I was sad to hear that Melanie Safka had skated off to another plane of existence yesterday. I’ll be forever grateful to the Woodyfest organizers for bringing her in to perform in 2012; she was a bit jet-lagged when we saw her, and I was unfamiliar with a lot of the material she played that night, but none of that mattered the moment she closed out her set with this song, at that festival, on a steamy July evening in the middle of a strange year full of uncertainty in too many directions to count. It was absolute magic.
Some came to sing. Some came to pray. Some came to keep the dark away. And one beautiful person did all of the above, year after year, decade after decade.
Raise the candles high for the consummate hippie. She will be missed.
I’ve missed blogging. I guess I did something sort of similar with social media over the years, but the focus was different: Facebook was conversational, Twitter was argumentative, Instagram was performative, and none of it really did what I needed it to do.
Over the weekend, I looked back through some of my old posts to see what I could learn about myself. I’ve changed a lot in the past 18 years. I’ve aged, obviously. I’ve moved twice, changed careers five times, lost some old friends, gained some new friends, and felt my health — physical, mental, and spiritual — ebb and flow like the tides. And yet, through it all, the essence of me remains the same.
If you read the title of this post and immediately conjured up an image of the cover of the January/February 1970 issue of The Mother Earth News … welcome home.
A few years ago, while living in Southern Illinois, I ran across a little publication called The Waterman and Hill-Traveler’s Companion. Created by Jim Jung — owner of the late, great Hillside Nursery in Carbondale — the almanac contained all sorts of fascinating information, including a wonderful day-by-day account of all the interesting events occurring in the forests and fields of Southern Illinois.
When my husband and I moved to west Tulsa last year, I searched in vain for a similar publication covering northeastern Oklahoma. I finally gave up and decided that I would simply have to keep my own record of what was going on in my back yard every day … my own personal little Red Fork almanac.
This is the beginning of that effort. If you feel like listening to the musings of a latter-day hippie, come on in, pour yourself a cup of Red Zinger and tell Scout to make some room on the papasan for you.
It’s 2:30 a.m. CST, and Red Fork is dark and quiet. It’s cold and clear, and as I went to let the dogs out one more time, I looked up through the pergola and saw a star twinkling so frantically I almost mistook it for a plane.
It’s a grand night for sleeping. Rest well.
The details have changed, but I still drink hibiscus tea (usually not Red Zinger, which has gotten a bit hard to find, but something relatively close), subscribe to Mother Earth News, and look to nature to keep my spirits up through the winter. Scout’s legacy lives on in the part-time dog-training business I started a year ago — using all of the things she taught me about canine behavior — and her papasan is in my classroom. At this writing, I’m actively trying to revive the bits of myself that I liked best when I started this blog (running marathons and keeping my thought elevated so that “in atmosphere of Love Divine/[I] live, and move, and breathe”) while building on the bits of myself that I like best now (training dogs and advocating for the neurodivergent community).
It’s a work in progress, but if you’re still interested in the musings of a latter-day hippie on a quest for self-improvement, you’re welcome to come on in, pour yourself a cup of Tazo Passion, and tell Marley to make room for you on the Saarinen knockoff.
It’s a cold, clear evening, and Tucumcari is dark and quiet.
Moss-covered picture frame for Hazel. I love that teensy little frog.
My 15-year-old niece, Hazel, (yes, this Hazel, and yes, I feel unbelievably old) is really into cottagecore decor and kept talking about wanting a moss mirror for her bedroom. Our local Dollar Tree carries reindeer moss, so a few months ago, I bought a $10 mirror and several bags of the stuff and broke out the glue gun to make her a birthday present. It was a fun project — relatively quick and simple — and she was happy with the results. I ended up with a few leftover bags of moss, so when I was casting about for something to fill out a box of handmade presents I was sending to Hazel’s dad and younger sister, I grabbed a small picture frame. Then, because I was in the mood to create ALL OF THE THINGS, I bought a few more bags of moss, a couple more frames, and several cheap mirrors and set about making something cute.
The finished product was missing something, so I got on Amazon and ordered some bits of cottagey garnish: miniature mushrooms, snails, frogs (which I absolutely love — y’all know how I feel about frogs), pinecones, and real acorn caps with plastic replica acorns glued into them.
The picture frame is going to Hazel, but she already has a bigger mirror, so I think this mirror will go to my classroom; it should go well with the decor in there, which was inspired by The Nature Company, ca. 1992, and my middle-school girls will probably appreciate having an easy way to check their makeup on the way into class, especially now that we’re cracking down on cellphone usage, and they can’t use their phone cameras as mirrors this semester.
I don’t know why moss mirrors are so expensive. If you’ve got 15 minutes to spare, you can throw together a small one for about $7 worth of materials; a big one might cost you 30 minutes and $20. I really need to look into setting up an Etsy shop, because these things are fun to make, and people are commanding STUPID prices for them (anywhere from $50 for a little one to $300 or more for a big one).
Y’all know I’m not big on New Year’s resolutions to start with, and with another semester of grad school on the horizon and a few aftereffects still lingering from a bout with COVID-19 in November, I didn’t feel particularly confident about my ability to keep any resolutions that involved running, traveling, or writing.
That being said, the beginning of a year is a good time to start new projects, and I came up with one that’s perfect for the middle of a pandemic: Since we can’t travel, go to the movies, or hang out at microbreweries right now, I decided this was as good a time as any to break out the fondue pots (yes, I own two — one electric and one that sits on a rack above a can of Sterno) and set out to try every recipe in the Better Homes and Gardens Fondue Cook Book, which was originally published in 1970.
I don’t have the time or inclination to eat fondue every day, but I think I can manage once a week. We started this evening with the first recipe in the book: “Reuben Appetizers,” which are little balls of sauerkraut and canned corned beef, glued together with cream cheese and rolled in breadcrumbs. (There are a couple more ingredients and a few more steps, but that’s the upshot.)
They turned out better than I expected. I wouldn’t make them again, because they were awfully labor-intensive for something that’s basically deep-fried dog food, but they were enough fun to convince me that this project will be a good way to entertain ourselves while we wait for the world to reopen — and the dogs were delighted when we saved a few bites for them.
Next week, we’ll try the first recipe in the second section of the book — a traditional beef fondue that just involves frying steak in oil and dipping it in garlic butter or goddess dressing. We’ll see how that goes.
Kamala’s pantsuit made me ugly-cry. Like, I started sniffling the minute I saw it and just got progressively more verklempt as the evening progressed. That was the vice president-elect sending Hillary Rodham Clinton a long-distance hug, and don’t think for a minute that it wasn’t intentional. I don’t even pay attention to fashion like that, but … *Cries in feminist*
Uncle Joe quoted the Pete Seeger passage from Ecclesiastes. Y’all, I sang “Turn, Turn, Turn” for church back in the summer, right after the COVID-19 restrictions relaxed enough for us to have in-person services again. At the time, “A time to embrace; a time to refrain from embracing” felt important. Now, it’s a time to heal. *Cries in folkie*
Uncle Joe quoted THE DISTANCE RUNNER’S VERSE FROM ISAIAH. Granted, he left out the “run and not be weary” bit, but still. That verse got me through two marathons. BRB; gotta go run 26.2 miles again. *Cries in marathoner*
Uncle Joe quoted ROSIE THE RIVETER. At which point I texted a friend who happened to show up to last year’s Fall Festival at school wearing the same costume as yours truly. You already know what we wore. *Cries in feminist again*
But really: KAMALA’S PANTSUIT.
Which resonated even more when I remembered that the ONLY reason I wasn’t among the thousands of women wearing white pantsuits in protest in 2017 was because I had endometriosis, and women with endometriosis don’t have the luxury of wearing white.
I had a hysterectomy a year and a half ago.
Y’all better trust and BELIEVE that as soon as this pandemic is over and getting measured for a nice tailored suit is safe again, yours truly will be buying a white pantsuit to wear on those days when she needs to stare somebody down. They don’t happen often, but when they do? Feminism has a new uniform, and my postmenospausal arse is HERE FOR IT. *Cries in Cailleach*
Highlight of the day: Text from a little girl I know who wanted to make sure I knew Joe and Kamala had won. I texted her this evening after the speech to offer my services as speechwriter when she runs for president in 2044. *Cries in teacher*
I haven’t had a day like this in four years. I had no idea how much I needed it until it happened.
It won’t last, but for one shining, golden moment, my faith in humanity has been restored. Ish.
Emily
P.S.: I moderate comments, so if you’re planning on trolling, save yourself the hassle, because you can’t drag me down tonight, and I will smile and whistle Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman” while I toss your sorry arse in the spam folder. Have a nice evening.
As a beekeeper, I tend to have a lot of beeswax on hand. Every time I harvest honey, I render the cappings, but I rarely get around to using them for anything.
Last fall, I used some of my surplus beeswax to make a batch of mini lotion bars to hand out to my colleagues at school. I ended up with way more than I needed, so I stored the leftovers in the freezer. They’ve been a godsend since we started washing our hands approximately nine million times a day to ward off coronavirus.
I realize normal people don’t just have chunks of beeswax lying around, but if you can put your hands on some, you can make your own lotion bars with just a few minutes’ worth of work.
For the basic bars, I used:
1 part beeswax
1 part coconut oil
1 part olive oil
A lot of recipes say to melt your beeswax in a double boiler to reduce the risk of igniting it, but I’ve melted beeswax in the microwave for years and never had any problems. The trick is to use a Pyrex measuring cup; cut the beeswax into thin slivers; and watch it closely, stirring every 30 seconds to prevent hot spots.
(If you ever do have a fire in your microwave, just unplug it and leave the door shut until the fire burns out. It shouldn’t take long, because there’s not much oxygen in there.)
When the beeswax was mostly melted, I added the coconut oil and continued nuking and stirring until it was all melted together. Then I stirred in the olive oil and enough wintergreen and peppermint essential oil to make it smell nice, poured it into silicone molds, and stuck them in the freezer to harden. Once they solidified, I wrapped them in candymaker’s foil and stored them in an old sherbet tub in the freezer.
To use, hold a bar in your hands until it softens up, then rub it over your skin. It takes a while to soak in, but it’s a good overnight moisturizer that doubles as an excellent lip balm.
Emily
P.S.: Hat tip to Mom Makes Joy, who posted the recipe I used as the basis for mine.
Burro’s tail is one of the few cat-safe succulents out there.
I love baby spider plants.
My hypoestes bloomed a few weeks ago.
As longtime readers know, I am powerless to resist an opportunity to meander through a greenhouse. If it’s cold or overcast outside, or I’m having a hard day, or I just need a little boost in some direction, meandering around a nursery works wonders on my mood. There’s something about the warm, moist air, the vibrant colors, and the smells inside a greenhouse that energizes me.
This fall, I found two nurseries worthy of a wander: Coulter Gardens in Amarillo and Rehm’s Nursery in Albuquerque.
Both businesses carry a pretty nice assortment of houseplants, and I’ve spent the past three or four months rebuilding the collection of plants I had to rehome when we moved.
Above are a few of my recent acquisitions, which I’ve already had to repot a time or two. My long-term goal is to turn my office into a veritable jungle, with hanging baskets, terrariums, and shelves full of plants everywhere. I think I’ve got a pretty respectable start on that project now.
An ending marked a beginning of sorts last weekend.
We’ve lost pets before, but until last week, we’d never buried one in our yard, because we’d never lived anywhere I considered permanent, and I didn’t want to leave anybody behind in a place I knew I wasn’t planning to stay.
Last Saturday, I buried Lillian in the garden and installed a new raised bed above her grave.
As I worked, it struck me that Lil’s grave was a tangible confirmation of what I’d wanted to believe when we moved in last year: We are home. We are settled. We are staying.
I mulched Lil’s garden with water lettuce and water hyacinths culled from the pond ahead of a predicted freeze.
After stumbling across an interesting Twitter thread this week, I figured out just what to plant in Lil’s flowerbed.
Sage is readily available here in New Mexico, but apparently it’s hard to find in some areas, and some wild varieties are threatened by overharvesting, so a woman posted a thread listing other herbs suitable for cleansing a space of evil spirits, negative energies, and the like. I’m not certain such entities exist or such ceremonies are necessary, but I am certain that if something gives you peace of mind, and it isn’t hurting anybody, it’s worth doing.
I thought about how easy it is to grow sage here in the high desert (I’ve got a big, healthy plant in the garden right now) and how important it is to feel safe.
Lillian rarely felt safe. When we adopted her, she was a nervous little dog who showed symptoms of post-traumatic stress. Loud, angry voices terrified her, so I made a concerted effort to stabilize my moods and remain as calm as possible. I didn’t always succeed, but I definitely became more aware of my tone and temper as I tried to reassure my frightened little friend.
Reading that thread, I realized I could honor Lil by using her garden to grow the sort of calming, healing herbs that might help someone else feel safe. I made an offer to my Twitter followers that I also make to you: If there is a particular variety of sage or other herb you need to put your mind at ease, tell me what it is, and I’ll try to grow it for you.
I really need to find myself a good constellation map. The stars out here are incredible. I’m pretty sure I knew what some of them were when I was little and Daddy used to take me out stargazing in a vacant lot a couple of blocks from our house, but I’ve forgotten most of what I knew, and at this point, I’m lucky if I can find the Big Dipper and Orion’s belt.
My late buff Orpington hen, Pushy Galore, was one of the funniest animals I have ever owned.
As I do every year at about this time, I’ve gone broody.
I need chickens.
Actually, what I *really* need is quail, but they aren’t available locally. Failing that, I’d like a duckling. Or two. Or six. Whatever. Ron is balking, but I’ve seen a couple of people in town raising them as backyard pets, and they appear to be thriving. Sure, their wading pool will probably add a coupla bucks a month to the water bill, but that’s still cheaper than buying eggs at the grocery store. Plus if I ever adopt that Border collie I’ve been thinking about since January, it will have something to herd, so it won’t get bored and spend all day annoying me. And if we end up hating them? Duck is DELICIOUS. I’m not seeing a down side here.
Anyway, one way or the other, it is that magical time of year when a Rubbermaid tub full of shavings and a screen are supposed to appear in my office, and a heat lamp is supposed to hang over them, warming a flock of stinky-yet-adorable balls of fuzz.
My favorite chicken breed, as anybody who’s spent much time on this blog knows, is the buff Orpington. Orps are good layers with great personalities — curious as cats and almost as friendly as dogs. They get along well with other chickens, they’re decent foragers, and they’re entertaining enough that I could probably cancel my Britbox subscription if I had a flock. WIN.
Tractor Supply — the only local source for chicks that I’m aware of at the moment — does not carry buff Orpingtons. Or any other variety of Orpingtons, for that matter. They do, however, have a few barred Rocks, and if I’m completely honest with myself, I’ll admit that Rocks are probably a better choice for our yard than Orpingtons, because they’re much more aggressive foragers, and I’m told this neighborhood is lousy with scorpions in the summer. A flock of feisty barred Rock hens would happily knock down the scorpion population for me.
I think I’ll head out to the shed to take a quick inventory of my chick-rearing equipment, and then I’ll cruise down 66 to Tractor Supply and see what kind of feathered friends I can rustle up.
Red Fork Hippie 