The weather outside is frightful.

No, no shoveling yet.  And, regardless of whether you’re calling it snowmageddon or snowpocolypse, it really is a lot of snow.  My only experience with this much snow at once was in Chicago in 1979 when I was barely old enough to remember.  The national weather service says they got 18 inches that January, though this description might be more accurate.  There is a picture of me sitting level with the top of a stop sign that weekend after plowing and I haven’t seen such dramatic snowfall since.

It’s still snowing (though less) and we’re just shy of 24 inches.  24.  Two feet.  That doesn’t seem like so much when you’re just thinking about it, but it means that cars are suggestions in a drift and if you stand in a dip, you’re up to your waist.  Charlottesville is a Southern city unaccustomed to snowfall.  On the plus side – everyone seems to be staying in (unlike DC where thousands of uninitiated snow drivers take to the highways at the first flake and stay out there til they crash and die).  On the minus side – there aren’t actually any plows.  More…tractors with plow attachments.

Tomorrow – shoveling.

sn…OMG

Apparently we’ll be heading into the snopocalypse this weekend in Virginia.  In fact, we’ve preemptively declared a State of Emergency around here.  Since I’ll be the shoveling one, I’m wondering what the etiquette is on shoveling as a homeowner.

As a renter, I waited blissfully for some guy wrapped head to toe in grey all-weather gear to drive his snowplow around, slamming into hidden speedbumps and creating an excellent sheet of snow to form into ice.  When he was done plowing, he heaved himself into some snowy bank, unearthed his blower or shovel and trudged through the neighborhood, salt minion trailing behind him.  At some point later, I find my own shovel and haphazardly clear out the car.  The most snow etiquette I’ve ever had to consider is whether or not to put my shoveled snow into the empty parking space next to me.

Now, I’ve got a house, driveway, sidewalk and neighborhood to think of.  Sure, at some point one hopes the city will drive up the giant hill plowing and salting.  So let’s not worry about that.  And, given our excess of cars, we’ve actually covered the driveway quite nicely.  No parking spots to shovel into.  The sidewalk though, that’s my problem – front and back stoops, steps, path to car, front walk.

At what point do I need to be out there, clearing the way for my neighbors to maneuver?  Can I dump the sidewalk snow into the street or does it have to be on the grass?  Is there a rule about salting?  If I use the non-dog friendly salt that is the only salt in this town, will they torch my yard?  Will my own dog die after perilously licking his toes?

The city says I have 12 hours from snow cessation to shovel.  But what is the neighbor ordinance?  You know, the Tsk Tsk Tsk ordinance?  I guess I’ll find out.

I Missed My Garden

Today is the last day of our vegetable experiment.  All summer long we enjoyed the bounty of the season; heaps of lettuce in spring, peaches that ripened in the car on the way home and were almost bad by the time they hit your tongue, apples that looked like they fell off the tree and into the basket but tasted like they were polished with velvet gloves, late fall frozen blueberries and cider, and the sharp taste of farm onions and garlic.  The food collective we joined had a long season – from April to December – and today is the last day.

I don’t think we’ll hop on board next summer.  We couldn’t seem to find the right combination of feast and famine to effectively use all of our food (or have enough of it).  We missed the farmer’s market but felt like we couldn’t buy there while justifying the huge expenditure at the beginning of the summer.  The cost was heartbreaking for a few months.  Sure, we’d have spent it anyway, but we’d have spent it over time with a focus on the fruits and vegetables we loved.  We deeply enjoyed supporting local farmers, but would like to feel more connected to the food by buying directly from the farms that harvest the food and speaking to the people who grew it.  It’s a luxury we have, living where we do, and I’d like to take advantage of it.

We’re not walking away empty.  I learned an amazing amount from this summer and I’ll have the satisfied feeling that comes from lessons learned through cleaning dirt and eating vine-fresh fruits.

• Pumpkins will not grow when it is wet.  Tomatoes will not grow when it is cold.
• Cold, wet summers cannot be predicted and everyone feels the pain in their pocket and in their mouths.
• I prefer onions from Georgia with a hint of sweetness.
• Peels come off of peaches when they are less ripe, but pies are best made with the ripest peaches.  Go figure.
• Green onions will contaminate the entire car if you don’t wrap them up.
• Don’t expect apple season to last as long as it does in the grocery store.
• Forget citrus.  Eating locally involved no oranges.
• I don’t like to eat more than one squash per season.
• I used to think Bibb lettuce looked romantic.
• I never want to see a Bibb lettuce again.
• Fresh cider pulled straight from a vat brought straight from the orchard – yum.
• The end of corn season broke my heart.
• Red Sails Lettuce is the best sort of lettuce.
• I love wandering through markets and setting a menu based on produce.
• It rained all but two Wednesdays between April and December. Two.
• It’s not as fun to bring home wet green beans as you think.
• I like cauliflower when mashed with salt and butter.
• I love eating, and vegetables and the process of food but I missed my garden.

“Tina”

Stick it out til the end. It’s worth it.

Bucking the trend, we just got a subscription to the local paper.  There’s not actually much paper to speak of; a total of two sections with about 8 pages each.  The two sections?  The A section (including all local and national news) and Sports section (including local sports, comics, Dear Abby and the crossword).  As an aside, the crossword is an amateur event, involving questionable and repetitive clues. Since we decided to get the paper for the crossword and the coupons, I don’t know how long this paper subscription will actually last.  Wow, I just turned 92 while you sat here and watched.  Son, get me my bifocals and I’ll give you a quarter!

I tell you all that to tell you this, the obituaries hold a place of honor on the second page.   The second page.   I’m completely unable to read the paper without spending time pursuing the obits because of their startling placement. And there aren’t the obituaries I’m used to – tiny two-inch columns with a smiling black and white picture and the bare minimum of information.  These are the obituaries you spend time writing before you die.  The laudatory life list that remembers you not only to friends and family, but to complete strangers who tear up at your well-lived life.   Oh…that’s just me.

So in the morning we read about “Sassy” and Arnold “Tex” Stewart and Sue Elizabeth Sarah Moore Midgett.  I’m not sure where the Ted Johnsons and Alice Maxwells live, but it isn’t here.  We learn about where they’ve come from (Orange, Roanoke) and what they did (mechanic, Navy, cook). We find out what their quirks were (“visitors scuttled to the balcony to prevent being killed by a tower of books” – no, I’m serious) and where to send flowers.  The dullest part is usually the preceded in death by and survived by bit.  It’s the most mandatory though and the most common content. I usually skip over those bits when I’m reading about Sassy and Tex to my wife over cereal.

I skipped over them…until I got to Aubrey.  He had a list of precededs and surviveds and particularly caught our attention with the mention of his grandchildren: he apparently favored one, Stevie.  I’m not sure how the other kids will feel about that.  I almost moved on to the next obit until I realized that, not only was Aubrey survived by his wife of 25 years, he was also survived by his special bed partner “Tina”.

Oh yes, they did. I’ve attached the photo.  This is a cached version since, as you can imagine, the official obit was replaced the following day with one that didn’t even whisper the name Tina.  Sure, you could argue that Tina is a faithful hound, but I suspect that Tina is the special lady, nay, bed partner, who was responsible for faxing this piece of work in the first time.  I think we’ll keep the paper.

No Over the River

The best thing about this season has been the absolute lack of travel.  Seriously folks, the closest I’ve come to taking a trip has been watching jet contrails spin off into clouds.  I don’t know about you, but fall usually triggers a series of family visits interspersed with lines at the airport, bulging suitcases and hours spent in traffic.  This rigmarole goes straight through til January and then we get half a year’s peace.

I never thought I’d see a year in which we didn’t have to travel.  This year, my parents brought the circus in October.  Our closest friends came to us for Thanksgiving and we’re spending the winter holidays in our house alone.  D’s mom is coming on the 26th but until then, it’s peace and quiet.  It’s more than peace and quiet.  It’s amazing.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

One of the great things about Charlottesville is the proximity of everything to where you are right now.  That’s a generalization, of course, but on days like today it seems true.  Work is within biking distance from my house (though I admit we drove today.  Okay, we drive everyday.  But I biked twice.  In the summer.  And then it was too hot.) and the parking garage is a short walk from work.  Between work and the garage is a restaurant.  And, amazingly, it’s a restaurant that we like that isn’t too expensive and doesn’t make us sick.  I would go every day if I could.

In fact, we don’t go as often as we could.  Usually we go for a weekend breakfast and, very occasionally, we stop in for lunch.  With the small staff, there’s always a welcoming smile.  At the risk of sounding a bit Cheers, it’s the most friendly, comfortable place in our radius.  Despite not being there every week, the host always has a chat with us and a couple of the wait staff have memorized drink orders for us.  There are a ton of other restaurants to enjoy, but not all are within walking distance and almost none make us feel like friends.

I’ve never had a place like this and I’ve always wanted one.  Mostly, I’ve lived in big cities with anonymous life.  Not a big drinker, so there’s never been a local bar.  I’m too shy to form relationships at convenience stores or markets.  If something was within walking distance to both work and home, it was a fast food restaurant or a gun shop.  Hey, I’ve lived in some interesting places.  As a bonus here, one of the staff is gay, coupled and at a similar place in life.  That’s like buried treasure, y’all.

So Charlottesville, I know I’ve given you a hard time about your shopping mall and your weird socio-economic strata but I promise to never sass you about your southern hospitality.  It’s nice to be home.

Twinkle Twinkle

I’ve never lived in a house of my own.  I’ve never lived in an actual house as an adult and I had no idea there was such baggage attached.  No, it isn’t the responsibility of the mortgage payment.  It’s not changing the air filters or mowing the lawn.  It isn’t getting to walk around naked with all the blinds open and then remembering you have nosy neighbors.

No one told me about the pressure around the holidays.

People, I thought the excessive stars and stripes on July 4th were over the top.  First one house, then another and soon practically every brick ranch had a flag streaming in the wind.  Shiny ones and heavy cloth ones.  Big ones and ones with satiny gold trim.  Some houses even took the extra step to jam into the ground some sort of cartoony independence day flag with fireworks emblazoned on it.  I didn’t see it as a competition then, oh no.  Just a friendly little (okay, big) show of spirited decor.  Ho, ho!  We’re all such patriotic pals!

That was this summer.  Now, it’s a whole new ball game and it’s an all-stars invitational.

First, I saw a few single candle lights appear in a few, isolated windows.  How cute, I thought.  How very Virginian.  Then it snowed.  Oh, it was beautiful.  Trees popped up in warm, glowing living rooms.  Decorations sparkled and tiny lights twinkled from deep inside evergreen bows.  We were with them.  Our tree is evergreen (because it’s plastic) and a weird assortment of sentimental ornaments jangle on the branches.  In our neighborhood, I suspect the trappings of religion are tucked away behind the shower of lights but the outward focus is less religion and more padding the pockets of the electric company.  I’m sorry, I mean celebration of the season.

Lest I sound like a grinch, I’ll reveal that I grew up in a decorated house.  My father put his light-based spirit on the outside and my mother spewed crazy on the inside.  No surprise there.  So we had strings of lights on the eaves with big, fat colored bulbs.  And that was it.  My father was more interested in using our limited cash for presents than lighting up the neighborhood.  I’ll admit I was jealous of the sparkling string of blue lights across the street, the fake snowman on the lawn down the way and the blinking extravaganza next-door that lit my bedroom like sunshine.

I didn’t realize the pressure he was under.  Every night, D and I drive home and there are more light displays.  Just tonight there were four new nets of lights draped over round bushes.  Red velvet bows are casting shadows on boughs of green wound around stairwell banisters and wreaths tacked on front doors.  There is our dark house, sitting quietly amid the commotion.  Like my father, we weighed our options and sided with the minimum.  A tree makes my wife happy and gives off enough heat that I can lower the heat a few more degrees.  I’m kidding!  Sort of…

Is it like this in your neighborhood?  Is there a burgeoning sense of guilt as the neighbors dip their properties into sparkles, lights and inflatable santas patting white wire deer?  I know you’ve seen those deer.  This isn’t the sort of neighborhood you’d drive through just to see the lights, but it has its fair share of people who wished they lived there.  I’m glad they don’t though.  Because here, I can make sure they stand out.

Rake

It’s impossible to avoid feeling suburban when you have trees in your backyard.  Sure, we live in the city (well, for what that’s worth) instead of the surrounding vast network of rural counties.  City or not, our neighborhood is studded with oaks, maples, cottonwoods and…you get the idea.  Those leaves are pretty but they have to fall.

I had no idea being a homeowner would give me such sore abs.

At least, raking is slightly more fun that it was as a kid.  Now there’s an ipod and I’m actually tall enough to move the rake without whacking myself in the head (Thanks for that chore, dad).  Sure, we aren’t jumping in the leaves – have you seen the bugs out there? – but it’s fun to smell the dry leaves in the sun and hear them crunch underfoot.

Sore everything.  But, completely worth it.

Step Back

Personal space fascinates me.  Although my default preference is just a bit less than an arm’s width away, I don’t experience enormous discomfort if you stand too closely to me when talking.  (As an overview, Wikipedia captures the concepts of personal and social distance nicely.)  As if personal preference wasn’t enough of a problem with regard to space, the stereotypes about specific cultures and space requirements are vast.  We group proxemics right up there with judgements about personal warmth, extraversion and formality.  Close-talkers are loud, friendly and from warm places.  Greater personal space indicates standoffishness, professionalism and a cool personality.

We also take space personally.  Is there something wrong to make her stand so far away?  Is it my breath?  Or more commonly in the U.S.: Why is he standing so close?  What does he want?  Is he dangerous?  Sloppy social skills?  It’s an affront to my delicate sensibilities!  Doesn’t he know he’s so close?  Some folks drop their eyes, back up across rooms, and physically place objects in between a conversation in order to preserve space.  We want what feels comfortable to us, even at the expense of someone else’s comfort.

Generally, civility outranks preference.  Think of it this way, there are two people and two types of ice cream, creamy vanilla and fresh strawberry.  One person is mildly allergic to strawberry.  He can eat it, but it makes his tongue tingle uncomfortably.  Nothing else happens.  The second person loves vanilla ice cream but thinks strawberry is just okay.  Knowing about the first person’s allergy, I think the second person will pick the strawberry dish every time.  In the case of space, preference often outranks civility.

Maybe a change is afoot, many it’s generational or need driven, but in the library, students often crowd up against the desk without regard to space.  It’s not a problem keeping a queue.  They know exactly who is next and respect each person’s right to a turn but rather than form a physical line (which they never have) or stand the appropriate social distance away (more typical) they often huddle up against one another at the front.

The first time I saw it, I wondered if the two people were friends or classmates.  When it was obvious they didn’t know one another, I was surprised that neither looked particularly uncomfortable.  Since then, I’ve watched it happen again and again.  Whether the current student is checking out a book or defending a fine, folks will crowd up and around offering no privacy at all.  Typically, I think it bothers me more than it bothers them and I’ve got a solid 2 feet of oak between us.  I wonder at what point the commonly understood 12-18 inches of space between the person in front of you (line or no line) evaporated.

Where do you stand while waiting for service?  I’m willing to bet it isn’t at the elbow of the stranger being helped.

Acupuncture

I started seeing an acupuncturist.  I mean really started – just one visit so far.  Apparently, she let loose seven dragons and, considering I didn’t even know I had any dragons, it was very pleasant.

She was a likable lady.  I’ve had mixed results with therapists and doctors of all sorts in the past and it’s always a delight to find someone who is likable from the first instant.  I had hoped she would be as sincere, upbeat and professional as her voice sounded on the telephone and I was delighted to find she was.  Given my typical reaction to white coats (not that she was wearing one) things went very well.

I’m trying acupuncture for a billion reasons, not least of which are the nasty migraines and incessant nightmares.  D and I would both like to get a good nights sleep.   The first session was a long two hours – the first spent exhausting my physical, mental and emotional history and the second pushing needles.  The history was unremarkable, except for the disturbing self-realization that I’m gathering soul scars as I get older.  I deeply enjoyed the second half.

Shedding my pants and socks, I had a lovely high table to lay on with sheets and blankets.  She used seven needles (to release the seven dragons that fight the body’s demons – an initial treatment done once) and put three in my stomach, one in each thigh and one on each foot (or was it ankle?)  She then came back at regular intervals to twist the needles a quarter turn until she’d gone all the way around.  Sounds a little brutal but wasn’t remarkable at all.

The sensations during treatment were remarkable.  As she put each needle in, it felt as though someone was gently pressing down on my back from the inside.  It was a heavy, pleasant feeling.  I’m not afraid of needles, and these are so small, they barely created a sensation other than the weight in my center.  Occasionally, the needles felt cold or radiated tingles, but for the most part, I was unaware that they were there.

During the times she was out of the room, I concentrating on breathing as she suggested.  At first my mind was busy, flying all over the place.  When she came back into the room and I mentioned the commotion, she said I might try being a river bed with the thoughts flowing above.  That worked beautifully and I felt as though I was glued to the table when she came back into the room again.  I couldn’t have moved if she had asked.  I was cemented to the table.  After that I slowly spun upward again until I was ready to be on my way by the time she finished.  I don’t think I’ve been so completely relaxed in a long time.

I’ll be heading back again every week for six weeks to see if the acupuncture has any effect.  Folks have been suggesting I try for years and I’ve always been willing but never motivated to spend the extra time and money.  At this point, no new solutions are coming from the traditional medical community and I’ve always been at home with alternative techniques, so it’s well worth the try.  Here’s to hoping the dragons swallow the nightmares.