Sample Garden: Companion Planting

My source: Carrots Love Tomatoes by Louise Riotte

Bed #1: The Strawberry patch

Onions are compatible with almost all plants (except peas and beans) and work to repel pests. Strawberries are among the plants they especially like, so I planted a bunch of onions throughout my strawberry patch. I also planted some garlic in this bed, as it repels pests much like onion does. I put in a row of spinach here as well, since strawberries do well with them.

 

Next year: I would put some bush beans down the center of this bed, as they do well with strawberries, too. I would then omit the onions and garlic, since they inhibit the growth of beans. I'd add marigold to ward off pests.

 

 

 



Bed #2: Veggies

 In this bed, I put four tomato plants with radishes, carrots, arugula and marigolds planted between them.
The carrots are there because as the book title says, "Carrots LOVE Tomatoes."
The radishes and marigolds act as pest repellants.

The parsley planted in this bed is friendly to both tomatoes and carrots.
The dill and Brussels sprouts here are good companions. I should probably have put the dill farther from the carrots, however.
There's arugula here as well, and as far as I know, it doesn't have any unfriendliness to other plants.
On the end farthest from the tomatoes are bell peppers and hot peppers.

Next year: Members of the cabbage family should not be rotated with each other, so I'll need to avoid planting cabbage family members where the Brussels sprouts and radishes were grown this year. Also, tomatoes enjoy being in the same spot consecutive years, so I'll plan to put them exactly where they were this year.  

 



Bed #3: More Veggies

In this bed I have marigolds for general pest repellant. There are radishes throughout to protect the zucchini squash and cucumbers and pole beans planted here. There are nasturtiums protecting the squash as well. I put cilantro here as well, since I know of no dislikes between it and any other plants. 

 

Do you do any companion planting? What are you favorite plants to pair? 

 

 

Homemade Tabasco

 

This is a straightforward recipe for making any kind of tabasco. If you want to make Louisiana Style red tabasco, use cayenne peppers. If you want to make green tabasco, use jalapenos. In my case, I had a big tub of both green & red scorpion peppers my mom gave me, so I separated green from red and made separate batches: one Red Scorpion and one Green Scorpion.

In this 2016 list of the hottest peppers, two varieties of Scorpion pepper are listed as hotter than ghost pepper. I'm not even sure what variety we have, but it is HOT and makes for SUPER HOT tabasco. However, as I stated before, the following instructions can be used for making any sort of tabasco: jalapeno, cayenne, etc. You can make it as hot or as mild as you choose! 

 

Here's our sink full of red and green scorpion peppers, along with a few jumbo sized cayennes.

 

Instructions

Step 1. In a covered container, combine:
1 pound of peppers, washed and chopped
1 garlic clove, chopped
1 cup white or apple cider vinegar
1 tablespoon salt
1/4 cup sugar

Step 2. Cover the container and refrigerate for 24-48 hours.

Step 3. Transfer the ingredients to a saucepot over medium-high heat. Cover and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer for 15 minutes to soften the peppers. Stir occasionally.

(If you plan to can the tabasco, this is when you'll sterilize your jars and bring a filled water bath canner to a boil.)

Step 4. Use a spoon or ladle to transfer ingredients to a blender or food processer and process until smooth. If you do an enormous batch like I did, you will need to do several rounds of this. Don't leave behind any liquids in the saucepan - the vinegar needs to be included, too.

(As I processed mine, I poured the tabasco directly into sterilized jars for canning.)

Step 5. Enjoy!



The original recipe is supposed to make 1 cup of tabasco, but I ended up with ten times that, as you can see here.

Do you make your own tabasco? Please share your tips and thoughts in the comments. =)

Bucket List (as of Sep 2016)

Here's all the stuff I really want to do, as of this month of this year. Goodness knows it could change again any day. My blog seems the best place to store it, as a sheet of paper could be swallowed by the vortex of our house quite easily. =)

Work at the Renaissance Festival
  -as a food vendor
  -as a musical performer (penny whistle)

Camp and/or Hike
  -in Duluth (again)
  -Lake of the Woods
  -all over Minnesota
  -Yellowstone (again)
  -Zion National Park, UT
  -Grand Canyon
  -Black Hills
  -Grand Tetons
  -Canada wild

Travel
  -visit the British Isles
  -visit France (St Michel, Bayeux Tapestry, wine in a little café, local eats, Normandy beaches, Provence, Aquitaine)
  -Italy (pizza and wine on the Med, Venice)
  -Greece (on the Med, Athens)
  -Iceland
  -Norway & Sweden
  -Germany (Hofbrau Haus, racetracks, ...snowboarding?)

Write
  -Sabel (a novel)
  -Prairie Tales (short stories)
  -In the Family (family history)
  -Food: Simple (easy cooking & baking)
  -In My Wildest Dreams (the stories within dreams & nightmares)
  -The Menne Boys (small town fiction)

Episode 16: For Better or Worse

for a preface, see my work stories home page.


There was a resident once, let's call her Jewel. She lived in the memory care unit, where she was continually trying to escape. She'd wait at the door, tap on the glass, her coke bottle glasses magnifying her gray eyes under a cloud of curly gray hair.

Most of the time she babbled incoherently or said nothing at all, floating through the unit like a shadow or a ghost. Once in a while she would suddenly take shape, however, and when this happened, she was one spunky woman. She has been reported saying things like, "You take the damn pills, then."

Then there came a man to visit. She recognized him instantly and stopped wandering. She wrapped her arms around him and held him, forgetting about the open door behind him, not needing to escape anymore.

He told me their story. Jewel had been his neighbor, living up the gravel road from him. He was a farmer, which means manual laborer plus businessperson plus gambler. He needed help with the books, so he asked the lovely, spunky Jewel if she would mind helping him with them, and she agreed. The rest is history.

"She wasn't really all that good of an accountant," he confessed. The sweet shy smile that played on his face told volumes. I instantly imagined him a younger single man, eating alone at the kitchen table, saying no hullos or goodbyes as he goes out to the field. Then along comes Jewel, and he's no longer alone in his big, old farmhouse. Jewel sits across from him at supper. Jewel's laughter fills the empty, echoing space. Jewel stands beside him when the market looks grim and the bills are piling up.

Now its him who fills the echoing spaces, who squeezes her hand and studies her vacant expression with that sweet, shy smile of his. Now he sits next to her though there's not many words and not much laughter.

"For better or worse," says the age-old vow.

This farmer and this accountant,
husband and wife,
are still living that vow.

For better or for worse
shows its best
in the worst.

Episode 15: The Last Text

for a preface, see my work stories home page.



I have only one protected message on my phone.

Dated November 30, 2015, 7:59 pm:
We work it out :-)

A former coworker (let's call her Sunny) and I were working on swapping shifts over the holidays, and that was her last message to me.

Rewind about four months from that message to when I was new at my current job, and you'd see that Sunny was driving me crazy. Sometimes she would instruct me on how to do an elementary task. Sometimes she would display complete disorganization, leaving everything until the last minute when it would magically come together. She'd be standing there, flushed and chipper. I'd be around the corner with all my hair torn out. I couldn't decide which I preferred - the laid back chaos of working with Sunny, or the tense machinery of working with Manager.

She started to grow on me, nonetheless (as did Manager). For one, Sunny had joined our work team a month before I did, and both of us had the common experience of being "hazed" by the fiery rage of our coworker Dragon Lady, who marks her territory on each new employee the way any animal does.

Then Sunny's teenage daughter Tuneful joined the team, and she was like a mini photocopy of her mom. Both were flustered and haphazard in their work-style but also full of ideas, random knowledge, mirth, and music. It was touching to see and hear how Sunny blissfully lavished love on her kids. Once, she came to drop off Tuneful for her shift, and before leaving she pulled her close so they were hugging cheek-to-cheek. "Love you," she smiled, speaking with intense purpose as if it were the last time. I think of that often now that she's gone.

Sunny loved her kids, but talk was her passion. She would talk about her estranged husband, talk about her boyfriend, talk about motor racing, talk about cooking, talk about her summer home in a trailer in the woods. She loved talk. She was an artist, and talk was her medium.

Sunny passed away sometime during the night after she sent me her cheerful text, November 31, 2015. Almost a year ago now. Turns out she had been spending the night in her truck (not at home, because she couldn't stand her husband). Tuneful found her the next day. She had died of a massive heart attack and no one had been there to witness it or call for help.

Her three kids are growing up without her. I can't imagine. Every time I clear the messages from my phone, Sunny's remains. I see her last text and remember her life, her spunk, her easy-going manner, and the way she loved her kids. It's a final message, and I'm still trying to understand why it had to be final.

"We work it out," she wrote to me, followed by a cheesy smiley face, so true to her sunny character.

And we're still here, still trying to work it out.

Episode 14: The Numbers

for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)

How do we measure a day?
Here's how I measured a 13+ hour day this week:

8 quarts liquid egg
56 sausage patties
36 pounds of roasted chicken, half white, half dark
2 gallon tub of mashed potatoes
1 gallon gravy
12 pounds steamed vegetables
68 servings mixed fruit
80 pieces white frosted cake
1.5 gallons cinnamon ice cream
60 beef sandwiches
(3 with no cheese, 6 with ground meat, 1 with ground meat AND no cheese)
5 pounds of lettuce
2 quarts of diced tomato
2 bags of green beans for everyone that can't chew lettuce
70 slices of raspberry gelatin dream cake

68 residents eating breakfast, lunch, snack, and supper
2 tired legs
1 woman, grateful to be done for the day.

Episode 13: Musical Themes

for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)


Picture the scene: an entryway flanked by tall white pillars, double doors opening to a wide ballistraded staircase, comfortable couches pulled up near a gleaming grand piano. The mysterious, mellow sounds of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata are floating through the air as a volunteer pianist gives it her best amateur tinkling of the keys. Someone yawns theatrically. Perhaps that's to be expected of elderly people in the boondocks of Minnesota trying to digest classical music. Then in the midst of a melody that calls up images of mist over a full moon, someone makes an announcement to her neighbor, and loudly. "I didn't come here for this kind of music."

Um, you're welcome?

Some people are always ungrateful. It's a lifestyle, nearly.

Episode 12: Purpose

for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)

The Ownerless Mug

The dishwasher churns
the disposal growls
and a mist rises over stacks of dishes,
when there appears one of the ownerless mugs
returning from its new-found home,
its blue stripe grinning up at me.

I imagine it still covered in the fingerprints
of a lady whose children's names keep slipping out of her hands.
One thing she does know is the comfort of a warm cup of coffee
clasped in her wrinkled hands.

The ownerless mug is not without purpose.

It wears its blue stripe like a badge of office
as it shrugs away the memories of the cupboard corner
and proudly does what it was made to do.

"Wash me, send me out again," it smilingly pleads from the dishwashing rack.

This encourages my heart,
as the purpose or the destiny or the direction keeps slipping from my own hands.
All I know is some small comfort in letting it write itself,
whatever it may be.

Whatever I may be,
may yet be shaped and fired in Heaven's kiln
and painted with a blue stripe.

The aimless person is not without purpose.

Review: Outlander

(a book review of Outlander by Diana Gabaldon)

The Short Version

Diana Gabaldon's ambitious tale Outlander tells the story of a 1940s British woman who time travels to 1740s Scotland by an ancient stone circle. Soon she finds herself torn between two worlds, two times, and two different loves. The tale combines historical fiction and romance with just a hint of fantasy or science fiction (via the mysterious stone circle).

The worlds and people of the story are all realized with great detail, making much of it believable. All of this makes for an intriguing start, but unfortunately the plot arch becomes disjointed early on, and Gabaldon often overshares the results of her historical research. Overall, the plot is bogged down by this excessive detail and by a meandering event path that never picks up steam, much less builds up to a story climax. This was all a bit disappointing for me, as I love a well built story.

I still enjoyed some aspects, including the steamy love scenes, the scenery of Scotland, the encounters with characters, and all the excessive tidbits pertaining to herbalism. The fact still remains that any plot that is weighed down with superfluous detail and extends over 800 pages is a trial for any reader's stamina.


The "Gradebook" Version

Overall Score of 23/34 (aka 67%, aka D+)
Breakdown of points:

1. Realization of the story's world (5/5)

2. Development of characters (4/5)

3. Plot (1/8)
   -pacing (0/2)
   -all parts build to a major turning point (0/2)
   -believability (1/2)
   -arcs satisfyingly (0/2)

4. Style (4/6)
   -consistent (2/2)
   -cleanly written, both in wording & scenes (0/2)
   -balance of high and low moments (2/2)

5. Originality: the story isn't directly "lifted" from other stories. Any similarities are due to genre, to interesting recycling of popular plots or characters, or exploring an alternate route within a story or story type, especially for humor or resonance (5/5) 


6. Follow Through: the story upholds the implied writer-reader contract which is set up via story style, foreshadowing, and marketing (4/5)

Another Face of King Arthur

(a review of King Arthur by Norma Lorre Goodrich)
 

Legendary King Arthur has been a favorite in stories of the western world for over a thousand years. In our era, he is beloved by filmmakers and novelists and researchers. Because the facts surrounding him are so debatable, none can really be accused of not following those facts. In a way, Arthur is a canvas on which storytellers can paint their message in gloriously epic hues.



There are many recent "faces" of King Arthur, and two of them display very different images of him. In the TV show Merlin (2008-2012), Arthur is a pampered medieval jock growing up under his father's lofty expectations. He's surrounded by a beautiful castle, jewels and crowns, jousting and feasts and steel plate armor. The lovely Guinevere is a castle servant and Lancelot is a peasant dreaming of being a knight (traditionally both are of noble blood).

On the opposite end of the spectrum, the 2004 film King Arthur depicts him as a Roman general, leading a specialized team of Sarmation riders on a final mission through Roman-occupied Britain. He's surrounded by images of Roman wealth and hubris, legionnaire armor and helmets with red bristles, Hadrian's wall in full glory, and druidic Merlin in the forest, blue paint swirled across his face. Guinevere in this telling is a Pictish warrior queen rescued from Roman torture and confinement by Arthur and his gang. Lancelot is on the Sarmation riders and Arthur's right-hand man.

On one hand we have the Romantic King Arthur, told through the lenses of the Medieval French Court writers and therefore surrounded by the items and scenery of their world. On the other hand, we have a more historical Roman-British King Arthur, and Norma Lorre Goodrich echoes similar details in her compilation of research, King Arthur (1986).



Medieval Court Arthur



Roman Legionary Arthur


There's three points of interest to relate concerning Goodrich's volume: her writing style, the defense of her main historical source, and last but not least, highlights of the fascinating conclusions of her research. If I recommend this book to you, it is for the conclusions alone.


Writing Style
Goodrich's writing leaves much to be desired. Her style is assumptive, circular, labored, and at times inconclusive. She assumes the reader has a great understanding of all the documents and research concerning King Arthur as well as a deep understanding of British geography. Her paragraphs often express several points of information which she then fails to connect to each other or to the other paragraphs. Goodrich's descriptions of how she arrived at her conclusions are consistently labored. She provides lengthy information with bulky details within awkwardly written sentences. This is compounded by the fact that she offers no structure (other than chapter heads) to organize this information. In short, the reading itself is not a joy. If you read this, read it for the information, because the writing has nothing to offer you.

 

Defense of the Source
Goodrich's main source of information about King Arthur is "The History of the Kings of Britain" by the scholar Geoffrey of Monmouth, who lived in the early 1100s and claimed to have a wonderful and unnamed source of his own. Apparently he and his work are a bit of a controversy in the Anglophile scholastic community. Some have written entire works discrediting him and his work as complete touristy garbage, attempts to draw crowds to certain cities that were funding his work, etc. Others defend him vehemently, and Goodrich is among them. She says that his place names make no sense because he mistranslated or misread the original source or that he misunderstood them due to his limited geographical knowledge. She then works to unscramble his misnamed cities and correct them according to what facts point to concerning Arthur's life and times (it is believed he was born about 475 A.D. and his kingdom was the Border Country between Scotland and England).

I'm certain some scholars would manage to produce arguments, real or fallacious, to blow her theories out of the water, but would it be from a search for truth or a search to destroy genius of which they are envious? I'm willing to play along with her theories and marvel at their fascinating conclusions until convinced otherwise. In the meantime, I've already purchased Geoffrey's History so I can see this controversial evidence for myself.

 

The Good Part: Fascinating Conclusions
The face of King Arthur and his world that rises from Goodrich's research is a wild and tumultuous one. Instead of stone castles, there are hill forts. The Roman roads are still intact and in constant use. Arthur is the son of a British queen and a Roman noble, and he was raised training as a Roman soldier. His armor is that of a legionaire, rather than the steel plate armor we see in romantic versions of his story. His first major victory as a commander is when he leads in battle at age sixteen. Guinevere is a British warrior queen from a long matriarchal line. She carries the severed heads of her defeated foes on her belt, pausing occasionally to gaze at their faces in grim victory. Lancelot is not a dreamy French nobleman, but rather a Pictish berserker and king of a large portion of what is today Scotland. The idea of Guin and Lance running off together is not even a thought (the French court romantic writers came up with that to fit "courtly love" and the scandal that was so desired by their culture). The Round Table is not necessarily a table, and is in fact a possession of Guinevere, part of her estate shared with Arthur upon their marriage. Arthur and Lancelot are both required to marry well within the British Matriarchy in order to secure lands and titles for themselves, as British Matriarchy does not allow men to possess property. The fall of the Roman Empire and the beginning of the Dark Ages is in process during this time, and Arthur-Guin-Lance & Company are key to maintaining some semblance of sanity in the power vacuum after Rome abandons Britain.

Most of our modern tellings of King Arthur are told through the many layers of cultures that retold his tale before us, namely the French court romantic writers, with their castles, patriarchy, finery, knights, and courtly love. When those layers are peeled away, we see the Romantic King Arthur World turned almost completely on its head, leaving a world of Picts, British War Queens, Romans, and Druids. It's "face" of King Arthur that's even more mystical and wild than the other "faces" we encounter in modern retellings.

Encountering this world and highlights of its facets is probably what makes me recommend Goodrich's King Arthur in spite of its unstructured, deeply flawed writing style. If you can survive the method of the telling, the story itself manages to unfold like mist unveiling a distant world, piece by treasured piece.

Episode 11: Mr. Placemats Returns

for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)

A few Saturdays ago, I finished a 13-hour shift, known in our kitchen as a "double shift." I drove my little rust-jeweled car to the liquor store and picked up a bottle of bubbly. I got home, set the wine to chill, and settled into pajamas in front of Skyrim and then Miss Fischer's Murder Mysteries.

Glass after glass of Cook's Brut (cheap bubbly), I raised a giddy good riddance toast to former resident Mr. Placemats, all his chauvinism, all his rudeness, all his loud insults, all his fake friendliness, all his antics, and especially to the fact that none of these would be the concern of our facility any more.

Ahem: quoth the raven, nevermore. (BTW: Blogger's spellcheck thinks "quoth" is spelled incorrectly. Think again, Blogger.)

My original plan had been to toast each individual antic and memory separately, but my calculations led me to believe this would end in a blood alcohol level of 99.9% and death (not necessarily in that order), so I chose to simply get good and buzzed on bubbly in general celebration of Mr. Placemat moving back to his house.

It wasn't until this past week that I, to my surprise, heard yet again his dreaded name uttered in our halls.

Turns out he's been seen in the coffee shop of our facility, sipping from our mugs and reading our paper, doubtless uninvited by any current resident. Next thing, he'll be trying to sneak into the breakfast buffet or to a noon meal. I left a note on the white board to the high schoolers, hoping they'll charge him for meals if he tries this on the weekend, as he doesn't live here anymore and therefore does not pay room or board.

Just when we thought we were free of the devil, he returns to repossess the halls that were sanctified upon his departure. Now we have to get the holy water out again...

Where's your "harem," you so brazenly bragged of organizing, Sir Placemats? Are they not making you coffee at home? AKA elsewhere?

I have the strangest sensation that this nightmare will be revisited. My fingers involuntarily are finishing this episode with the ominous phrase, "TO BE...CONTINUED."

Duhn duhn duhhhhhn!

Episode 10: TGIF

for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)

The Double Shift:

thirteen hours of ache creep up from the hard floor into my legs
from the balls of my feet, through my arches
like ivy winding up my leg-trunks, round my knee caps and quads
anchoring me unwillingly to the ground

shuffling home on the stumps that once were my feet
sunlight winking through the archway of trees over our street
a pumpkin smiles at me from the front step

and next
my feet return, each with a separate pulse
and I'm jello,
taking on the shape of the couch,
de-coagulating, oozing into the cracks

only retaking human form to raise a toast

Happy Friday.

Episode 9: I Spy

for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)

In the dining room, I spy some grungy little details:

super indelible lipstick stains on juice cup rims
a red "x" marking the only pan that doesn't heat-warp
a mop head on the floor to soak up a constant drip from the ceiling vent
a wedge of sheetrock missing from a doorway where the cart shaved it off
one burnt out bulb in the wall sconces
four clocks, all reading slightly different times
and a cupboard corner full of ownerless items:
   a black mug
   a white one with a blue stripe
   a squat, round vase
   a half-pint canning jar
   a floral-handled spoon
   a blue plastic cup.

This is not the rural Midwest of your homesteading blogs,
pristine white farmhouses and chickens and overalls.
This is where we are now.
Things are underfunded and worn out.
People are worn out and wearing out their complaints.

People with no place to be and no schedule to obey
asking sternly or frantically, mostly accusingly:
"Is my toast done yet?"

Episode 8: Staring Down the Dragon

for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)

This past weekend, I had the privilege of being at a family reunion where I ended up in a game of pretend with some gradeschooler cousins. We were sneaking toward the "forest" - a bush and four trees on the neighbor's yard - when one girl held her pointer finger to her lips. "Shh," she whispered, then gestured at a tree stump. "Over there, behind that stump...is a bear."
"A beaaar?" I asked, doing my best to look fearful. As I was a guest on this adventure, I turned to the other girls. "A bear! What do we do?"
They didn't lose a beat. In fact, one of them shook back her angelic curls and drew an imaginary sword. "Get your swords, girls," she commanded. "We'll fight the bear." She held the invisible sword above her head and yelled, "Charge!!" to which the others roared battle cries and rushed to meet their foe.

I barely know these kids, but I was so proud of them in that moment. I'd follow those fierce warriors into battle any day. It was their ferocity that I thought of today at work, when I was needing some ferocity of my own.

The time: ten minutes to noon
The place: the Special Care Unit
The foe: Dragon Lady

Sometimes the lunch cart comes together a little more slowly than expected. Today was one of those days. The cart was completed about ten minutes before noon, which is a whole ten minutes later than usual. It couldn't be helped and I wouldn't apologize for such a small issue. I navigated the cart through the dining room and into the hall, aiming it toward its first destination. That's where I saw her: The Dragon Lady, pacing and snarling just inside the door of the Special Care Unit.

The eternal fire of rage was clearly boiling just under the surface, as indicated by her sour expression and the puffs of smoke that wafted involuntarily from her nostrils and ears. The glassy dead look in her ebony eyes bored into me while I was still some hundred yards away. The metal scales of her forehead tightened, narrowing her eyes into almond shaped sections of the abyss, studying my approach. I continued forward, not flinching at her appearance, but noticing my heart skipping a beat and adrenaline filling my veins, ready for fight or for flight. Somehow I dared to not only keep my head up and my eyes unflinching in her direction, but I dared to stretch my lips into a grin. I aimed for a hapless-cheerful-oblivious sort of grin - my own expression of fearlessness. The clock on the wall screamed TEN MINUTES LATE, which is heresy in the vaulted lair of the Dragon. The ticking of the clock might as well have been a chatty crow screeching my doom and cackling derisively. I reminded myself to breathe as I passed through the door to Special Cares.
I slowed the cart to a halt. I glanced at the Dragon and at her helpless coworker, looking grim and depleted. Then I turned on my heel and left. I walked all the way down the hall to the kitchen door, still in one piece, hearing no thundering beastly footsteps behind me.

No one had said a thing.
The Dragon Lady had not pounced on me to tear my flesh with her clawed words.

I mentally checked for wounds or missing limbs and found I was alive. I had stared down the Dragon and survived.This time, anyway.

I'm thinking of those warrior kids again. They'll someday find in the adult world there are many ogres and dragons and bears. I hope they keep their ferocity and bravery, daring to look terror in the eye and not flinch. Maybe they'll do even better than that: they'll draw their swords and go into battle and change for the better the landscape of the world that will be handed down to them.

Here's hoping. Fight on, gals.

A River Run

The park was calling to me in the worst way yesterday, the last day of August. In a way it was the last hurrah of summer to get out jogging and photographing in a local park. It's been a very wet summer, so the water is still high in the river and the mosquitos are out in droves.

 

Minnesota may be the land of over 10,000 lakes, but it's also land of 10,000 millions of mosquitos. My bites are big as bagels, but it was worth it to have one last taste of August.

 

 

Episode 7: Wanderburg and the Bullies

for a preface, see the home page of my work stories: Paradise (aka The Job)

It's breakfast time and I'm headed down the hall with a cart full of food. There's scrambled eggs and home fries, straight from the oven. There's milk and bananas and a stack of plates that keep clinking violently together. I'm on a mission...when I meet with an obstacle. It's Wanderburg, taking his time en route to a comfortable chair. I suppose old joints and old muscles and a lack of urgency in his schedule all make him prone to ambling. I slow my cart to a stop and wait patiently for him to get some headway. I know exactly where he's going. It's all part of his schedule.

Wanderburg usually begins the day in a chair in the main lobby, head to one side, snoozing. After awhile he wanders into breakfast where he rarely says more than one syllable at a time, and usually with an expression of bewilderment, as though he's just woken up and doesn't know where he is. He eats, says nothing to his fellow residents, and then scoots back out to the halls to wander. He'll stop in the kitchen and ask to have a burger for dinner. Then he heads for the other end of the building to another soft chair and falls asleep again.

Lately he was diagnosed with a contagious colon infection, so staff were required to wear gowns and gloves in his room, which were stored outside the door. Kitchen staff wore gloves and took care not to come in contact with his dishes and to sanitize anything he touched. No doubt other residents noticed these things, and gossip surrounding Wanderburg has been the topic of late among the residents, even though he is now no longer considered contagious.

Some residents tried to have him removed from the facility. Others requested to never be seated near him ever at meal times. Others simply shared whatever rumors they could about him at the breakfast table. Apparently it got so bad that several residents went to the administrator on Wanderburg's behalf to ask for an end to what had gotten out of control. The decision was made to have the administrator and several staff meet with the named Bullies and put a stop to it. The Bullies have also been required to sit with Wanderburg at his table this coming month. This all seems pretty just.

However, the sad part is that any of those things had to be done. It's disappointing to see members of what's called "The Greatest Generation" treating each other so poorly, displaying so little depth of character, and showing so little maturity. The hot topic in schools these days has been bullying, ending bullying, parents against bullying, etc. We all nod our heads, agreeing that children are brutal and need to be taught how to respect others. It's sad to witness people who haven't physically been children for 60+ years but are still acting like brutal third graders, needing someone to teach them what it means to respect another human being, no matter that person's level of popularity. 

On the upside, there's a portion who know how to be adults and didn't sit idly by. They took action to make a change and defend another person from the Bullies. As I grow up, I want to be one of them. 

It has been said that "the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good people do nothing" (Edmund Burke, paraphrased), and it's good to know there's at least a few good ones out there doing something about what's wrong out there.