My husband asked, "How come our clematis doesn't look like that?"
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Clematis Envy?
Riding through the neighborhood last night and saw three HUMONGOUS clematis vines leaping off their trellises in gorgeous purple explosions.
My husband asked, "How come our clematis doesn't look like that?"
My husband asked, "How come our clematis doesn't look like that?"
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Picked even more berries yesterday. Two and a half quarts. But, met someone as I was leaving the patch with my booty, and he commented on all the loot. Will probably rob my spot today.
Love these lilting summer days that pass like a gentle current. Sunny skies, warm temps and low humidity. Life just doesn't get any better than this: bike rides, walks and reading in the hammock.
Am reading Gillian Flynn's "Gone Girl." Sure keeps you turning the pages and visualizing the action. Am learning a lot from her writing techniques. Can't wait to finish it today and see what happens to Nick and Amy.
Three and a half weeks until Ireland! Will roll in the grass and leave my scent. Can't wait.
http://www.discoverireland.ie/
Love these lilting summer days that pass like a gentle current. Sunny skies, warm temps and low humidity. Life just doesn't get any better than this: bike rides, walks and reading in the hammock.
Am reading Gillian Flynn's "Gone Girl." Sure keeps you turning the pages and visualizing the action. Am learning a lot from her writing techniques. Can't wait to finish it today and see what happens to Nick and Amy.
Three and a half weeks until Ireland! Will roll in the grass and leave my scent. Can't wait.
http://www.discoverireland.ie/
Monday, July 8, 2013
Berry Crazy Me!
The past week I have been obsessed to the point of total distraction, and it will probably continue through this week until those dad-blasted blackberries run their seasonal course.
I had only vaguely thought about them this year until my husband, daughter and I were on a walk on the trail below our house a week or so ago, and we spotted a couple thick patches of bushes I hadn't noticed before. And, the berries were pink, indicating that they would be ripe in two to three days. Well, that did it.
We love fresh berries. They don't taste anything like the cardboard pellets you buy in the store. We eat them for breakfast, in various desserts, over frozen yogurt, or just plain.
Since we moved to our house five years ago, I have picked berries every spring along the highway behind our house. Then, too, I became somewhat obsessed, but it is worse this year because the patches we saw on the hillside of the path were secluded, and I could pick without being ogled and found out, kind of like finding a swimming hole nobody knows about.
For the several days it took for the berries to ripen, I secretly worried that someone would see those patches, too, and beat me to the goods. When they began to ripen, I donned my long jeans, long-sleeved shirt, hat, socks and shoes, doused myself with Absorbine Jr., the Midwest's summer perfume, and hopped on my bike at 6 a.m. My heart raced in anticipation as I peddled like Lance Armstrong in the Tour de France, daunted by the idea that someone might beat me to the berries.
No one was around, and I felt like a thief in the night as I filled my plastic bag, occasionally give a furtive glance through the trees down at the path, and I made away with my booty, never seeing a soul. What an adrenaline rush! (It never occurred to me until now, as I write this, that no one else would want to go to all this work for a few berries.)
Berry picking for me is like panning for gold. I spot a bush loaded with those sweet black morsels, and I become jittery and clumsy with delight, and I can't wait to get at 'em. At first, my eyes scan the bushes, darting from one large berry to another, and I don't know which to pick first, so I kind of go from one bush to the next and back in a frenzy. Then, I tell myself, "You've got to be smart about this. You're wasting precious time, here. Pick one bush clean and then go to the next, methodically. You don't want to miss any."
This method works well, but I am not happy until every ripe, or semi-ripe berry is gleaned from every bush in every patch. I have noticed that some of the best berries hid under the leaves, and to get them all one need to bend down and look under the bush. I don't know what I would do if someone else was picking with me. It would drive me insane, and I could possibly turn violent.
Several times I have stepped in a hole or on a fallen log, or gotten tangled in the nest of vines, and lost my balance, coming close to tumbling down the hill. That is why I always bring my cell phone.
My father's words resound as I enter the long grass. "Snakes love berries, too, but they are just as afraid of you as you are of them, so make sure to make plenty of noise and take a stick and move the brush in the path ahead of you. That will give them time to skedaddle before you move in." Apparently, my great grandmother Lucretia was bitten by a rattlesnake near her home on the bluffs near Prairie du Chien. Luckily, a neighbor helped, removing what poison he could from the wound and preparing a bucket of mud for her to soak it in. She had a raging fever for a few days but recovered fully.
Lots of animals and insects are attracted to berry bushes, especially bees. A few days ago I was picking and I felt something on my thigh. Thinking it was a prickly berry branch, I brushed it away without looking, and a needle poked right through my jeans. I looked down, and a very angry looking bumble bee flew away. He could have at least buzzed first and warned me, but I guess I was in his territory disturbing his pollination ritual, and he wasn't going to stand for any of that. It stung for a bit, and then subsided, so I kept on picking. It is now an ugly yellow-purplish bruise, a well-earned battle scar of my expedition. (Sorry if that's TMI.)
Every once in awhile, I get too anxious and, OMG, I drop a berry into the brush. If I have a clear view of it, I pick it up. But, most of the time it is lost to my bag of booty, and I brood over my fumbly fingers for a minute or so, giving myself a sermon for being such a klutz.
Today when I was picking, pardon me if I don't reveal just where, but I discovered some deer beds, several oval shaped indentations in the grass tucked in amongst the bushes and brush. What a perfect place to bed down: soft grass, shelter from the rain because of the oak tree cover, and berries within reach without getting up.
Deer eat berries, right? (I Googled
it, and they do.) Why would they eat the plants in my house yard when there are such beautiful berries to eat? Maybe they're getting back at me for stealing their food from their house yard?
I had only vaguely thought about them this year until my husband, daughter and I were on a walk on the trail below our house a week or so ago, and we spotted a couple thick patches of bushes I hadn't noticed before. And, the berries were pink, indicating that they would be ripe in two to three days. Well, that did it.
We love fresh berries. They don't taste anything like the cardboard pellets you buy in the store. We eat them for breakfast, in various desserts, over frozen yogurt, or just plain.
Since we moved to our house five years ago, I have picked berries every spring along the highway behind our house. Then, too, I became somewhat obsessed, but it is worse this year because the patches we saw on the hillside of the path were secluded, and I could pick without being ogled and found out, kind of like finding a swimming hole nobody knows about.
For the several days it took for the berries to ripen, I secretly worried that someone would see those patches, too, and beat me to the goods. When they began to ripen, I donned my long jeans, long-sleeved shirt, hat, socks and shoes, doused myself with Absorbine Jr., the Midwest's summer perfume, and hopped on my bike at 6 a.m. My heart raced in anticipation as I peddled like Lance Armstrong in the Tour de France, daunted by the idea that someone might beat me to the berries.
No one was around, and I felt like a thief in the night as I filled my plastic bag, occasionally give a furtive glance through the trees down at the path, and I made away with my booty, never seeing a soul. What an adrenaline rush! (It never occurred to me until now, as I write this, that no one else would want to go to all this work for a few berries.)
Berry picking for me is like panning for gold. I spot a bush loaded with those sweet black morsels, and I become jittery and clumsy with delight, and I can't wait to get at 'em. At first, my eyes scan the bushes, darting from one large berry to another, and I don't know which to pick first, so I kind of go from one bush to the next and back in a frenzy. Then, I tell myself, "You've got to be smart about this. You're wasting precious time, here. Pick one bush clean and then go to the next, methodically. You don't want to miss any."
This method works well, but I am not happy until every ripe, or semi-ripe berry is gleaned from every bush in every patch. I have noticed that some of the best berries hid under the leaves, and to get them all one need to bend down and look under the bush. I don't know what I would do if someone else was picking with me. It would drive me insane, and I could possibly turn violent.
Several times I have stepped in a hole or on a fallen log, or gotten tangled in the nest of vines, and lost my balance, coming close to tumbling down the hill. That is why I always bring my cell phone.
My father's words resound as I enter the long grass. "Snakes love berries, too, but they are just as afraid of you as you are of them, so make sure to make plenty of noise and take a stick and move the brush in the path ahead of you. That will give them time to skedaddle before you move in." Apparently, my great grandmother Lucretia was bitten by a rattlesnake near her home on the bluffs near Prairie du Chien. Luckily, a neighbor helped, removing what poison he could from the wound and preparing a bucket of mud for her to soak it in. She had a raging fever for a few days but recovered fully.
Lots of animals and insects are attracted to berry bushes, especially bees. A few days ago I was picking and I felt something on my thigh. Thinking it was a prickly berry branch, I brushed it away without looking, and a needle poked right through my jeans. I looked down, and a very angry looking bumble bee flew away. He could have at least buzzed first and warned me, but I guess I was in his territory disturbing his pollination ritual, and he wasn't going to stand for any of that. It stung for a bit, and then subsided, so I kept on picking. It is now an ugly yellow-purplish bruise, a well-earned battle scar of my expedition. (Sorry if that's TMI.)
Every once in awhile, I get too anxious and, OMG, I drop a berry into the brush. If I have a clear view of it, I pick it up. But, most of the time it is lost to my bag of booty, and I brood over my fumbly fingers for a minute or so, giving myself a sermon for being such a klutz.
Today when I was picking, pardon me if I don't reveal just where, but I discovered some deer beds, several oval shaped indentations in the grass tucked in amongst the bushes and brush. What a perfect place to bed down: soft grass, shelter from the rain because of the oak tree cover, and berries within reach without getting up.
Deer eat berries, right? (I Googled
it, and they do.) Why would they eat the plants in my house yard when there are such beautiful berries to eat? Maybe they're getting back at me for stealing their food from their house yard?
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Homecoming Time Again!
Big Homecoming parade on Friday. Literary Magazine is making a float---making a dinosaur out of a tractor. Rawr! for Lit Mag! Hope we get it done on time.
Also, faculty skit is in the works. Can't tell what it's about, but here's a hint: Ludlum is Dance Man!
Also, faculty skit is in the works. Can't tell what it's about, but here's a hint: Ludlum is Dance Man!
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Just Another Morning Bike Ride
Going to miss these morning bike rides when school starts. My touch with nature and my musings. Last week I saw a BIG cat on the trail---I mean it was too big to be a pet cat. It turned and looked at me, it's large head, sleek fur, perky ears and frightened eyes, and it darted into the woods. At first I thought it was a bobcat, but after coming home and looking at images on the web, I have decided that it was a a small cougar. No, I am not crazy. Wish I'd been quicker with my phone and got a picture.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Morning Bike Ride
Morning air fans my face
as I peddle down the path,
gravel and sand spitting
from the tires, sliding on
curves. An opossum
waddles back into bushes,
and a great blue heron, fishing,
unfolds huge wings and flaps
slowly, queenlike over the water.
Mother and fawn glare and bolt,
and bunnies scamper in fear
over dewy grass. I have
disturbed their morning;
they have made mine.
as I peddle down the path,
gravel and sand spitting
from the tires, sliding on
curves. An opossum
waddles back into bushes,
and a great blue heron, fishing,
unfolds huge wings and flaps
slowly, queenlike over the water.
Mother and fawn glare and bolt,
and bunnies scamper in fear
over dewy grass. I have
disturbed their morning;
they have made mine.
Friday, January 20, 2012
End of Semester---Heeeeeeeeelp!
(Thanks to former students Alyssa and Hannah who visited me last week and bullied me into posting again:)
Today, January 20th is a snow day for most schools here in the Midwest. Yippee? Not really.
You see, at PHS we had the first half of exams yesterday and today was to be the last three. Monday we have a work day to do grades, but we can't do the grades until the exams are all taken and graded. I know, boo hoo.
As I blog, a squirrel is sitting in the doorway of his home in the knot of a walnut tree out back doing the same thing I am: watching the snow fly, reflecting on life, and eating leftover nuts from the holidays.
The end of the semester is a stressful time. For teachers, it is a time of exam preparation and review. And, for many students it's fraught with desperation: "How in the heck can I push that C up to a B in these last few days?"
We teachers listen to much begging, a bit of bargaining and even some bribing during this point in the semester. Some students don't want any more assignments for fear their grade will go down, and others beg for more work so they can boost their grade as much as possible.
"Can I do any extra credit? Please, tell me what I can do. My dad will kill me if I get a D."
"I have all A's except for this class. I really want to keep my 4.0. What can I do?"
"Hey, do you need your driveway shovelled, Mrs. Kies?"
"My mom promised me a trip to California if I get all B's. Your class is the only one that I have a C in. What can I do?"
"It's not fair. I have an 89.2. Can't you boost that up to an 89.5? I'm so close to an A. I need an A!"
"Hmmf. You don't like me, do you? Otherwise you'd give me a C. How come you don't like me, anyway?"
"Mrs. Kies, I was looking at my grades, and I see I am missing several quizzes from three or four weeks ago. Can I make those up now? It's really hurting my grade. You should have told me I was missing those."
Two weeks ago nobody seemed too concerned about his or her grades and seemed to be satisfied with how the class was going. Now, it's like they just noticed the elephant that had been there all along. Panic sets in and their brain goes into reality mode.
Now that students can check their grades online, slackerism becomes an art form. Just think of the math these students are doing to figure out the least amount of work (down to a tenth of a point) they need to do to get their desired grade.
"I only need to get a 63.7% on the final exam to get a C for the semester."
One student asked, "I'm not saying I'm going to do this, but, what happens if I don't take the final? I can get an F and still pass the semester."
"If I study enough to get a B on the exam, I'll still get an A in the class."
"Three wrong. I can get three wrong and pull off a B-!"
Those who are challenged in math or just plain lazy will sometimes ask, "Can you put numbers in the grade book to see what I need to pull off a C?"
"Sure," I reply. "Come in after school, and we'll sit down and play the 'plug in the numbers game.'"
"After school? I'm not coming in after school. No way. I've got things to do."
It works every time with slackers.
Today, January 20th is a snow day for most schools here in the Midwest. Yippee? Not really.
You see, at PHS we had the first half of exams yesterday and today was to be the last three. Monday we have a work day to do grades, but we can't do the grades until the exams are all taken and graded. I know, boo hoo.
As I blog, a squirrel is sitting in the doorway of his home in the knot of a walnut tree out back doing the same thing I am: watching the snow fly, reflecting on life, and eating leftover nuts from the holidays.
The end of the semester is a stressful time. For teachers, it is a time of exam preparation and review. And, for many students it's fraught with desperation: "How in the heck can I push that C up to a B in these last few days?"
We teachers listen to much begging, a bit of bargaining and even some bribing during this point in the semester. Some students don't want any more assignments for fear their grade will go down, and others beg for more work so they can boost their grade as much as possible.
"Can I do any extra credit? Please, tell me what I can do. My dad will kill me if I get a D."
"I have all A's except for this class. I really want to keep my 4.0. What can I do?"
"Hey, do you need your driveway shovelled, Mrs. Kies?"
"My mom promised me a trip to California if I get all B's. Your class is the only one that I have a C in. What can I do?"
"It's not fair. I have an 89.2. Can't you boost that up to an 89.5? I'm so close to an A. I need an A!"
"Hmmf. You don't like me, do you? Otherwise you'd give me a C. How come you don't like me, anyway?"
"Mrs. Kies, I was looking at my grades, and I see I am missing several quizzes from three or four weeks ago. Can I make those up now? It's really hurting my grade. You should have told me I was missing those."
Two weeks ago nobody seemed too concerned about his or her grades and seemed to be satisfied with how the class was going. Now, it's like they just noticed the elephant that had been there all along. Panic sets in and their brain goes into reality mode.
Now that students can check their grades online, slackerism becomes an art form. Just think of the math these students are doing to figure out the least amount of work (down to a tenth of a point) they need to do to get their desired grade.
"I only need to get a 63.7% on the final exam to get a C for the semester."
One student asked, "I'm not saying I'm going to do this, but, what happens if I don't take the final? I can get an F and still pass the semester."
"If I study enough to get a B on the exam, I'll still get an A in the class."
"Three wrong. I can get three wrong and pull off a B-!"
Those who are challenged in math or just plain lazy will sometimes ask, "Can you put numbers in the grade book to see what I need to pull off a C?"
"Sure," I reply. "Come in after school, and we'll sit down and play the 'plug in the numbers game.'"
"After school? I'm not coming in after school. No way. I've got things to do."
It works every time with slackers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)