Organic

I recently purchased Washington Delicious apples from a local health food store. I was excited to find  beautiful, true red apples that I could actually recognize. They all had stickers applied to their skins. One apple had four: three that said "Organic" and one that said "Washington Delicious, Grown in USA." By the time I peeled all the stickers off, the apple looked wounded, but it was delicious. I can remember a time when grocery clerks knew what kind of fruit they were selling. Admittedly they didn't have to distinguish between organic and non-organic back then. But now even I have to read the sticker to know what I'm buying. Is it an Organic Pink Lady locally grown, or a non-organic Braeburn from New Zealand?

I choose organic produce because, despite the higher cost, I feel I am protecting myself in some small way against chemical fertilizers and pesticides. But the most compelling reason is simply to satisfy my palate. I have been stung more than once by buying melons that looked perfect only to find they are pale and lifeless inside. When I lived on an orange ranch in Fillmore, I discovered that blemished or disfigured oranges tasted better than the picture-perfect specimens in a supermarket. My experience in Arkansas, where I had only Texas oranges available, taught me that greenish oranges, while unappealing to look at, were actually ripe and good to eat. Now, when I buy fruits and vegetables, I want scrumptious taste more than I want an ideal still-life specimen.

Several years ago I volunteered at a local food bank and brought along several shopping bags of tangerines picked from my backyard tree to donate to the cause. The next week when I came back, I saw my lovely tangerines at the bottom of a bin designated for hog farmers. Admittedly, the fruit was small by commercial standards, and it had seeds in it, but the flavor was the best I've ever tasted. I was disappointed that my donation was going to feed animals that probably had no appreciation for a  tangy taste. While it was my wish to help feed the needy, I realized that other people don't always see things the way I do.

Last week I stopped in at the McGrath Family Farm in Camarillo to pick up some veggies for dinner. I was greeted by a young man who offered me a deal on some pretty sorry looking corn. Not only did he offer me a cash discount, but he said he would husk the ears and cut out the worms for me. I could not pass this up. I came home with a bag of fresh corn that provided me a succulent dinner with almost no effort. The corn was great straight, after just a few minutes in boiling water -- no butter, no salt -- just luscious summer-corn taste. The helpers at McGrath's 101 Highway stand don't need stickers to tell them what kind of apples they sell.

Although I no longer live the farm life, I do have three vegetable boxes in my back yard. Nothing pleases me more than to step outside and gather a handful of curly parsley or pull Kentucky Wonder beans fresh from the vines. And if the slugs have slurped a notch from a strawberry or two, I simply cut it out and rejoice in the unbeatable flavor.

White Teeth

When I was 11 years old I went to live with my father and stepmother.  My stepmother, who had a barely concealed crush on her dentist, took this chance to schedule me for a series of appointments with this man. As a result, nearly every tooth in my head received a filling whether it needed it or not. A particularly grueling session occurred when the dentist filled both of my upper lateral incisors. I still recall the painful injections of novacaine with what looked to be, and felt like, a horse syringe. After two hours of drilling, packing my teeth, mixing and applying the porcelain, then waiting for everything to set, the dentist removed my cloth bib and allowed me to get up. He then led me to a side room where my stepmother was waiting, and poured himself a tumbler of gin. My legs were trembly and I felt like fainting. I stood quietly waiting for the dentist and my stepmother to end their jovial banter for what seemed like another two hours.

So when my current dentist, some 50 years later, suggested that he could replace the now discolored two front fillings, I hesitated.

He said, "You have such a lovely smile. You don't want to have it marred by these old fillings, do you?"

I flashed him my imperfect smile and said, "I'll think about it."

As I handed my credit card to the receptionist, she asked if I wanted to set up an appointment to take care of the old fillings. I responded that I needed to pay off my current charge before I could do that. I'm still thinking about it, and cost isn't the real factor here.

What I'm thinking about is whether or not I'm willing to redo fillings simply for cosmetic purposes. I'll admit that dental practices are considerably more humane since I was a child, so pain is not an issue. Rather, there's a little voice buried deep down somewhere in me that whispers, "You're fine just the way you are."

Outside there's the dentist's and his receptionist's voices shouting, "You could be so much more appealing with more perfect teeth."

And, there are the ads for strips, gels and secret formulas screaming that if I only had white teeth, I would be irresistible. I saw a color photograph in the Ventura County Star the other day of an elderly Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother. She obviously had not whitened her teeth. They were distinctly yellow.  Still, she was the Queen Mother, and she looked perky and beautiful nevertheless. I recall when my dentist first whitened his teeth several years ago I was so startled that I was unable to look into his eyes and wound up staring at his teeth. Is this what I want for myself?

The stepmother mentioned above did not think I was fine the way I was. In addition to having all my teeth filled, she signed me up for braces at a time when each metal band nearly covered an entire tooth and the wires painfully grated the inside of my cheeks when I chewed. My orthodontist, an old man well beyond retirement age, no doubt found that straightening children's teeth provided him with an endless source of income. During our sessions together, his hand would occasionally slip with a tool and gouge my gum, but he never seemed to notice. Each week he would tighten up the wires that pulled my teeth ever closer to proper alignment. Just about the time I was comfortable eating solid food again, it would be time to have the wires re-tightened. Despite the discomfort of having loose teeth for a year and a half, I was actually glad to have my teeth straight. My front teeth were well aligned, and I could close my lips easily over my teeth. Kids no longer imitated my buck-toothed upper lip behind my back. And throughout the years, I have received plenty of compliments on my smile.

Now, apparently, my unsightly old fillings are a significant blemish that makes people uncomfortable. I will probably succumb to the forces pulling me to look my best and have the fillings replaced. I may even go for the teeth whitening.  That way my tombstone can say, "Here lies Dee Dee with the beautiful teeth."

Weeds

Working in my garden has become an event I have to think carefully about. I can easily become so engrossed in clearing out weeds and making everything look its best that I ignore the pain in my neck and aching back. I lift heavy sacks of potting soil, vigorously pull out stubborn grasses, and haul wheelbarrow loads of rocks until I can barely stand up straight. Dripping with sweat and sometimes crawling with ants, I stagger indoors for a cold drink and a tasty snack. In my eagerness to control what should grow where, I ignore my own body's warning signs and forget to look at the greater plan.

Because of illness over the last several years, my gardening efforts came pretty much to a standstill. Now that I'm feeling better, I'm back out in the yard and finding that I do better if I limit the time and effort I put into the work. I go out early in the morning or an hour before dusk when it's cooler. I actually prefer the dusk time to work because, as dark approaches and I can't see well, I am forced to go back inside. If I work in the morning, I can find myself ignoring the aches, ants, and increasingly hot sun to dig out just one more weed.

I've been working on a bed at the back of my house where I had planted tomatoes, basil, and artichokes in the Spring. The bed was overrun with volunteer white alyssum, several types of grasses, dandelions, and some nasty spreading plants that had relatives throughout the bed. Volunteer tomato plants had sprung up from last year's crop. I had let everything grow because I liked the white alyssum and enjoyed the surprise of finding hidden sweet cherry and low-acid yellow tomatoes. Eventually, the basil bolted, the artichokes got choked out, and it was pretty hard to find the volunteer tomatoes among the mass of vegetation. When a neighbor asked permission to look in the bed for basil and couldn't find any, I knew it was time to take action.

Last weekend I worked three mornings and made significant progress in clearing out the bed. I discovered partners in crime:  volunteer marigolds growing alongside a volunteer cherry tomato plant. I was amazed by a large orange-colored grasshopper. I learned that ants really like to build their nests and tunnels under alyssum.  I soaked the ground so I could dislodge the tall stubborn grasses, and I drove my metal digger beside the center of spreading plants with seemingly endless roots. After finishing work on Sunday morning, I proudly drove my spading fork into the ground, pleased that I was able to walk away after only one hour without breaking a sweat.

Last night I couldn't wait to get out into the garden and continue weeding. I turned on the drippers and went inside to change my clothes. I took my time feeding the dog, opening the mail, and checking my voice mail messages. I knew I had a full two hours left before dark. I decided not to eat dinner before going out, so I would have a reason not to work too long. When I pulled up my spading fork, I heard the sound of gushing water. I had pierced the plastic pipe that fed the dripper lines in the bed last week when I planted the spading fork! Oh, well. I turned off the water and went to weeding. It was incredibly easy because all the plants were well soaked. The orangey grasshopper greeted me, and I wondered where he would go after I took his weeds away. I was careful to avoid the ants. I piled the weeds up and left them on the brick walkway overnight.

This morning was beautiful with a few wispy clouds in the blue sky and a slight breeze tousling the tree leaves. The soil was still damp and removing most of the weeds was as easy as moving my computer mouse. I could not avoid the ants.  But I saved their most infested section for last. I found that if I kept moving instead of kneeling in one place on my foam pad, I could avoid most of them. It meant that I had to bend over more, but at least I didn't have ants racing up my arms and inside my pants legs. I didn't see Mr. Grasshopper, but two of his normally colored friends (females?) were hiding in a clump of allysum I had left next to the house. I decided to load up the wheelbarrow with the weeds before clearing out the last two sections. As I lifted bunches of the rejects into the wheelbarrow, a whole host of critters jumped to the brick walk.  Several types of beetles, spiders, snails, and other insects were suddenly looking for a new home.

I dumped the weeds in the yard waste can and thought about how the soil where the weeds had been was loose and rich, unlike the hard clay in which I had planted the vegetables. The weeds had provided good cover for the insects that brought the little songbirds hunting and scratching to my yard. I went back and looked at the remaining patches of allysum. I decided I would leave them to hide those bugs that would now be looking for a new place to stay. I also thought it could do no harm to let the white allysum and their weedy friends have a place to grow next to my vegetables. Just so long as they don't hide the basil and smother the artichokes!

Third Cousin Once Removed

It was Steven's 18th birthday, and I couldn't think of what to get him for a present. I had met him less than a handful of times since our first meeting when he was around three years old, and I had no clue what his current interests were. What do you give a kid who has been undergoing treatments for brain cancer that make prisoner torture sound like a cake walk? Steven had complained of headaches and vision problems. His mother, Rebekah (my third cousin), knew something was really wrong, despite assurances from his doctor and optometrist that Steven was fine. Steven was rarely sick and never complained. Rebekah persisted until Steven's pineoblastoma was finally diagnosed. Close to graduation from high school, Steven took a sharp turn into aggressive treatment, including surgery, radiation and chemotherapy. It has been a rollercoaster ride that I've been able to follow thanks to Rebekah's postings on www.carepages.com. In his last two check ups, Steven has been cancer free. Now that he was turning 18, it was time to celebrate.

As I drove to Visalia Saturday morning, recalled events that kept our families close. I remember a photo of my grandmother and Steven's great grandmother, Miriam, sitting on a potato planter in a field in Oregon. The first cousins were both laughing. My grandmother (Polly) always looked for the fun in things. She later took her sunny disposition with her to Oregon to be a comfort when Miriam's first husband was killed in a train accident. Miriam had two young children to support (Freddie and Barbara), and she and Polly talked about going into business together as seamstresses. Instead, Miriam went on to become a schoolteacher, and Polly returned to California. Polly shared Miriam's joy when she married Porter and had a daughter, Sue, and a son, Steven. Polly was there for Miriam when she lost Freddie during the Vietnam War, Porter to a brain tumor, and Steven in a crop dusting accident. Miriam came to help my family when Polly suffered a terminal stroke and stayed on to keep me and my mother company. After my stepfather died, Miriam was there to give solace to my mother. Over the years, Miriam would invite me and my family to share special celebrations and holidays with her. I could always count on the love and comfort of this branch of the family tree that shared the pioneer spirit of our common ancestor, Granddaddy Hoy.

After a 3-1/2 hour car trip, I was now at the front door of Rebekah's friend Glenda's beautiful new home. I was apprehensive about going in. I had no idea how I would find Steven, and I imagined he might be propped up in the middle of the living room in a hospital bed. I was grateful to have Sue greet me and say that Steven was outside with friends. After making a stop in the bathroom, I went outside to the birthday buffet and collected my plate before sitting down. I could see Steven sitting across the patio in a circle of young people. 

I was thrilled to see Miriam again after several years. Despite her Alzheimer's, Miriam immediately knew who I was. Her bright eyes and huge smile let me know that she was glad to see me too. She asked about my boys and squeezed my hand. "It's so great to have all the family here," she said. Miriam has always been in the midst of things, although her role as manager is now over. She is content to sit and reminisce, which we did over lunch, and we had a wonderful place to do that. Sue and her friend Mike sat with us. Rebekah said that most of Steven's friends were away at college and couldn't come to the party. She also expressed disappointment that people have stopped coming by to visit. "It's awkard," she said. "They don't know what to say." I suppose it doesn't help that Rebekah, Doug and Steven live in a pretty remote area. The heat of the summer day was softened by a gentle breeze. The lovely yard, clearly designed for easy entertaining, had a patio filled with sunny and shady places to sit, a barbeque, a thatch-roofed bar, and a rock waterfull that spilled into a pool where the younger ones splashed and bobbed about.

Rebekah's husband, Doug, and his band amped up and began to play, but it was a false start. Steven ambled by saying that he needed to sit away from the full sound. He has lost some of his hearing because of the radiation and wants to protect what he has left. He took up court across the grass with his young folks around him. I went over and sat down on the grass at his feet, and we caught up on news. At just over six feet tall and weighing about 120 pounds, Steven looks like a stick replica of himself. His complexion is a tannish gray with tinges of yellow. His bald head is perfectly smooth, except for the bulge at the top where he has a surgically implanted shunt, and he has a serious, dark scar running from the base of his skull down his spine for several inches. I told him I was glad to see him up and about and that I appreciated his courage in sticking with his treatment. He admitted there are some things he just doesn't want to do, one of them being having a gastric tube installed again. I asked about graduation, and he said he hopes to take the GED test sometime. For right now, he has difficulty reading and can't concentrate enough to remember much. We agreed there would be time later to do the GED. He told me his Make-A-Wish Foundation request is a trip all the way down to the tip of South America and back up the other side. I asked him when he thought that would happen, and he said maybe next July. He asked me if I had seen the movie "Motorcycle Diaries" which had been the inspiration for his request.

Doug and his band got ready to play -- this time for real. And Miriam and I sat there smiling not able to understand the lyrics over the heavy bass guitar and drums. Sue encouraged us to go inside where it was quieter, but both of us insisted on staying out and enjoying the scene. Steven and his group came closer and gave their request to the band. It was glorious to see Steven, ramrod straight and rail thin, in his saggy white T-shirt, baggy black shorts, white socks and black Nikes, singing and playing his air guitar with all the gusto of any 18-year-old.
 

It was such a fine day. Everyone was friendly, hospitable, and we were all there to celebrate the day with Steven. Ian, Rebekah's dad, took photos of the festivities. He had also helped Steven put together photos of Steven's 18 years. I enjoyed finding my picture with my two sons, David and Daniel, with Steven at Cyrus's (Rebekah's brother, Steven's uncle) graduation. We were invited to write something on the commemorative photos, which I did.

I enjoyed seeing the photos of Steven. I first remember meeting him has a toddler and noticing the green of his eyes and the flash of his white teeth when he smiled. I last saw him at Cyrus's wedding in Montana three years ago. At the reception, Steven came up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder, and asked me to dance. His green eyes were twinkling and his smile was ear to ear. That wide smile is still there and the teeth were flashing all through the day.

Then it was time for birthday cake and ice cream. Everyone gathered around where Steven was sitting and Glenda attempted repeatedly to light the candles. Although there were only 18 of them, she never got them all going. The gentle breeze we had all been enjoying was not her friend. Steven was winded after blowing out the candles that did take. After a brief rest, he rallied and we went inside for the presents. There was a headset from Doug and Rebekah, an iPod from Grandpa Ian, and a fistfull of cash (Steven's request) from other well wishers. Then Steven pulled a green baseball cap out of a birthday bag (my gift) and put it on his head. The hat said: "Ventura, The Real California" and it matched Steven's eyes. As I leaned over the back of the couch to give him a hug, Steven said, "I'll put on the hat whenever I need to feel better. It will be my Feel-Good Hat."