Reunions

Saturday we drove down to Shedd, south of Corvallis, for a gathering of the Noah Roth clan.

When I was a boy, the extended family would gather at Grandma and Grandpa’s house on regular basis. It was easier then. The three siblings (and their families) lived within an hour’s drive. I remember summer afternoons whiled away on the farm — which was a quarter mile down the road from our trailer house — in the company of all my cousins. Those were magical times.

As we grew older, and as people began to die, the extended family gathered less and less often. For a decade, we didn’t get together at all. About six years ago, however, we all came together one day in late fall for a potluck meal at Tammy’s house. Since then, we’ve met at least once a year, sometimes more. Last year, Kris and I hosted the family reunion. This year my cousin Scott held a pig roast.

Kris attends these gatherings with a bit of trepidation. She doesn’t know anyone, and the family culture is foreign to her. Most of my Aunt Virginia’s family — which makes up the bulk of attendees — is conservative Mennonite or some variation thereof. But Kris had a good time on Saturday: she talked with Uncle Stan about family history, she played volleyball, and helped eat pig and ice cream.

Here’s what a Mennonite family reunion looks like circa 2007. It’s not much different than it looked circa 1977. (This video was taken with my spiffy new ultra-compact digital camera.)

As we were preparing to leave, Kris decided that she needed some plums. The ladder wasn’t handy, but that’s okay — Scott had a forklift ready to go:

“That was fun,” Kris said, as we left the reunion.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” I said. “This gathering was perfect. It’s just like I remember the gatherings from my youth. This is what it feels like to get together with family.”

“I guess everyone’s getting more comfortable with me,” she said. “And maybe I’m getting more comfortable with them.”

Whatever the case, I’m glad that Kris had a good time. I look forward to next year’s reunion, wherever that might be.

In the evening, we drove from Shedd to south Salem for dinner with Mac and Pam. It’s been a long time — years — since we had a nice meal with just the Proffitt-Smiths. It was great to do so again.

We toured their house, looking at all the work they’re doing, both inside and out. Inside, they’re currently remodeling the master suite. The project has been going on for months. As those of you who have done (or are doing) remodeling projects of your own will understand, they’re tired of sleeping in the living room.

Outside, Mac has been ripping up and chopping back the overgrown hedges. Pam has been working to turn one field into a productive garden — it’s come a long way from just last year! They have seven chickens now.

As the others prepared dinner, I sat and read to Megan (whom I’ve dubbed “Lulu”). She wanted to hear about the animals of Hawaii, and about counting, and about a mouse who turned into a tiger.

I was hoping I’d get to see her in a fit of rage:

Luck was against me, however.

It was a lovely evening, a perfect end to a lovely day.

Heroes

Sometimes Kris surprises me. For months I’ve been trying to get her to watch Heroes with me. It’s not a show I was interested in at first (am I interested in many television shows?), but after reading so many good reviews, I purchased the entire first season from iTunes, but never watched it. It’s been sitting on my hard drive unviewed for at least six months. “It looks stupid,” Kris would say. “I don’t like superheroes.”

Then last Thursday, she surprised me. “Let’s watch Heroes,” she said.

“Er, okay,” I said, and we traipsed upstairs to connect the computer to the big monitor. We watched the first episode.

“Hm,” said Kris.

“It’s supposed to get better,” I said. So we watched the second episode. And the third. “It’s time for bed,” I said.

“We can watch one more episode,” Kris said.

On Friday, we watched three more episodes, and on Saturday another three. In fact, it was hard to stop. It was like an addiction.

Heroes is a clever show in many ways. Creator Tim Kring has drawn on many modern superhero tropes, and developed them for television in a way that is friendly not only to comic book geeks, but also to those who wouldn’t be caught dead reading a comic. The characters don’t run around in costumes — they’re average people leading average lives. Superpowers are downplayed at the expense of human drama. Sometimes it seems like a soap opera with superheroes.

The main characters include:

  • Claire, a Texas cheerleader with amazing healing abilities.
  • D.L., a ghost-like ex-con.
  • Isaac, a drug-addict who can paint the future.
  • Hiro, who can bend time and space.
  • Matt, a cranky L.A. police officer who can read minds.
  • Nathan, a politician who can fly, and his brother, Peter, who can temporarily absorb other people’s powers.
  • Niki, who is basically the Incredible Hulk.
  • Micah — Nikki’s boy — who can control machines.

And, of course, there are a collection of bad-guys, most notably Sylar, a man who kills other super-powered people and eats their brains to take their powers.

This show isn’t perfect, though. In fact, often it’s just mediocre. To some degree, Heroes suffers from the Battlestar Galactica disease: characters that are chummy one week will be at each other’s throats the next week, and then allied again in the third week. These ever-shifting alliances make little sense, and it’s often difficult to discern any long-term motive for a particular character. This frustrates me, but it’s not as bad on Heroes as it is on Battlestar Galactica. Also, like Galactica, Heroes has the danger of becoming “about itself”, the ultimate sign of a doomed show.

(Someday I’ll articulate this theory in more detail, but it’s my belief that you can tell a show has grown stale — jumped the shark, if you will — when it no longer adheres to its initial premise, but becomes “about itself”. The classic example is Seinfeld‘s self-referential plot about developing a “show about nothing”. In that particular case, it was well-handled, but most of the time when something like that happens, the show is lost. It happened in a big way during Battlestar Galactica season three, and it’s happened to most of my favorite shows. It’s one of the primary reasons that the Star Trek franchise imploded.)

I like most of the cast of Heroes, but I’d be happier if some of the characters died. Matt Parkman, the telepathic police officer, needs to be offed. I’m not a fan of Nikki/Jessica, either. I know that there will be new characters during the second season, but I’d actually prefer if the show was mostly about new characters and situations. We’ll see.

I enjoyed the show — though the first ten episodes were better than the last thirteen — and I look forward to seeing where the creators take it in the future. Best of all, I know that Kris will be watching it with me!

(For those of you who watch the show, be sure to check out the Heroes wiki.)

Heroes

Sometimes Kris surprises me. For months I’ve been trying to get her to watch Heroes with me. It’s not a show I was interested in at first (am I interested in many television shows?), but after reading so many good reviews, I purchased the entire first season from iTunes, but never watched it. It’s been sitting on my hard drive unviewed for at least six months. “It looks stupid,” Kris would say. “I don’t like superheroes.”

Then last Thursday, she surprised me. “Let’s watch Heroes,” she said.

“Er, okay,” I said, and we traipsed upstairs to connect the computer to the big monitor. We watched the first episode.

“Hm,” said Kris.

“It’s supposed to get better,” I said. So we watched the second episode. And the third. “It’s time for bed,” I said.

“We can watch one more episode,” Kris said.

On Friday, we watched three more episodes, and on Saturday another three. In fact, it was hard to stop. It was like an addiction.

Heroes is a clever show in many ways. Creator Tim Kring has drawn on many modern superhero tropes, and developed them for television in a way that is friendly not only to comic book geeks, but also to those who wouldn’t be caught dead reading a comic. The characters don’t run around in costumes — they’re average people leading average lives. Superpowers are downplayed at the expense of human drama. Sometimes it seems like a soap opera with superheroes.

The main characters include:

  • Claire, a Texas cheerleader with amazing healing abilities.
  • D.L., a ghost-like ex-con.
  • Isaac, a drug-addict who can paint the future.
  • Hiro, who can bend time and space.
  • Matt, a cranky L.A. police officer who can read minds.
  • Nathan, a politician who can fly, and his brother, Peter, who can temporarily absorb other people’s powers.
  • Niki, who is basically the Incredible Hulk.
  • Micah — Nikki’s boy — who can control machines.

And, of course, there are a collection of bad-guys, most notably Sylar, a man who kills other super-powered people and eats their brains to take their powers.

This show isn’t perfect, though. In fact, often it’s just mediocre. To some degree, Heroes suffers from the Battlestar Galactica disease: characters that are chummy one week will be at each other’s throats the next week, and then allied again in the third week. These ever-shifting alliances make little sense, and it’s often difficult to discern any long-term motive for a particular character. This frustrates me, but it’s not as bad on Heroes as it is on Battlestar Galactica. Also, like Galactica, Heroes has the danger of becoming “about itself”, the ultimate sign of a doomed show.

(Someday I’ll articulate this theory in more detail, but it’s my belief that you can tell a show has grown stale — jumped the shark, if you will — when it no longer adheres to its initial premise, but becomes “about itself”. The classic example is Seinfeld‘s self-referential plot about developing a “show about nothing”. In that particular case, it was well-handled, but most of the time when something like that happens, the show is lost. It happened in a big way during Battlestar Galactica season three, and it’s happened to most of my favorite shows. It’s one of the primary reasons that the Star Trek franchise imploded.)

I like most of the cast of Heroes, but I’d be happier if some of the characters died. Matt Parkman, the telepathic police officer, needs to be offed. I’m not a fan of Nikki/Jessica, either. I know that there will be new characters during the second season, but I’d actually prefer if the show was mostly about new characters and situations. We’ll see.

I enjoyed the show — though the first ten episodes were better than the last thirteen — and I look forward to seeing where the creators take it in the future. Best of all, I know that Kris will be watching it with me!

(For those of you who watch the show, be sure to check out the Heroes wiki.)

Toto Has Two Daddies

For years, Toto has been the butt of many jokes among my friends. Her insistent meow and often cranky demeanor have prompted many — including Kris — to dismiss her as a bitchy old cat.

While there’s a grain of truth to that, she’s secretly a sweetheart. She’s a needy little thing. She loves to cuddle. Kris is her favorite companion, whether in bed at night or on the couch in front of the television. But she also loves it when I’m sitting in the parlor reading. For over a decade, she’s climbed onto my lap, stood on her hind legs, and done what I call “ear-diving”: she purrs and purrs while burrowing her slobbery nose into my ear. Yuck.

We’ve had people babysit Toto before. Nobody’s ever really bonded with her the way that I have. I’ve always called her my familiar. (That’s to be expected, of course. I’ve known her literally all her life, ever since she was a few hours old.) In fact, nobody’s bonded with her at all. Until now.

While we were in London, Dublin, and New York, our friends Paul and Amy Jo stayed out our house. For the first week of their visit, Toto apparently lived in a cardboard box underneath Kris’ computer desk. This was completely random. But eventually she must have decided that Mom and Dad had left for good, and that these new people were to be here parents. She ventured forth and made herself acquainted with Paul and Amy Jo. Especially with Paul.

Paul decided that she loves when Paul is sitting in the parlor reading. She climbs into his lap, stands on her hind legs, and ear-dives. She thinks he’s pretty darn cool.

375
Lazy photo taken with my laptop’s built-in camera

We’ve been back nearly two weeks now, and it’s been interesting to watch Toto’s reaction. She’s almost like a changed cat. While I wouldn’t call her friendly, she’s less cranky than she used to be. Also, she loves to be outside. When she was younger, she always wanted to be outside, but ever since Tintin died, she’s preferred the indoors. Here at Rosings Park, especially, she hasn’t been interested in outside. But now she is. She asks to go out first thing in the morning. She asks to go out before we go to bed. She’s discovered the joys of sitting in the grass, staring at nothing.

It’s funny to watch her interact with me and Paul, too. She loves us both, and often she has to choose. She’ll come hobbling downstairs (she’s old, remember), meowing her gravelly little meow, saunter into the parlor, and stop in her tracks because she has to make a choice: Dad One or Dad Two? Dad One or Dad Two?

It’s kind of fun to have Toto back to something of her old self. I only wonder how long it will last…

Toto Has Two Daddies

For years, Toto has been the butt of many jokes among my friends. Her insistent meow and often cranky demeanor have prompted many — including Kris — to dismiss her as a bitchy old cat.

While there’s a grain of truth to that, she’s secretly a sweetheart. She’s a needy little thing. She loves to cuddle. Kris is her favorite companion, whether in bed at night or on the couch in front of the television. But she also loves it when I’m sitting in the parlor reading. For over a decade, she’s climbed onto my lap, stood on her hind legs, and done what I call “ear-diving”: she purrs and purrs while burrowing her slobbery nose into my ear. Yuck.

We’ve had people babysit Toto before. Nobody’s ever really bonded with her the way that I have. I’ve always called her my familiar. (That’s to be expected, of course. I’ve known her literally all her life, ever since she was a few hours old.) In fact, nobody’s bonded with her at all. Until now.

While we were in London, Dublin, and New York, our friends Paul and Amy Jo stayed out our house. For the first week of their visit, Toto apparently lived in a cardboard box underneath Kris’ computer desk. This was completely random. But eventually she must have decided that Mom and Dad had left for good, and that these new people were to be here parents. She ventured forth and made herself acquainted with Paul and Amy Jo. Especially with Paul.

Paul decided that she loves when Paul is sitting in the parlor reading. She climbs into his lap, stands on her hind legs, and ear-dives. She thinks he’s pretty darn cool.

375
Lazy photo taken with my laptop’s built-in camera

We’ve been back nearly two weeks now, and it’s been interesting to watch Toto’s reaction. She’s almost like a changed cat. While I wouldn’t call her friendly, she’s less cranky than she used to be. Also, she loves to be outside. When she was younger, she always wanted to be outside, but ever since Tintin died, she’s preferred the indoors. Here at Rosings Park, especially, she hasn’t been interested in outside. But now she is. She asks to go out first thing in the morning. She asks to go out before we go to bed. She’s discovered the joys of sitting in the grass, staring at nothing.

It’s funny to watch her interact with me and Paul, too. She loves us both, and often she has to choose. She’ll come hobbling downstairs (she’s old, remember), meowing her gravelly little meow, saunter into the parlor, and stop in her tracks because she has to make a choice: Dad One or Dad Two? Dad One or Dad Two?

It’s kind of fun to have Toto back to something of her old self. I only wonder how long it will last…

Orange Rabbit

I like the surreal mornings.

Paul and Amy Jo have been using our home as one of a couple bases as they remodel their new house, which is just a mile away from us in Oak Grove. They stayed over last night. This morning when I woke up, I was startled by the sounds of a rather large cat. Or so I thought. It took me a moment to realize that it wasn’t a cat I was hearing, but one of our houseguests.

Meanwhile, I just couldn’t drag myself out of bed. This is has been a problem since our vacation, and it’s odd. I’ve always been an easy riser — quick to wake up, get up, stand up. Not lately, though. Something happened on our vacation and I’ve learned to linger under the covers.

Today I finally got up after six, pulled on the clothes I wore yesterday, and stumbled out the door. This is something else I picked up while on vacation. I took a limited amount of clothing to Europe, so I became accustomed to wearing the same clothes over and over. I knew that today I was going to be the only one in the office, with no danger of having to see anyone, so I just took the easy way out and wore what I’d worn before.

I walked down the sidewalk, turned toward my car, and stopped in my tracks. Something was fishy. Simon was out by the road (which is a little strange in itself), but he wasn’t coming to me. He seemed to be stalking something around the tires of my Focus. I stepped into the road for a better view, and what did I see? An orange rabbit.

Kris likes to tell stories of the wild hares she sees around the crime lab (which is located in a wetlands), but we don’t get them around our house. And besides, an orange rabbit like this must surely be a pet. I was worried for it. Simon was keen on it, and he was nearly twice its size. But Simon didn’t seem to be particularly aggressive. Quite the opposite, in fact. He sniffed at it, and then he flopped to the ground and rolled, as if it were his best friend and he was glad to see it. It was bizarre.

I went to get Kris. We followed Simon and the rabbit to the driveway, where we discovered Oreo, the neighbor cat (and Simon’s nemesis), also intent on the orange rabbit.

“What should we do?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said Kris. “There’s no way to tell where it belongs.”

She was right. Though I really wanted to catch it, the thing was too skittish. Meanwhile, Simon was becoming a little more than friendly. He had that look in his eye. Against his protests, Kris grabbed him and carried him into the house. Meanwhile, the rabbit hop-sprinted from one end of our property to the other, sticking to the road.

Our neighbor Curt drove by in his jumbo-sized clanking diesel pickup. He stopped for a witty word or two, laughing at our rabbit-hunting attempts. But our attempts didn’t go on long. We had no plan. We had no idea how to catch the orange rabbit or what to do with it after we’d succeeded. So we just gave up.

Someplace on our property, there’s a strange orange bunny. I just hope it’s able to survive the day, and to somehow return to its owner.

Orange Rabbit

I like the surreal mornings.

Paul and Amy Jo have been using our home as one of a couple bases as they remodel their new house, which is just a mile away from us in Oak Grove. They stayed over last night. This morning when I woke up, I was startled by the sounds of a rather large cat. Or so I thought. It took me a moment to realize that it wasn’t a cat I was hearing, but one of our houseguests.

Meanwhile, I just couldn’t drag myself out of bed. This is has been a problem since our vacation, and it’s odd. I’ve always been an easy riser — quick to wake up, get up, stand up. Not lately, though. Something happened on our vacation and I’ve learned to linger under the covers.

Today I finally got up after six, pulled on the clothes I wore yesterday, and stumbled out the door. This is something else I picked up while on vacation. I took a limited amount of clothing to Europe, so I became accustomed to wearing the same clothes over and over. I knew that today I was going to be the only one in the office, with no danger of having to see anyone, so I just took the easy way out and wore what I’d worn before.

I walked down the sidewalk, turned toward my car, and stopped in my tracks. Something was fishy. Simon was out by the road (which is a little strange in itself), but he wasn’t coming to me. He seemed to be stalking something around the tires of my Focus. I stepped into the road for a better view, and what did I see? An orange rabbit.

Kris likes to tell stories of the wild hares she sees around the crime lab (which is located in a wetlands), but we don’t get them around our house. And besides, an orange rabbit like this must surely be a pet. I was worried for it. Simon was keen on it, and he was nearly twice its size. But Simon didn’t seem to be particularly aggressive. Quite the opposite, in fact. He sniffed at it, and then he flopped to the ground and rolled, as if it were his best friend and he was glad to see it. It was bizarre.

I went to get Kris. We followed Simon and the rabbit to the driveway, where we discovered Oreo, the neighbor cat (and Simon’s nemesis), also intent on the orange rabbit.

“What should we do?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said Kris. “There’s no way to tell where it belongs.”

She was right. Though I really wanted to catch it, the thing was too skittish. Meanwhile, Simon was becoming a little more than friendly. He had that look in his eye. Against his protests, Kris grabbed him and carried him into the house. Meanwhile, the rabbit hop-sprinted from one end of our property to the other, sticking to the road.

Our neighbor Curt drove by in his jumbo-sized clanking diesel pickup. He stopped for a witty word or two, laughing at our rabbit-hunting attempts. But our attempts didn’t go on long. We had no plan. We had no idea how to catch the orange rabbit or what to do with it after we’d succeeded. So we just gave up.

Someplace on our property, there’s a strange orange bunny. I just hope it’s able to survive the day, and to somehow return to its owner.

Mexican Coke

When I was a boy, I liked Coca-Cola. Dr. Pepper was my favorite soft drink, but most of the time I drank Coke. It was good stuff. In 1985, Coca-Cola moved to a new and vile formula, only to quickly reverse their position after a loud hue and holler from the public. For a while, there were two flavors of Coke on the market: New Coke and Classic Coke.

Time passed. My taste in sodas evolved. I drank more Dr. Pepper because I was old enough to buy my own pop. I started drinking diet soda instead. Occasionally I still tried a Coke, but I found that I didn’t like it as much as I used to. Something seemed to have changed around the time of the New Coke fiasco. There was a cloying sweetness about it, and it just didn’t taste as good as I had remembered.

Last year there was a minor internet fuss about Mexican Coke, which was widely available in and around San Francisco. This version of Coca-Cola, bottled in Mexico and with only limited distribution in the U.S., reportedly had a cleaner, more satisfying taste. I remember Will brought it up at a dinner party or something last fall to disbelief (or disinterest) from those present.

Yesterday Kris and I stopped at Justy’s Produce on Johnson Road to pick up some tomatoes, apricots, and plums. (We also got some local honey — Kris wants to be sure you all know this.) I was very very thirsty all afternoon, and Justy’s had a case of old-fashioned glass-bottled pop, including Coca-Cola. I picked out three of my favorites, but then put back two, keeping only the Coke. (It cost $1.69 plus deposit!)

I drank it last night with dinner — damn it was good! The stuff was much better than I had remembered. At the time I attributed this to the following factors:

  • I had frozen it in the afternoon sot he Coke was mighty chilly.
  • The glass bottle was giving me a sensation transference.
  • I just hadn’t had Coke recently.

This afternoon, on a kick, I decided to have Coke in that bottle again. I hunted all over the house for a Coke, but we didn’t have one. (We don’t harbor much soda since my wellness program began.) Then, just as I was about to give up, I spotted a single can in the back of the drink fridge, hiding behind several six-packs of tonic water. Victory!

I opened the can and slowly poured the Coke into the bottle, pausing every couple seconds to let the foam subside. Then I took my first sip. Ugh! It was ghastly stuff. This is what I think Coke tastes like nowadays. The glass bottle wasn’t helping. Instantly, I realized what was happening. I remembered the fuss about Mexican Coke from last year. I set the bottle and the can side-by-side and compared the labels. Sure enough: the can was run-of-the-mill Coke produced in the United States. Its ingredients:

Water, high-fructose corn syrup, caramel color, phosphoric acid, natural flavors, caffeine.

The bottle, on the other hand, was from Mexico. The label was in Spanish, and the ingredients included:

Carbonated water, sugar, caramel color, phosphoric acid, natural flavors, caffeine.

The Mexican Coke had 150 calories in twelve ounces instead of 140 calories in the can from the U.S., but I don’t care. I’d gladly pay the ten calories (and the extra money) to drink real Coca-Cola. The Mexican Coke had a crisp, clean flavor, and was sweet without being overpowering. The Coke from the can was cloyingly sweet with a dull flavor, and it left a sticky residue in my mouth after I drank it.

From my perspective, Mexican Coca-Cola is far superior to the swill we’re given in the United States. The main culprit is that nasty, nasty high-fructose corn syrup.

Mexican Coke

When I was a boy, I liked Coca-Cola. Dr. Pepper was my favorite soft drink, but most of the time I drank Coke. It was good stuff. In 1985, Coca-Cola moved to a new and vile formula, only to quickly reverse their position after a loud hue and holler from the public. For a while, there were two flavors of Coke on the market: New Coke and Classic Coke.

Time passed. My taste in sodas evolved. I drank more Dr. Pepper because I was old enough to buy my own pop. I started drinking diet soda instead. Occasionally I still tried a Coke, but I found that I didn’t like it as much as I used to. Something seemed to have changed around the time of the New Coke fiasco. There was a cloying sweetness about it, and it just didn’t taste as good as I had remembered.

Last year there was a minor internet fuss about Mexican Coke, which was widely available in and around San Francisco. This version of Coca-Cola, bottled in Mexico and with only limited distribution in the U.S., reportedly had a cleaner, more satisfying taste. I remember Will brought it up at a dinner party or something last fall to disbelief (or disinterest) from those present.

Yesterday Kris and I stopped at Justy’s Produce on Johnson Road to pick up some tomatoes, apricots, and plums. (We also got some local honey — Kris wants to be sure you all know this.) I was very very thirsty all afternoon, and Justy’s had a case of old-fashioned glass-bottled pop, including Coca-Cola. I picked out three of my favorites, but then put back two, keeping only the Coke. (It cost $1.69 plus deposit!)

I drank it last night with dinner — damn it was good! The stuff was much better than I had remembered. At the time I attributed this to the following factors:

  • I had frozen it in the afternoon sot he Coke was mighty chilly.
  • The glass bottle was giving me a sensation transference.
  • I just hadn’t had Coke recently.

This afternoon, on a kick, I decided to have Coke in that bottle again. I hunted all over the house for a Coke, but we didn’t have one. (We don’t harbor much soda since my wellness program began.) Then, just as I was about to give up, I spotted a single can in the back of the drink fridge, hiding behind several six-packs of tonic water. Victory!

I opened the can and slowly poured the Coke into the bottle, pausing every couple seconds to let the foam subside. Then I took my first sip. Ugh! It was ghastly stuff. This is what I think Coke tastes like nowadays. The glass bottle wasn’t helping. Instantly, I realized what was happening. I remembered the fuss about Mexican Coke from last year. I set the bottle and the can side-by-side and compared the labels. Sure enough: the can was run-of-the-mill Coke produced in the United States. Its ingredients:

Water, high-fructose corn syrup, caramel color, phosphoric acid, natural flavors, caffeine.

The bottle, on the other hand, was from Mexico. The label was in Spanish, and the ingredients included:

Carbonated water, sugar, caramel color, phosphoric acid, natural flavors, caffeine.

The Mexican Coke had 150 calories in twelve ounces instead of 140 calories in the can from the U.S., but I don’t care. I’d gladly pay the ten calories (and the extra money) to drink real Coca-Cola. The Mexican Coke had a crisp, clean flavor, and was sweet without being overpowering. The Coke from the can was cloyingly sweet with a dull flavor, and it left a sticky residue in my mouth after I drank it.

From my perspective, Mexican Coca-Cola is far superior to the swill we’re given in the United States. The main culprit is that nasty, nasty high-fructose corn syrup.

In the Garden, and Trouble at Gino’s

We’re home!

I’ll probably have more to write about our trip in the future, but at the moment it’s all so overwhelming. There’s so much to tell — where do I begin?

Kris caught a cold in New York, and so has spent the last several days under the weather. I, on the other hand, am full of energy and ideas. After visiting so many beautiful places on our trip, I decided it was a shame that we don’t make Rosings Park everthing it could be.

For example, we visited Jane Austen’s house at Chawton, just south of London. While the house itself was rather unremarkable, I loved the yard. (Or “garden”, as the British call it.) It reminded me that outside spaces can, with creativity, be turned into “rooms” of sorts.

“I want to do that with our yard,” I told Kris.

“Fine,” she said. “As long as the house is still screened from the road.”

I rose early on Saturday, and one of the first things I did was begin ripping out the undergrowth and dead wood from the shrubbery in front of the house. It had occurred to me that there was enough space in this spot to create a sort of quiet reading place. It’s near the road, true, but it’s shielded enough by holly and laurel to be relatively private. (And our road has light traffic, anyhow.)

At first I had planned to rip out the huge laurel near the house, but after spending an hour inside the grove (as I’ve come to call it), it was clear that the laurel was actually responsible for both screening the house from the road and providing a good deal of shade. Besides, after clearing away all the other crap inside the grove, there’s a large open space perfect for my intentions.

So now I’ve cleared an open area in the shrubbery in front of the house. The next step is to determine exactly what to do with it. Do I lay down some gravel? Some paving stones? Leave the hard ground as it is? Do I build a bench? Buy some outdoor furniture from Craigslist? Do I need to plant another bush or hedge to screen the grove from the road?

It also occurred to me that it’s ridiculous that I haven’t finished my horseshoe pits. I started that project nearly eighteen months ago, did about two-thirds of the work required, and then stopped. The area had become overgrown with blackberries, cherries, and locusts. So, I took the time on Saturday to pull these invasive plants up by the roots. There’s still a lot of work left to finish the job, but at least the area’s presentable now.

On top of these two projects, there are two similar jobs I want to do. Underneath our redwood tree is a perfect space for a bench to overlook the side yard. Right now, though, the space is filled with three years of branches from trees and shrubs. We need to rent a chipper and clear this space. Finally, behind the smoking porch is another section of overgrown shrubbery, beneath which could be another nice sitting area. The trick here is that the compost pile is just outside the space, and will have to be moved (where?) in order for it to be usable.

So, I’ve been busy working outside. The camellias need pruning, as do several other hedges. The lawn needs to be mowed. (In August? Unheard of!) Often I view this sort of work as a burden, but now, because I have a goal, it’s fun. This is what I want to be doing. I’m even working on these projects at the expense of my web sites.

Paul and Amy Jo have moved into the neighborhood. They’ve purchased a house about a mile down the road, and are in the process of gutting it. They dropped by our place last night to pick up some stuff (Rosings Park is acting as one staging ground for them), and we convinced them to help make pickles and then to go for dinner at Gino’s.

Gino’s is our current favorite restaurant. It’s not cheap, but it’s not expensive either. The food is excellent, and generally the service is as well. Last night, though, was a different story. For whatever reason, the place was slammed at 7:30, despite the fact it was a Monday night. The restaurant was understaffed (and some of the staff that was there was new). This made for a very frustrating dining experience.

We arrived at 7:30. We were seated at 7:54. It took forever for anyone to take our drink order, let alone the order for our meal. We received our appetizers at 8:32. We didn’t receive our meal until 9:09, more than ninety minutes after we had arrived. As I say: a very frustrating experience.

This has not, however, soured us on the place. The food was excellent, as usual, and there was no question that the restaurant was far, far busier than anyone had expected. If we hadn’t been so damn hungry, the wait might not have even been an issue.