Please read Part I first, posted on March 7th.
I had already informed my neighbors about the landscaping project and shown them photos of the flowers. No one objected but I wanted them to be informed since they would be looking a it every day, too. After the turf removal I had to landscape the soil and dig in a rain garden. I hauled a multitude of wheel-barrels full of soil to build up dirt next to the house (due to water running into my basement when it rained). I made it twice as steep as suggested because I knew that it would compact over time. Plus, I dug out a rain garden twice the size needed since it will slowly fill up. The pile of turf and soil in my backyard grew into a mound. Manual labor is an excellent workout and I felt stronger every day.
It was now time to mulch with wood-chips. I located a company who sold the chips in bulk. It was cheaper to purchase what I needed for the entire yard and get it delivered. I knew that 18 cubic yards was a lot. Felt rather overwhelmed when I arrived home and the pile was as tall as my single-stall garage. I nearly cried. At least it was a Friday and I had the weekend to start moving the bulk. First, I sprayed the landscaped soil with Round Up to kill any weeds or bits of turf that were still there. Second, I scattered a heavy layer of corn gluten meal. Corn gluten meal serves two purposes, it stops seeds from germinating and it is a fertilizer. I hate weeds so this was a positive endeavor. Finally, I started moving the wood-chips one wheel-barrel full at a time. It took a week to get them either into the newly landscaped sunny area, stored in the shed or next to the garage. 162 square feet is a heck of a lot of wood-chips!
After the chips were out of the driveway and I could park in the garage again, I focused on planting the flowers. Due to the huge population of rabbits in the neighborhood and pesky dogs that like to poop in the yard, I erected a three-foot tall chicken wire fence around the new flower garden. Ventured to a local organic nursery and purchased the plants. I procured small six-plex cartons because they were cheaper and I needed a lot of plants. I utilized a standing bulb planter, which I could step on to punch a hole in the ground and reduce strain on my back. Moved aside the mulch and punched in holes one foot apart because I wanted them to grow in close proximity. Lessens the opportunity for weeds to develop, too.
After all the holes were dug, about 200 in the sunny side area or phase one. The yard looked like a corkboard with staggered holes. I used a ruler for uniform placement. I took the plants and placed the shortest growers around the edge but a foot and a half back from the sidewalk and driveway (pussy toes, prairie smoke, etc). I decided to alternate the variety of plant for visual complexity. I had started some short prairie grass on my own (under three feet) and placed one row of grass behind the flat plants. I then deposited the shorter flowers in the next row and worked up the tallest in the back and closest to the house. Three-foot perimeter remained around the house for a pathway. I put away my tools and placed the leftover plants in a part-shade location in the backyard. Watered in the new plants and gave the leftovers a drink too. It was an exhausting day but I was happy that the plants were finally in the sunny side of the front yard. Took a shower and collapsed on the couch.
New plants are very vulnerable so it’s important to give them a drink of water daily. If it didn’t rain I watered them in the morning before I went to work. Plants in the six-plexes were even more vulnerable so I gave them a drink in the morning and when I got home from work. I placed netting over the top of the sunny side and potted plants to keep the squirrels out. They can be rather pesky and dig up newly sowed flowers. Unfortunately, the net deterred the birds that eat bugs but I figured that the tree-climbing rodents were more of a threat.
It was time to start the shady side of the front yard, phase two. I followed the same procedure, dug out the turf, landscaped around tree roots (the boulevard tree and the neighbor’s tree), killed off the weeds, put down corn gluten meal and wood-chips, erected the fence, dug the holes, and plopped in the plants. Obviously, I chose plants that liked part-shade. Exhausted but happy.
Phase three, dig the boulevard. Repeated the steps and choose plants that did well in drought and heat. My boulevard is only couple of feet wide so it dries out very quickly. I could not erect a fence but I did put up wooden posts with streamers to help keep out dogs and their owners. Sprinkled hot pepper flakes over the ground to deter animals and reapplied once per week. I adore dogs. I don’t respect owners who let their animal pee and pooh on plants. The plants are expensive and the animal’s waste can kill, especially when the plants are small and the roots are not established. It really irks me when people let their canines and felines out to roam. It is dangerous for the animal and annoying to the neighbors. My cats stay inside at all times.
The next year I placed the ubiquitous hosta on the north side of the house since they do well in shade. I didn’t want to grow ferns because they often harbor mosquitoes. On the south side of the driveway I had started a patch of short native prairie grass (blue stem et al) a couple years before. It grows well. I added a patch of milkweed, prairie sage and sweetgrass. I pick and dry the sage and sweetgrass and give it to people who can use it. I burn a lot myself, though the cats don’t like the smell. Zozo does want to eat the grass but too much and her stomach gets upset.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Sustain the green.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Friday, March 9, 2012
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
LOW MAINTENANCE YARD PART I
Perennials are forever, well, almost. Mowing is a boring, wasteful, and redundant activity. Why burn the time and fossil fuel once or twice per week? I decided a few years ago to install a rain garden filled with native plants. Native perennials are plants that grow naturally in your geographic area. They are more drought and pest tolerant than hybrids or plants brought in from other areas. Once established, the natives require the least amount of maintenance. Thankfully, I learned of the watershed district’s native plant program. Like most Minnesotans, I reside in a watershed district, applied for and was accepted to receive reimbursement for half the cost of supplies (no labor can be reimbursed). Originally I was only going to install a small area but the financial assistance greatly expanded my options. I decided to tear up the entire front and side yards (about 300 square feet).
My lot is twice as long as it is wide and the length runs east west. The short side faces east with the street, sidewalk, and a three-foot wide boulevard. The house sits on the north side of the lot, with the short side facing the street and a detached garage on the south side of the lot. Near the sidewalk, there is a four-foot wide patch on the south side of the lot, hemmed in by the ten-foot wide driveway, which is about fifty-feet long. The sunny part of my lawn is bordered by the house and driveway. There is a short walkway from the front porch to the sidewalk. Due to a boulevard tree, the area is part-shade. The north side of the house is full shade. The backyard is very small.
Education is the most important step. I learned about planting techniques, native plants of the Twin Cities region, and places to procure the plants. I developed a list of plants and grasses. The Extension Service is a reliable source of free information and the local Master Gardner program may offer classes. University of Minnesota has a fabulous website www.extension.umn.edu/gardeninfo/ for upper Midwest plants. I knew that I wanted a variety of plants, different colors, heights and blooming times. Learn about sustainable landscape design at www.sustland.umn.edu/
Luckily, there are several nurseries and events around the Twin Cities that focus on native perennials. The Twin Cities Friends Plant Sale in early May also has a good selection visit www.friendsschoolplantsale.com for details. The Twin Cities Living Green Expo www.livinggreenexpo.mn in May offers free workshops. Not all the plants were in stock but at least I knew what I sought when I went shopping. A list of MN nurseries is at www.plantinfo.umn.edu/ You can also check out the Native Plant Expo and Market coordinated by the St. Paul Audubon Society at www.saintpaulaudubon.org in June. If you don’t reside in Minnesota, just check with your local Extension Service, they should have a list of resources. It is best to purchase from a local nursery or obtain cuttings from a local gardener rather than ordering from a catalogue.
Of course, talking with an actual gardener is the absolute best method of learning. Drive around your neighborhood and look for an impressive garden. Stop and chat with the gardener, if they aren’t home leave a note. It’s flattering when someone notices. Lots of people wave when they walk by or else say nice things if I’m out in the yard. When sitting on my porch I’ve seen people stop their car and take photos. Most gardeners love to talk about how they created their yard. I like to blog about it.
Preparation is the most tedious part of the process. Turf or regular grass tends to build upon itself and the under layers of thatch don’t absorb much water. I could have just sprayed a general herbicide and killed the grass but the thatch would have impeded the growth of the new plants. The grass and weeds could have started growing if it had not been completely destroyed. Thus, I decided to rip out all the turf. I convinced a bunch of friends to bring their shovels and join me on a lovely spring Saturday to dig dig dig the largest part of the yard, the sunny side. We dug out the entire turf growth, about three to four inches down. The turf was deposited into a pile in my back yard and I bought them pizza. More hands make lighter work.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Think green and greener.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
My lot is twice as long as it is wide and the length runs east west. The short side faces east with the street, sidewalk, and a three-foot wide boulevard. The house sits on the north side of the lot, with the short side facing the street and a detached garage on the south side of the lot. Near the sidewalk, there is a four-foot wide patch on the south side of the lot, hemmed in by the ten-foot wide driveway, which is about fifty-feet long. The sunny part of my lawn is bordered by the house and driveway. There is a short walkway from the front porch to the sidewalk. Due to a boulevard tree, the area is part-shade. The north side of the house is full shade. The backyard is very small.
Education is the most important step. I learned about planting techniques, native plants of the Twin Cities region, and places to procure the plants. I developed a list of plants and grasses. The Extension Service is a reliable source of free information and the local Master Gardner program may offer classes. University of Minnesota has a fabulous website www.extension.umn.edu/gardeninfo/ for upper Midwest plants. I knew that I wanted a variety of plants, different colors, heights and blooming times. Learn about sustainable landscape design at www.sustland.umn.edu/
Luckily, there are several nurseries and events around the Twin Cities that focus on native perennials. The Twin Cities Friends Plant Sale in early May also has a good selection visit www.friendsschoolplantsale.com for details. The Twin Cities Living Green Expo www.livinggreenexpo.mn in May offers free workshops. Not all the plants were in stock but at least I knew what I sought when I went shopping. A list of MN nurseries is at www.plantinfo.umn.edu/ You can also check out the Native Plant Expo and Market coordinated by the St. Paul Audubon Society at www.saintpaulaudubon.org in June. If you don’t reside in Minnesota, just check with your local Extension Service, they should have a list of resources. It is best to purchase from a local nursery or obtain cuttings from a local gardener rather than ordering from a catalogue.
Of course, talking with an actual gardener is the absolute best method of learning. Drive around your neighborhood and look for an impressive garden. Stop and chat with the gardener, if they aren’t home leave a note. It’s flattering when someone notices. Lots of people wave when they walk by or else say nice things if I’m out in the yard. When sitting on my porch I’ve seen people stop their car and take photos. Most gardeners love to talk about how they created their yard. I like to blog about it.
Preparation is the most tedious part of the process. Turf or regular grass tends to build upon itself and the under layers of thatch don’t absorb much water. I could have just sprayed a general herbicide and killed the grass but the thatch would have impeded the growth of the new plants. The grass and weeds could have started growing if it had not been completely destroyed. Thus, I decided to rip out all the turf. I convinced a bunch of friends to bring their shovels and join me on a lovely spring Saturday to dig dig dig the largest part of the yard, the sunny side. We dug out the entire turf growth, about three to four inches down. The turf was deposited into a pile in my back yard and I bought them pizza. More hands make lighter work.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Think green and greener.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Monday, March 5, 2012
BREATHLESS CAT
Zozo is an affectionate cat. The ginger haired tabby likes to cuddle with me on the couch. When she was young she would snuggle under the blanket and lay down outside my right thigh with her head near my knee to sleep, perchance to dream. As you know, felines have outstanding olfactory skills; their noses are extremely sensitive. Unfortunately, this did not work in Zozo’s favor one day. I had consumed some food that caused an excess of methane in my gastrointestinal tract.
She was blissfully sleeping under the blanket when the first discharge occurred. I felt her wake up and take several small inhalations. Zozo relaxed again and a few minutes later another vapor let loose. She jerked to alertness, took a breath, wiggled out of the blanket, jumped onto the floor, gave me a look of horror, and fled from the room. The poor thing had been choked by the fumes. I admit that the fart was quite strong. For several years she did not sleep under the blanket next to me. Her memory of that terrible smell remains vivid. Tillie, muted calico troublemaker, runs from the room and returns when the stink subsides. Momo, now deceased calico kitty, never reacted to the stench; perhaps her nose wasn’t as attuned as she aged.
When my childhood dog, Toto, would pass gas she would blame the closest human. She would sniff the air and give the person a disdainful accusatory look. After consuming a bird her farts would be awful. I’m sure the air color turned a bit green from what exited her rear end. The adage of “SBD” silent but deadly could be applied to that cute fuzzy creature’s airy creations.
Pass the Beano!
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
When my childhood dog, Toto, would pass gas she would blame the closest human. She would sniff the air and give the person a disdainful accusatory look. After consuming a bird her farts would be awful. I’m sure the air color turned a bit green from what exited her rear end. The adage of “SBD” silent but deadly could be applied to that cute fuzzy creature’s airy creations.
Pass the Beano!
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Friday, March 2, 2012
HORSING AROUND
Rolling on an overturned boat of leather, warm breathing waves between your legs, smelling musty hair and moist wool with deep rumbles of a creature 200 times your size. The experience of riding a horse as a child. I was placed upon a steed before I could walk. Granted, I chose not to walk until I was two years old but I do remember riding a Shetland pony at my maternal Grandfather’s rehab ranch. He would also hitch the pony to a small cart for me to tool around the yard. He was raised on a stockmen’s ranch in Iowa, they breed and trained animals to be sold to other farmers and traveling shows.
Once Grandpa placed me on a regular sized horse I refused to return to the Shetland. I loved horses. I was only scared twice. The first time was when the chestnut mare was giving birth and having a difficult delivery. Grandpa had to get into the pen with her and I thought the baby was killing her. I cried and Gramps told me to hush. She was such a nice horse that I was angry at the colt. All turned out well and I befriended the colt.
The most frightening experience involved a skittish Arabian. I was six years old and walking it in the driveway, as I had done before. Beautiful animal but it slipped on a piece of loose dirt and began to buck. I couldn’t get it to stop so I dropped the reins and gripped the saddle horn. I knew enough not to yell and spook the horse into frenzy. It could have galloped onto a nearby road and harmed or killed both of us. Grandpa heard the commotion and ran over to grasp the reins. I jumped off and staggered to the house. I was bruised from hitting the saddle with my thighs and buttocks. The breath was knocked out of me with my hands, arms, neck and shoulders hurting.
Grandpa calmed down the horse and came in to check on me. I was upset. I’d never been on a horse that bucked more than twice. I was rattled and shaking. He said that I had to ride the horse again. No way, no how, I protested. Gramps must be crazy. He said that the horse was certainly more scared than me. If I didn’t do it right away I would probably be afraid of horses for the rest of my life. I cursed him and he cursed back. He gripped my arm and led me to the horse. He lifted me up into the saddle, grabbed the bridle, and walked us around the yard. Both the horse and I were shaking. I truly learned what the phrase “Get back on the saddle again” means. You have to face your fear or it will haunt you.
I rode horses on his farm until he had to sell it due to overwhelming emphysema. I was irate because I was finally old enough to buy a horse and train it. I wanted to be a barrel racer and participate in the 4-H Horse Show. I was quite bitter that he had to get rid of the farm. I inherited my grandfather’s favorite saddle, Posse hat, and a couple of his leather satchels. I oil the saddle yearly and keep it away from the curious cats. It has nominal value since it was not a high-grade saddle. The smell reminds me of Grandpa. He was born 100 years too late. He never fit in with modernity and would have been happier as a cowboy instead of a farmer.
The night I placed a bid on my house I dreamt that I converted the one car garage into a two-horse stall. Impossible to do in town, plus, they are terribly expensive and take a lot of time to maintain. I herd cats instead. We are distant relatives of William Cody, aka Buffalo Bill Cody, and have relatives who run a small rodeo. I considered going on the road with the rodeo but opted to attend college, alas, another missed opportunity. Mmm, dusty cowboys…
Ride on.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Once Grandpa placed me on a regular sized horse I refused to return to the Shetland. I loved horses. I was only scared twice. The first time was when the chestnut mare was giving birth and having a difficult delivery. Grandpa had to get into the pen with her and I thought the baby was killing her. I cried and Gramps told me to hush. She was such a nice horse that I was angry at the colt. All turned out well and I befriended the colt.
The most frightening experience involved a skittish Arabian. I was six years old and walking it in the driveway, as I had done before. Beautiful animal but it slipped on a piece of loose dirt and began to buck. I couldn’t get it to stop so I dropped the reins and gripped the saddle horn. I knew enough not to yell and spook the horse into frenzy. It could have galloped onto a nearby road and harmed or killed both of us. Grandpa heard the commotion and ran over to grasp the reins. I jumped off and staggered to the house. I was bruised from hitting the saddle with my thighs and buttocks. The breath was knocked out of me with my hands, arms, neck and shoulders hurting.
Grandpa calmed down the horse and came in to check on me. I was upset. I’d never been on a horse that bucked more than twice. I was rattled and shaking. He said that I had to ride the horse again. No way, no how, I protested. Gramps must be crazy. He said that the horse was certainly more scared than me. If I didn’t do it right away I would probably be afraid of horses for the rest of my life. I cursed him and he cursed back. He gripped my arm and led me to the horse. He lifted me up into the saddle, grabbed the bridle, and walked us around the yard. Both the horse and I were shaking. I truly learned what the phrase “Get back on the saddle again” means. You have to face your fear or it will haunt you.
I rode horses on his farm until he had to sell it due to overwhelming emphysema. I was irate because I was finally old enough to buy a horse and train it. I wanted to be a barrel racer and participate in the 4-H Horse Show. I was quite bitter that he had to get rid of the farm. I inherited my grandfather’s favorite saddle, Posse hat, and a couple of his leather satchels. I oil the saddle yearly and keep it away from the curious cats. It has nominal value since it was not a high-grade saddle. The smell reminds me of Grandpa. He was born 100 years too late. He never fit in with modernity and would have been happier as a cowboy instead of a farmer.
The night I placed a bid on my house I dreamt that I converted the one car garage into a two-horse stall. Impossible to do in town, plus, they are terribly expensive and take a lot of time to maintain. I herd cats instead. We are distant relatives of William Cody, aka Buffalo Bill Cody, and have relatives who run a small rodeo. I considered going on the road with the rodeo but opted to attend college, alas, another missed opportunity. Mmm, dusty cowboys…
Ride on.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
ARTIST ILLUMINATION: LISA JASTER
Social entrepreneurship thrives when the business owner is genuine and willing to take some risk. Lisa states that it is important to speak with several people at the 501(c)3 nonprofit organization to learn their perspective. Evolve an idea and discuss it with the agency’s decision maker. Sometimes the Development (fundraising) or Executive Director will hesitate but let them know that you have a passion for their mission statement. Start the collaboration on a small scale and grow it during subsequent years. Be willing to adjust the plan because it is a mixture of marketing and altruism. Usually, clients only need a small incentive to donate to a charity.
Ms. Jaster originated a third effort, which other artists could easily replicate. The Fostering Art Program focuses on emerging youth artists. Ms. Jaster provides space for a young artist (under the age of 13) to post their artwork during the St. Paul Art Crawl. Kids to learn how to promote themselves. The child must have parental approval, price their creations, be present in the studio during the Art Crawl to explain their work to patrons, and contribute to refreshments. Lisa has sponsored youth since 2010 and will be working with a sibling team this spring.
Ms. Jaster grew up in a small Minnesota town west of the Twin Cities. She attended St. Cloud State University and Willmar Community College before moving to the Twin Cities. She worked for twelve years at a photography studio before testing another career. Lisa realized that photography was her passion so she procured studio space. She enjoys both the technical aspects as well as the client interaction. Recently, she traveled internationally to record a wedding. Her work liberates the bliss of the subject. She especially enjoys capturing animals on film.
Parlay passion into purpose.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Monday, February 27, 2012
BOOKWORM REVIEW, VOLUME II, ISSUE FIVE
Memoirs are the focus of this issue. Memory all depends upon the storyteller. Three people standing next to each other experiencing the same five-minute interlude will offer three diverse perspectives. Each is accurate but determined by their personal life record.
A Cavalcade of Lesser Horrors by Peter Smith Four worms
Laughed at the foibles and his unique perspective. Hilarious vignettes from the author’s life. Chapters could have been arranged in a more linear fashion and a few more added to fill in the gaps. Vigil Candles chapter was stunning.
The Rules of the Tunnel by Ned Zeman Three and a half worms
Brilliant insight into the churnings of mania and depression. He seemed most comfortable writing about others to the point of distraction. Wickedly self-deprecating humor and silly cats. Mystifying holes in the timeline. Lucky to have a supportive network.
The Arrogant Years by Lucette Lagnado Three worms
Personal memoir that captures the superior attitude of youth. Strongest sections are biographies of her mother and Alice. The story gets a bit hazy when the remembrances are not pleasant. Very good insight into her internal life. I wish her well.
The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls Three worms
Some people should never reproduce. Terrible parents neglected and abused their children. The parents probably were dealing with mental health issues but continuously made horrible choices causing their children to suffer. Somehow Jeannette and her siblings survived their selfish parents and awful circumstances. Shouldn’t give away the ending in the first chapter.
The Late Homecomer by Kao Kalia Yang Three worms
War and rotten refugee camps wrecked havoc but the fortitude of her family is to be admired. Book became rather bewildering when relating stories of the entire family. Final chapters were most insightful regarding her grandmother.
Prior review was posted on February 2nd.
Have you journaled today?
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
A Cavalcade of Lesser Horrors by Peter Smith Four worms
Laughed at the foibles and his unique perspective. Hilarious vignettes from the author’s life. Chapters could have been arranged in a more linear fashion and a few more added to fill in the gaps. Vigil Candles chapter was stunning.
The Rules of the Tunnel by Ned Zeman Three and a half worms
Brilliant insight into the churnings of mania and depression. He seemed most comfortable writing about others to the point of distraction. Wickedly self-deprecating humor and silly cats. Mystifying holes in the timeline. Lucky to have a supportive network.
The Arrogant Years by Lucette Lagnado Three worms
Personal memoir that captures the superior attitude of youth. Strongest sections are biographies of her mother and Alice. The story gets a bit hazy when the remembrances are not pleasant. Very good insight into her internal life. I wish her well.
The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls Three worms
Some people should never reproduce. Terrible parents neglected and abused their children. The parents probably were dealing with mental health issues but continuously made horrible choices causing their children to suffer. Somehow Jeannette and her siblings survived their selfish parents and awful circumstances. Shouldn’t give away the ending in the first chapter.
The Late Homecomer by Kao Kalia Yang Three worms
War and rotten refugee camps wrecked havoc but the fortitude of her family is to be admired. Book became rather bewildering when relating stories of the entire family. Final chapters were most insightful regarding her grandmother.
Prior review was posted on February 2nd.
Have you journaled today?
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Friday, February 24, 2012
MADE OF THIS
“A dream itself is but a shadow,” mused Hamlet (First Folio II.2.260). Thought that I’d record the dreams I remember and try to figure out the message.
Dream A:
Lying on the grass in my parent’s backyard about ten feet from the house. Sleeping on my back with my current cat Tillie snoozing on top of me. Awoke to see a huge black bear swipe at my childhood dog Toto and standing next to a swing set. I grabbed the cat that was on a leash and ran for the back door. Managed to get the cat and I in the house. Called the police. Watched the bear leave my parent’s yard. Called the neighbors to warn them as the dog got up. Awoke from the dream. Odd to dream of dreaming.
Interpretation of Dream A:
Love being outside, sleeping in the sunshine. Love my cat and miss my dog. Wish that I had kids but afraid that a monster would kill them. The loyal dog would try to defend but could not defeat the monster. Probably due to childhood sexual abuse by my step-grandfather.
Dream B:
Hotel with my friends. A few months before I had given a black & white feline to friends who wanted a cat. They brought both their cats to the hotel and the cats got out and roamed the hallways. We caught one but the black & white tabby was gone. I was more distraught than my friends. I kept looking and gave hotel staff money to help me find her. It wasn’t until a few days later at dinner that my friends admitted that they had given the cat away because they didn’t like it. I was angry. I would have taken the cat instead of them giving it away. The weather was cold but I demanded to be taken to the hotel, packed and left.
Interpretation of Dream B:
Fear of rejection, lies, and deception by people I thought that I could trust. Intellectually, I know that once you give a gift to someone it is theirs to decide the fate. If they don’t want it and regift it, that is okay. However, I seem to have a strong attachment to cats. I think it is because I am lacking in human affection. I really need a boyfriend!
Dream C:
Someone gave me a two-room log cabin tree house with 25,000 acres of woods and mineral rights near Calgary, Canada. I was suspicious so I hired a lawyer to determine if the gift was legitimate and any complications. None were found and the donor had contributed an additional million dollars to pay for taxes and living expenses. The only catch was that I had to live there for a year. I went to the cabin and it needed repairs. Hired a couple guys and ended up romancing them. End of dream.
Interpretation of Dream C:
I’m always afraid of something that will disqualify me, fear of rejection. Wish that an anonymous person would provide the means for me to continue to write. Home repairs are never done. I need a boyfriend.
Elucidation:
Aw heck, I don’t really place a lot of confidence in dream analysis. I’m sure that we only remember a small fraction of the images that flash through our brain while we sleep or exist in semi-consciousness. One theme is the need for a boyfriend. I can only resolve that issue while I am conscious.
Dream On.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Dream A:
Lying on the grass in my parent’s backyard about ten feet from the house. Sleeping on my back with my current cat Tillie snoozing on top of me. Awoke to see a huge black bear swipe at my childhood dog Toto and standing next to a swing set. I grabbed the cat that was on a leash and ran for the back door. Managed to get the cat and I in the house. Called the police. Watched the bear leave my parent’s yard. Called the neighbors to warn them as the dog got up. Awoke from the dream. Odd to dream of dreaming.
Interpretation of Dream A:
Love being outside, sleeping in the sunshine. Love my cat and miss my dog. Wish that I had kids but afraid that a monster would kill them. The loyal dog would try to defend but could not defeat the monster. Probably due to childhood sexual abuse by my step-grandfather.
Dream B:
Hotel with my friends. A few months before I had given a black & white feline to friends who wanted a cat. They brought both their cats to the hotel and the cats got out and roamed the hallways. We caught one but the black & white tabby was gone. I was more distraught than my friends. I kept looking and gave hotel staff money to help me find her. It wasn’t until a few days later at dinner that my friends admitted that they had given the cat away because they didn’t like it. I was angry. I would have taken the cat instead of them giving it away. The weather was cold but I demanded to be taken to the hotel, packed and left.
Interpretation of Dream B:
Fear of rejection, lies, and deception by people I thought that I could trust. Intellectually, I know that once you give a gift to someone it is theirs to decide the fate. If they don’t want it and regift it, that is okay. However, I seem to have a strong attachment to cats. I think it is because I am lacking in human affection. I really need a boyfriend!
Dream C:
Someone gave me a two-room log cabin tree house with 25,000 acres of woods and mineral rights near Calgary, Canada. I was suspicious so I hired a lawyer to determine if the gift was legitimate and any complications. None were found and the donor had contributed an additional million dollars to pay for taxes and living expenses. The only catch was that I had to live there for a year. I went to the cabin and it needed repairs. Hired a couple guys and ended up romancing them. End of dream.
Interpretation of Dream C:
I’m always afraid of something that will disqualify me, fear of rejection. Wish that an anonymous person would provide the means for me to continue to write. Home repairs are never done. I need a boyfriend.
Elucidation:
Aw heck, I don’t really place a lot of confidence in dream analysis. I’m sure that we only remember a small fraction of the images that flash through our brain while we sleep or exist in semi-consciousness. One theme is the need for a boyfriend. I can only resolve that issue while I am conscious.
Dream On.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
HEAD OF BUTTER
A 4-H friend of mine was a Princess Kay of the Milky Way Runner-Up. She won the local contest and represented the Minnesota Dairy Association at pageants and special events. She lived on a working dairy farm, knew a lot about the animal husbandry and business aspects of dairy farming, and was cute. As a result of serving as a Princess, her likeness was carved out of a huge block of butter at the Minnesota State Fair. It was weird to see her smiling face twirling around in a huge refrigerator in the Dairy Building.
The next summer her family hosted a corn feed. They had frozen the butter-head after the fair so it was safe to eat. It was surreal to swirl butter onto a corncob from her skull. At least 200 people enjoyed a festive atmosphere. A polka band played and the party lasted into the evening. Country folk know that you have to party when the opportunity presents itself. Tomorrow may bring a hailstorm and wipe out your entire crop.
Farm life is not for the faint of heart. The movie Sweet Land is poetic but not reality based. As a child you quickly learn about the cycle of life and death. Don’t name the animals or grow emotionally attached because they can get sick and die, have to be sold, or be slaughtered for food. I had seen my grandmother decapitate chickens and her neighbor slaughter a sheep. However, the most traumatic experience was on the D’s farm. A calf had been born with a leg deformity. Three veterinarians had been brought in to determine if the leg could be broken and set right. Their prognosis was negative. The calf could hobble but once it was mature, it would not be able to walk properly with full utters.
Mr. D was heartbroken. The calf was the offspring of his favorite cow. He prepared the family that the calf would be fattened up until the malady was insurmountable. I was visiting on the late spring day when we said goodbye to calf #1708 and he led it out of the barn. Farmers strive not to kill an animal in front of their kin because the surviving animals will be terrified that they are next. Lana, her siblings and I heard a gunshot. We walked over to the building where the calf was now strung up by its hind legs. A neighbor had come over to help because Mr. D was too sad to cut apart an animal that he cared about. The smell of blood and internal organs was overwhelming. I remember a stream of steaming blood on the ground and Mr. D looking forlorn. We ate chicken that night.
Mr. D was called “touchy-feely” because he wasn’t completely detached from the herd. He deeply cared and the Holsteins were affectionate with humans. Calves would be taken from their mother within a few days of birth otherwise they would drain their mother dry of milk and never warm up to humans. The bottle-fed calves were placed in a separate section of the barn and socialized with humans. The critters were kept indoors until they were large enough to venture into a fenced yard.
Calves are very vulnerable to attack. In the early 1970s there was a huge problem with near-wild dog-packs. People dropped off their dogs in the country and the dogs would hang out together and act like wolves. The most docile canine will become a raging creature when following the lead of other dogs. The dogs would hunt together and go after sick or young animals. It got so bad that a bounty was offered to kill the dogs. Alerts on the radio station would provide sightings of the animals. Posse members would respond and shoot the dog-wolf group. Lots of farm animals were sequestered to their pens because of the dog packs. No humans were attacked but kids weren’t allowed to roam.
The D’s would make a yearly assessment of the herd. Any cow that did not produce enough milk, some females calves, and all the males were sold, a sad day indeed. Calves of productive mothers were kept to replace the cows sold. Each of the kids selected a calf to train for competition at the County Fair. They would have responsibility to feed the animal, keep it clean, tend to its needs, and teach it to be led by a harness. The D’s offered to sell me a calf for the fair. I couldn’t keep it in town and I had no way of traveling out to their farm on a daily or weekly basis. I liked to ride my bike but 20 miles was a bit egregious.
I envied kids who would show their 4-H animals at the County Fair. Huge 1,500-pound beasts next to a scrawny 90-pound kid, quite the juxtaposition. We had a dog that was too stubborn to train. My grandfather had given up his horse farm when I was 8 so I had no resources. I could have joined FFA (Future Farmers of America) and been on the Cattle Judging Team. The FFA’ers had such cool jackets and got to go on interesting trips. Alas, too late now.
Dairy Farm Tails, Part VI, most recent posting was February 20th.
Farm envy.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
The next summer her family hosted a corn feed. They had frozen the butter-head after the fair so it was safe to eat. It was surreal to swirl butter onto a corncob from her skull. At least 200 people enjoyed a festive atmosphere. A polka band played and the party lasted into the evening. Country folk know that you have to party when the opportunity presents itself. Tomorrow may bring a hailstorm and wipe out your entire crop.
Farm life is not for the faint of heart. The movie Sweet Land is poetic but not reality based. As a child you quickly learn about the cycle of life and death. Don’t name the animals or grow emotionally attached because they can get sick and die, have to be sold, or be slaughtered for food. I had seen my grandmother decapitate chickens and her neighbor slaughter a sheep. However, the most traumatic experience was on the D’s farm. A calf had been born with a leg deformity. Three veterinarians had been brought in to determine if the leg could be broken and set right. Their prognosis was negative. The calf could hobble but once it was mature, it would not be able to walk properly with full utters.
Mr. D was heartbroken. The calf was the offspring of his favorite cow. He prepared the family that the calf would be fattened up until the malady was insurmountable. I was visiting on the late spring day when we said goodbye to calf #1708 and he led it out of the barn. Farmers strive not to kill an animal in front of their kin because the surviving animals will be terrified that they are next. Lana, her siblings and I heard a gunshot. We walked over to the building where the calf was now strung up by its hind legs. A neighbor had come over to help because Mr. D was too sad to cut apart an animal that he cared about. The smell of blood and internal organs was overwhelming. I remember a stream of steaming blood on the ground and Mr. D looking forlorn. We ate chicken that night.
Mr. D was called “touchy-feely” because he wasn’t completely detached from the herd. He deeply cared and the Holsteins were affectionate with humans. Calves would be taken from their mother within a few days of birth otherwise they would drain their mother dry of milk and never warm up to humans. The bottle-fed calves were placed in a separate section of the barn and socialized with humans. The critters were kept indoors until they were large enough to venture into a fenced yard.
Calves are very vulnerable to attack. In the early 1970s there was a huge problem with near-wild dog-packs. People dropped off their dogs in the country and the dogs would hang out together and act like wolves. The most docile canine will become a raging creature when following the lead of other dogs. The dogs would hunt together and go after sick or young animals. It got so bad that a bounty was offered to kill the dogs. Alerts on the radio station would provide sightings of the animals. Posse members would respond and shoot the dog-wolf group. Lots of farm animals were sequestered to their pens because of the dog packs. No humans were attacked but kids weren’t allowed to roam.
The D’s would make a yearly assessment of the herd. Any cow that did not produce enough milk, some females calves, and all the males were sold, a sad day indeed. Calves of productive mothers were kept to replace the cows sold. Each of the kids selected a calf to train for competition at the County Fair. They would have responsibility to feed the animal, keep it clean, tend to its needs, and teach it to be led by a harness. The D’s offered to sell me a calf for the fair. I couldn’t keep it in town and I had no way of traveling out to their farm on a daily or weekly basis. I liked to ride my bike but 20 miles was a bit egregious.
I envied kids who would show their 4-H animals at the County Fair. Huge 1,500-pound beasts next to a scrawny 90-pound kid, quite the juxtaposition. We had a dog that was too stubborn to train. My grandfather had given up his horse farm when I was 8 so I had no resources. I could have joined FFA (Future Farmers of America) and been on the Cattle Judging Team. The FFA’ers had such cool jackets and got to go on interesting trips. Alas, too late now.
Dairy Farm Tails, Part VI, most recent posting was February 20th.
Farm envy.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Monday, February 20, 2012
DISMAL DEMISE
Blood and it was more that a few drops. I was certain that I was dying. There was no other explanation. I was nine years old and no reason why blood was on my underwear. I was visiting my friend Lana on the farm. Lana was still sleeping because we had been up late. I retrieved a clean pair from my suitcase. I layered toilet paper on the undies in case I bled some more. I washed out the soiled skivvies and decided to go to the kitchen.
Mrs. D was alone when I asked to call my parents. She queried why and I was evasive. Since it was long distance phone service she kept pestering me. I finally admitted that I was bleeding. As a former nurse she was concerned and asked where. I wouldn’t tell her. I was embarrassed to admit that my private parts were bleeding. She frowned and was a bit irritated. Then, she figured it out, and her eyes lit up. Grinning widely she chuckled, gave me permission, and requested to speak with my mom after I was done talking.
I called my mom and stretched the phone cord into the living room to explain that I was bleeding between my legs. She said that I was now a young lady. How could that be? I was too young. My older sisters didn’t start their menses until they were 13 or 14. I was crushed. I slumped at the kitchen table and handed the phone to Mrs. D. She smiled and laughed as she spoke to my mom and said that she would take care of the situation. I was scared that I’d be sent home early.
Instead, I was given a pad and safety pins. In the 1970s we used menstruation pads that were about a half an inch thick and were pinned to your underwear. It felt like you were walking with a deck of cards between your legs. The safety pins always tore the undies and the pads leaked. I had cramps and was not a happy camper. Mrs. D gave me a couple aspirin and a supply of pads. Her oldest daughter, Laura, hadn’t even started her period, yet. Of course, Lana’s whole family found out and the school upon our return to class. I was mortified and the first girl in my class to start puberty. Not a positive distinction. The mean kids taunted me with cries of Bloody Mary whenever I was near.
A couple months earlier I journeyed to another school and was ushered into a gym filled with older girls. The junior high health teacher talked to us about blossoming into young ladies. We watched a slide show which explained that puberty would make us grow taller, our voices become higher, hair protrude, and we would bleed. I had three older siblings who had already made the transition. I knew that the “monthly friend” was neither welcome nor friendly. I was in fourth grade but my mom wanted me to attend the slide show because I kept asking about my hormonal moody sisters. The slide show stated that girls don’t start their period until after the age of 12 so I had many years to wait. Ha-ha-ha.
Well, its 30+ years later and I’m still bleeding. Approximately 420 irritating cycles. The only exception was when I was pregnant for a few months. I miscarried during the first trimester. A few months ago I experienced my normal 5-day period and then it started again. Two weeks of yuck. This month is was normal except for a one day extra bleed. I guess that menopause has begun. Sad not to have experienced a full-term pregnancy and childbirth. I never met anyone that I wanted to have kids with and I refuse to be a single parent. Kids deserve two caring adults or a single adult with a supportive network. I have a network of friends but I don’t think that they would do well with kids.
Peruse other farm adventures posted February 8th. This is Part V of Dairy Farm Tails.
Men All Pause?
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Mrs. D was alone when I asked to call my parents. She queried why and I was evasive. Since it was long distance phone service she kept pestering me. I finally admitted that I was bleeding. As a former nurse she was concerned and asked where. I wouldn’t tell her. I was embarrassed to admit that my private parts were bleeding. She frowned and was a bit irritated. Then, she figured it out, and her eyes lit up. Grinning widely she chuckled, gave me permission, and requested to speak with my mom after I was done talking.
I called my mom and stretched the phone cord into the living room to explain that I was bleeding between my legs. She said that I was now a young lady. How could that be? I was too young. My older sisters didn’t start their menses until they were 13 or 14. I was crushed. I slumped at the kitchen table and handed the phone to Mrs. D. She smiled and laughed as she spoke to my mom and said that she would take care of the situation. I was scared that I’d be sent home early.
Instead, I was given a pad and safety pins. In the 1970s we used menstruation pads that were about a half an inch thick and were pinned to your underwear. It felt like you were walking with a deck of cards between your legs. The safety pins always tore the undies and the pads leaked. I had cramps and was not a happy camper. Mrs. D gave me a couple aspirin and a supply of pads. Her oldest daughter, Laura, hadn’t even started her period, yet. Of course, Lana’s whole family found out and the school upon our return to class. I was mortified and the first girl in my class to start puberty. Not a positive distinction. The mean kids taunted me with cries of Bloody Mary whenever I was near.
A couple months earlier I journeyed to another school and was ushered into a gym filled with older girls. The junior high health teacher talked to us about blossoming into young ladies. We watched a slide show which explained that puberty would make us grow taller, our voices become higher, hair protrude, and we would bleed. I had three older siblings who had already made the transition. I knew that the “monthly friend” was neither welcome nor friendly. I was in fourth grade but my mom wanted me to attend the slide show because I kept asking about my hormonal moody sisters. The slide show stated that girls don’t start their period until after the age of 12 so I had many years to wait. Ha-ha-ha.
Well, its 30+ years later and I’m still bleeding. Approximately 420 irritating cycles. The only exception was when I was pregnant for a few months. I miscarried during the first trimester. A few months ago I experienced my normal 5-day period and then it started again. Two weeks of yuck. This month is was normal except for a one day extra bleed. I guess that menopause has begun. Sad not to have experienced a full-term pregnancy and childbirth. I never met anyone that I wanted to have kids with and I refuse to be a single parent. Kids deserve two caring adults or a single adult with a supportive network. I have a network of friends but I don’t think that they would do well with kids.
Peruse other farm adventures posted February 8th. This is Part V of Dairy Farm Tails.
Men All Pause?
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Thursday, February 16, 2012
DANCEABLE ART
My niece Liza and I attended An Evening of Art and Dance collaboration presented by Ballet Royale Minnesota on Friday, February 10th. This is the third year that the ballet company choreographed pieces based upon two-dimensional artwork. www.balletroyalemn.org
The evening began with an introduction by Ballet Royale Co-Directors Denise Vogt and Rick Vogt. The visual artist spoke about their personal journey of painting and the choreographer discussed their process. The youthful dancers performed which was followed by a brief reflection before the next artwork chat. A screen projected a photo of the artwork to the left of the stage while the original hung in the lobby. Unfortunately, the stage at the Lakeville Area Arts Center is deep with a narrow proscenium extension, which does not provide much room for movement.
Skeletal tree branches extending into the winter air echoed with the sound of small deer hooves (toe shoes). Marcia Cushmore’s painting, “Bones: Reaching” is simultaneously haunting and soothing. Rick Vogt choreographed Vaughn Williams’ “Fantasia on Greensleeves” with mostly classical ballet positions. The troupe performed on a cramped stage and mimicked the tree branches with their flexible motions. The piece began crowded with dancers, the second section had better structure, and finished with a beautiful meditative motion. The troupe floated like leaves and ended as branches. The simple ballet costumes were a lovely reflection of the pastel hues in the painting.
Hard angles, texture and roughness describe Alison Price’s “Hindsight Bohemian Flats” inspired by the wreckage of the 35W Bridge Collapse. The rusting metal was stored in the park downstream from the site for several years after the structure was disassembled. Ms. Price sent photos of the artwork during development and met with the ensemble so that they could choreograph the piece simultaneously. Dance designer Bailey Anderson collaborated with the dozen performers, aged 13- 17, and utilized a variety of tools to create a modern dance. Barefooted youth wore simple black leotards with rolled up jeans and danced to excerpts from the movie Chocolat`. The dance included perky, calm, and bouncy elements in a rather discombobulated fashion. It was wonderful to hear from the dancers after the performance though a bit unnerving to view their gnarled feet. Alison Price was profiled on this blog on January 9th. Contact her at 612-805-1886 or www.alisonpricestudios.com for details.
Strength emanates from Manidoo-giizhikens’ female and male essence on the shores of Gichigami. Hazel Belvo’s magnificent “Spirit Tree Dusk I and Spirit Tree Dusk II” two part painting captures Lake Superior’s Little Cedar Spirit Tree located at Grand Portage, MN. The artwork shows the power of the sweeping trunk as its roots cling to rock with the vermilion clouds crashing like waves in the background. Movement composer Denise Vogt appropriately chose Phillip Glass’ “Prelude and Dance” from Akhnaten I and II for the performance. The dancers chose costumes resembling the cloud-waves in the painting. Mixture of contemporary and classical ballet swept over the stage. Disappointed that the piece ended because it could be extended to a full performance. Visit the inspirational conifer at www.grandportage.com/witchtree.php
Unique format provided some interesting insights, but advisable to repeat questions from the audience into a microphone during Q & A session. It would be wonderful to hear more from the teenaged performers. The Ballet Royale website needs an extensive explanation of the event with a link to the center to procure tickets. The City of Lakeville should add written directions to their website because the Lakeville Area Arts Center map is not adequate. Liza, my honorary niece who is the daughter of my best friend Allie, already wants to attend next year’s show.
Keep On Dancing!
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
The evening began with an introduction by Ballet Royale Co-Directors Denise Vogt and Rick Vogt. The visual artist spoke about their personal journey of painting and the choreographer discussed their process. The youthful dancers performed which was followed by a brief reflection before the next artwork chat. A screen projected a photo of the artwork to the left of the stage while the original hung in the lobby. Unfortunately, the stage at the Lakeville Area Arts Center is deep with a narrow proscenium extension, which does not provide much room for movement.
Skeletal tree branches extending into the winter air echoed with the sound of small deer hooves (toe shoes). Marcia Cushmore’s painting, “Bones: Reaching” is simultaneously haunting and soothing. Rick Vogt choreographed Vaughn Williams’ “Fantasia on Greensleeves” with mostly classical ballet positions. The troupe performed on a cramped stage and mimicked the tree branches with their flexible motions. The piece began crowded with dancers, the second section had better structure, and finished with a beautiful meditative motion. The troupe floated like leaves and ended as branches. The simple ballet costumes were a lovely reflection of the pastel hues in the painting.
Strength emanates from Manidoo-giizhikens’ female and male essence on the shores of Gichigami. Hazel Belvo’s magnificent “Spirit Tree Dusk I and Spirit Tree Dusk II” two part painting captures Lake Superior’s Little Cedar Spirit Tree located at Grand Portage, MN. The artwork shows the power of the sweeping trunk as its roots cling to rock with the vermilion clouds crashing like waves in the background. Movement composer Denise Vogt appropriately chose Phillip Glass’ “Prelude and Dance” from Akhnaten I and II for the performance. The dancers chose costumes resembling the cloud-waves in the painting. Mixture of contemporary and classical ballet swept over the stage. Disappointed that the piece ended because it could be extended to a full performance. Visit the inspirational conifer at www.grandportage.com/witchtree.php
Unique format provided some interesting insights, but advisable to repeat questions from the audience into a microphone during Q & A session. It would be wonderful to hear more from the teenaged performers. The Ballet Royale website needs an extensive explanation of the event with a link to the center to procure tickets. The City of Lakeville should add written directions to their website because the Lakeville Area Arts Center map is not adequate. Liza, my honorary niece who is the daughter of my best friend Allie, already wants to attend next year’s show.
Keep On Dancing!
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)