It's Christmas

Amahl & the Night Visitors on Christmas Eve
- I caution John, “I’m playing Christmas music, you might want to put on your headphones.” We get to the first mezzo-soprano scolding, and John observes, “You weren’t kidding!” and retires behind his headphones.
- As a child, I thought that Amahl was cured by one of Kaspar’s magic stones. That was much more believable to me than a miraculous healing by the Christ child.
- Later I thought that if only Christianity practiced what Melchior sings, I could be a Christian:
The child we seek doesn't need our gold.
On love, on love alone he will build his kingdom.
His pierced hand will hold no scepter.
His haloed head will wear no crown.
His might will not be built on your toil.
Swifter than lightning, he will soon walk among us.
He will bring us new life, and receive our death, and the keys to his city belong to the poor
- There was a year when I could not listen to mother and child parting without sobbing myself:
Don't forget to wear your hat
I shall always wear my hat.
So, my darling goodbye! I shall miss you very much, very much
Wash your ears.
Yes, I promise.
Don't tell lies.
No, I promise.
I shall miss you very much.
Feed my bird.
Yes, I promise.
Watch the cat.
Yes I promise.
I shall miss you very much.
- This year, listening to the mother’s response to the Kings’ description of Jesus, “Yes I know a child the color of earth, the color of corn [incidentally a point that demands suspension of disbelief, corn was not extant in the middle east in the first century, was it?] … He is my child, my son, my darling, my own.” It dawns on me: this captures my spiritual; belief. Every child is a child of god, with hands of the poor/hands of a king, and poor/king he was born.

Girls are from Venus

Drake's mom threw a party last Saturday. Lydia came. Lydia has been an idol of Drake’s since the day they met, when she showed him how to pick ABC gum off the underside of the restaurant table. Lydia and Drake (now 4 and 2-1/2) were playing in the dining room when Drake started to cry. Mom got to the doorway just as Lydia minced out, smirking. (The mince and the smirk are both typical of Lydia, and not necessarily an indication of the nature of the play.)
Drake, tearfully: “I don’t like that one.”
Mom: “What happened?”
Drake, wailing: “I don’t know!”

Not to be cold, but get used to it, buddy.

Am I getting old?

Lately I have been accumulating all the symptoms of Rheumatoid Arthritis (RA), including, but not limited to, achy joints that may not loosen up for 3-8 hours in the morning (oh, it's not still morning then, is it); stiff, swollen and painful joints in fingers & toes, aggravated by use; and pain & swelling in my neck leading to tingling and numbness in hands and sometimes legs (also aggravated by use, like sitting at my desk at work, or, perversely, digging in the garden). But I do NOT (like 20% of people with RA) test positive for RA factor in the blood.
Consequently, my GP (a nurse practitioner, does anyone see an MD these days, or should they?) referred me to a rheumatologist. My first choice, in a medical center with other specialists I know and love, is "on medical leave. Indefinitely." Sad to hear. My second choice, close to home, declines to see me! Recommends referral to pain management clinic.
My GP's "referrals scheduler," a little taken aback, asked, "Is that what you want?"
Well, yes, it does seem like pain management is a good idea. However, I would very much like to know what it is that we are managing.
My suspicion (and I have no direct knowledge of this rheumatologist's comments) is that, out of 19 pages of medical notes, she picked out weight and blood tests, and concluded obesity. Borders on malpractice, in my book, but clearly she is not someone I want involved in my medical care.
I am now waiting to hear from the rheumatologist in my GP's medical group, probably a better choice, being associated with a major university medical school, in spite of being 40 miles from home.

Oil

Louisianans are “angry, they’re frustrated, they’re feeling helpless, but they still understand that it is part of the culture and the fabric of the economy,” said Representative Charlie Melancon, whose district encompasses all of the areas where oil has come ashore. “It is what it is.” (NY Times, "Despite Leak, Louisiana Is Still Devoted to Oil" By CAMPBELL ROBERTSON Published: May 22, 2010)

Clearly it's up to the rest of us to change that culture.
That being said,

"ANCHORING CHANGE IN A CULTURE
COMES LAST, NOT FIRST. Most alterations in norms and shared values come at the end of the transformation process.
DEPENDS ON RESULTS: New approaches usually sink into a culture only after it’s very clear that they work and are superior to old methods.
REQUIRES A LOT OF TALK: Without verbal instruction and support, people are often reluctant to admit the validity of new practices.
MAY INVOLVE TURNOVER: Sometimes the only way to change a culture is to change key people.
MAKES DECISIONS ON SUCCESSION CRUCIAL: If promotion processes are not changed to be compatible with new practices, the old culture will reassert itself." - John P Kotter

And I think we're out of time

Lessons in urban farming #1 & 2

Lesson 1 - Locally grown
Everything I buy at Portland Avenue Nursery is stunningly better quality- if a fraction more expensive - than the same bought from the big box or chain supermarket. Hands down, every time. Healthy plants, grown locally (read acclimatized), in season. I buy a plant from the big box or chain supermarket now only if I don't care that much whether it survives.
Lesson 2 - Sod
This one I have only heard about - too late. If you're turing sod into garden, go out & buy a bag of soil, plop it down on top of the grass, cut it open & plant in it. While your garden is growing, the plastic bag is smothering the grass underneath. In the fall, pull the plastic out & till. Sure wish I'd done that....

Lessons in urban farming #3

Lesson 3. Chicken tractors (Lessons 1 & 2 to follow. Immediacy trumps history.)

Glowing descriptions by Michael Pollan of Polyface Farm, and recommendations of other chicken farmers notwithstanding; consider carefully the mix of chickens' inexhaustible excrement (see previous post) and toddler play area.

The idyllic model of the mobile chicken run that gives the chickens access to a continuously replenished source of bugs and little green sprouts, while simultaneously fertilizing next year’s garden or pasture does not compute on a 3,000 square foot city lot.

We are now considering dog-kennel fence panels which, while more permanent than the wheeled tractor, still will not require the sinking of new fence posts. It will, however require the transplanting of one rose bush and a ton of deep purple iris, and reassessment of what gets planted on the other side of the portion of fence that will be shared with the garden. I WAS planning on using that fence for the peas to climb on…

Oh, and should I mention money? $5/dozen for the free-range organic eggs at the farm stand no longer seems quite so extravagant. But consider it the price of an education.

Chickens

Turns out every idiom involving chickens is true:
Chicken s**t (it never ends!), Chicken-hearted, Chicken feed (they are quite happy with the dregs: weeds and cores and peels), Chicken out (although not with the same meaning that we use it), and of course, like a headless chicken...

We bought a mix of brown layers. We wound up with (I'm guessing, they're still young) 5 aggressive White Orpingtons, 3 very sweet Buff Orpingtons, a gorgeous Black Australorp and a hen-pecked (see what I mean?!) Dark Cornish. I keep trying to give extra treats to the Cornish, but she skitters into the crowd, and one of the Whites invariably gets it.

Today I dropped one of our extraordinary (i.e. huge) nightcrawlers at the feet of the Black and a Buff. They hesitantly pecked at it, but shied away when it moved. "It smells like worm, and it tastes like worm, but it looks like snake." A white finally took over. "If you're not going to eat it, I will!"