning and the nuthatches simply couldn't wait until he stepped away to get at those black sunflower seeds (thanks for the tip, Alan). It's nice of them to keep the bird feeder filled so that I can watch birdie television whenever I feel like it. Only problem is that I can't see out of the window from my favorite location atop the heating vent. That old oil-fueled furnace is working like a charm and keeping the house toasty, downstairs at least. I think we'll make it through the winter.
Thought it was snow, but upon closer sniff (yes, I DID actually venture outside this morning), it's actually hail. Sure feels like snow, although the temperature has risen to a balmy 44 degrees. Poor kid needs mittens and some warmer boots. I plan on just staying next to the heating vent for the next few months.
Martin re-filled the bird feeder this morning and the nuthatches simply couldn't wait until he stepped away to get at those black sunflower seeds (thanks for the tip, Alan). It's nice of them to keep the bird feeder filled so that I can watch birdie television whenever I feel like it. Only problem is that I can't see out of the window from my favorite location atop the heating vent. That old oil-fueled furnace is working like a charm and keeping the house toasty, downstairs at least. I think we'll make it through the winter.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Guest Post from Erika: Autumn (for real this time)
I have noticed a real shift over the past few years in my attitude towards Autumn. Autumn has gone from the dreaded end of summer/back to the drudgery of school to a comforting time to turn inward and celebrate seasonal rituals and a natural inclination to stay close to home.
In San Francisco, the seasonal change was quite subtle. I had to rely on my calendar to remember that soon it would be Halloween, Day of the Dead, Thanksgiving. Here in Nevada City, the seasons get right in your face. In the summer, on our daily walk, the blackberry bushes would actually reach out and grab us, tease us with the juicy bounty that lay just beyond a layer of prickly branches. Now the blackberries are shriveled or permanently, redly unripe, and our eyes are drawn to the ground where the fallen leaves and acorns make a crunchy, shushing noise with each step. The street adjacent to ours is now an entirely different color. It's hard to ignore. I can't wait to see what winter brings.
On an entirely different note, I laughed out loud when I read the serving information on the back of a bag of cat treats today. First, because Pawlene isn't even on the chart, which goes by "Cat Weight". Second, because the French version of "Cat Weight", listed just below the English version, says "Poids du chat" which, literally translated, means "Pounds of Cat". Heh. I thought it was funny anyway.
In other news, Peter is suddenly speaking in complete, detailed sentences. Even his pre-school is surprised. For example, instead of just shrieking "banana" in the morning until one appears, he now repeatedly shrieks "I want a banana!". If a banana is not forthcoming, he may add "please", and sometimes, I even get a "thank you", unprompted. He also switches to "I don't want a banana" instead of "no banana", when he is feeling obstinate.
Peter's favorite toys (we still have not unpacked his toys from San Francisco) right now are: 1) a broken CD that has been tied to one of those cassette tape to iPod converters with a long cord. He drags it all around the house and inserts the business end of the cord into whatever it will fit into, and into some places that it will not fit. 2) the Day of the Dead magnets on the refrigerator, which he moves into all sorts of configurations. 3) his lovey (this one courtesy of dear friends Rebbecca, Matt, and Malcolm who came through with a stunt double when we lost his last lovey on a visit to Portland). 4) the "Retro Rocket" ride-along that he received last Christmas and crashed spectacularly a month ago.
He still loves his pre-school, and they love him. He sometimes asks to go to pre-school on the days that he stays home with me, which makes me question my mothering abilities. We have a good time together, going for walks, reading, playing with trains, and yesterday we even got out the finger paints. There will be a lot more of that when it starts raining.
Pawlene is enjoying the new position of the sun, which has turned our front porch into something of a Solarium.
Martin has come down with a terrible flu, but is valiantly trying to get healthy with plenty of rest and fluids. He has also simultaneously developed a different kind of flu, which causes him to covet and fantasize about purchasing various kinds of vehicles (mostly motorcycles and airplanes). We are working together on a cure for that one.
And I am happily settled into my Autumn routine of running (training for a half marathon on November 20), yoga, writing, and trying to stay one step ahead of a two and a half year old. We are hosting our annual Jack O Lantern carving party this Sunday, and calling it a housewarming party since it looks like we are settling in for the fall, if not the winter. I am hoping to locate our pictures of our relatives that have passed into the next world by then so that I can throw together a Day of the Dead altar. The unpacking has somewhat stalled out as I get busy with other things. A clear dining room by Thanksgiving is my goal. Wish me luck.
In San Francisco, the seasonal change was quite subtle. I had to rely on my calendar to remember that soon it would be Halloween, Day of the Dead, Thanksgiving. Here in Nevada City, the seasons get right in your face. In the summer, on our daily walk, the blackberry bushes would actually reach out and grab us, tease us with the juicy bounty that lay just beyond a layer of prickly branches. Now the blackberries are shriveled or permanently, redly unripe, and our eyes are drawn to the ground where the fallen leaves and acorns make a crunchy, shushing noise with each step. The street adjacent to ours is now an entirely different color. It's hard to ignore. I can't wait to see what winter brings.
On an entirely different note, I laughed out loud when I read the serving information on the back of a bag of cat treats today. First, because Pawlene isn't even on the chart, which goes by "Cat Weight". Second, because the French version of "Cat Weight", listed just below the English version, says "Poids du chat" which, literally translated, means "Pounds of Cat". Heh. I thought it was funny anyway.
In other news, Peter is suddenly speaking in complete, detailed sentences. Even his pre-school is surprised. For example, instead of just shrieking "banana" in the morning until one appears, he now repeatedly shrieks "I want a banana!". If a banana is not forthcoming, he may add "please", and sometimes, I even get a "thank you", unprompted. He also switches to "I don't want a banana" instead of "no banana", when he is feeling obstinate.
Peter's favorite toys (we still have not unpacked his toys from San Francisco) right now are: 1) a broken CD that has been tied to one of those cassette tape to iPod converters with a long cord. He drags it all around the house and inserts the business end of the cord into whatever it will fit into, and into some places that it will not fit. 2) the Day of the Dead magnets on the refrigerator, which he moves into all sorts of configurations. 3) his lovey (this one courtesy of dear friends Rebbecca, Matt, and Malcolm who came through with a stunt double when we lost his last lovey on a visit to Portland). 4) the "Retro Rocket" ride-along that he received last Christmas and crashed spectacularly a month ago.
He still loves his pre-school, and they love him. He sometimes asks to go to pre-school on the days that he stays home with me, which makes me question my mothering abilities. We have a good time together, going for walks, reading, playing with trains, and yesterday we even got out the finger paints. There will be a lot more of that when it starts raining.
Pawlene is enjoying the new position of the sun, which has turned our front porch into something of a Solarium.
Martin has come down with a terrible flu, but is valiantly trying to get healthy with plenty of rest and fluids. He has also simultaneously developed a different kind of flu, which causes him to covet and fantasize about purchasing various kinds of vehicles (mostly motorcycles and airplanes). We are working together on a cure for that one.
And I am happily settled into my Autumn routine of running (training for a half marathon on November 20), yoga, writing, and trying to stay one step ahead of a two and a half year old. We are hosting our annual Jack O Lantern carving party this Sunday, and calling it a housewarming party since it looks like we are settling in for the fall, if not the winter. I am hoping to locate our pictures of our relatives that have passed into the next world by then so that I can throw together a Day of the Dead altar. The unpacking has somewhat stalled out as I get busy with other things. A clear dining room by Thanksgiving is my goal. Wish me luck.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
3 More Things We Learned...
about living in the Country. This just in:
1) Always, ALWAYS shake out your shoes before putting them on your feet. You never know who might have decided to use them as a home while they were sitting in the mud room.
2) Don't leave bowls of fruit perched temptingly on the kitchen table next to the picture window unless you want blue jays slamming themselves against the window in an attempt to taste those delectable organic nectarines.
And lastly,
3) If, when you plug a 50-year-old vacuum cleaner in, you see flames, sparks, or smoke, it's not a good idea to plug it in again to see if you will get the same effect.
xoxo
Pawlene
1) Always, ALWAYS shake out your shoes before putting them on your feet. You never know who might have decided to use them as a home while they were sitting in the mud room.
2) Don't leave bowls of fruit perched temptingly on the kitchen table next to the picture window unless you want blue jays slamming themselves against the window in an attempt to taste those delectable organic nectarines.
And lastly,
3) If, when you plug a 50-year-old vacuum cleaner in, you see flames, sparks, or smoke, it's not a good idea to plug it in again to see if you will get the same effect.
xoxo
Pawlene
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