Out For A Walk After A Rainy Night

It rained last night. Not one of those hard rains that wake you up with the noise of it pounding on the roof, but more of a gentle rain that helps wash away all sorts of stuff and in the aftermath leaves the air smelling better, intensifying the earthy outdoor smells. When I got up this morning, it was still early enough that the sun hadn't had a chance to dry the grass or roads completely or to turn the day into a sauna, the way it does when it rains early on a summer's afternoon. Somehow, it made it easier to get changed and head out for a walk. The fact that a good part of my favorite walking/running route is cross-country helps a lot here.

I headed south, figuring I'd start through the eastern edge of a nearby park. It's only a block away, if that, and has horse trails, riding rings for horse shows, picnic areas, a playground, the works. Usually, I only skirt the edge of it when walking or running, using a dirt path.

There was a cool breeze and a definite earthy smell. From somewhere nearby came the sounds of one peacocks. There are several flocks of them in there area, and it's quite common to hear them screeching. The first few times I heard peacocks' cries, I was positive there was a hurt cat nearby. Actually, it sounded like possibly a hurt wild cat - not a feral house cat, mind you, but something like a bobcat in pain. It was eerie sounding. It wasn't until much later that I learned it was a peacock.

A runner was heading north as I headed for the park. We nodded at each other, the way runners or walkers do.

"Those peacocks sure are loud," she said as she passed.

"Yeah, they are," I answered, heading into the park.

Peacock near the entrance to the park

Heading south through the park, I was amazed at the changes along this route. The first area used to be nothing but a large field bordered on two side with woods, scrub brush, and palmettos, more palmettos and a drainage ditch on the east side, and a border of trees as a buffer between a cul-de-sac of houses on the fourth. Now the scrub and palmettos are gone from near the ditch, most of the trees between field and houses are gone, as on the south side of the field. There are fenced riding rings where frequent horse shows take place; these have cropped up over the past few years.



Farther along, across the ditch, there's a stable. It's been there since for years, and there are always horses there, most of them boarded by different horse owners. At one point, the number of horses dwindled down to one old lone horse, Smokey, owned by the property owner. At one point, I used to occasionally bring Smokey carrots. She has since died, though by that time, they'd started boarding other horses there again.

Smokey

At this point, I cross the street. It's a secondary avenue, frequently busy enough to warrant a crosswalk for horses and runners, replete with a flashing yellow light that runners and riders can trigger so that traffic gives them the right of way (theoretically). This crosswalk and light are relatively new additions.

As I head cross country, there are a few newer houses that face the avenue, as well as a house that was moved in from its original property. These are on the east side of the dirt road. The newer house - one bordering the trail, but facing the road - has a batch of banana trees at the edge of their property. My family and I once lived in a place that had banana trees; in the four-plus years we lived there, we never once had bananas from the tree, so I find it amazing to see so many banana bunches growing from the trees along this new property line.

Banana trees

Next comes the moved in house. It sits on a lake that was once surrounded by woods and scrub brush. I remember being somewhat upset at the loss of some of the woods around the lake; fortunately, when the 100-year-old house was set down near the lake, the property owner kept most of the woods intact.

Just west of the dirt road is a drainage ditch (actually, a continuation of the same ditch bordering the park); beyond that, a subdivision hugs the road I've just crossed. Where that ends, another property with stable for boarding horses begins. This property is for sale; I can't help but think that if I had the money, it wouldn't be for sale for long. It's a comfortable-looking place. Several times, I've had conversations with the owners, calling back and forth across the ditch. Yeah, I think, as I get ready to turn back to head home, if only I had the money...



By the time I arrive home, I'm ready for a shower, glad I've gone out walking.

Cold Showers...

Call me picky, but there are some things that I've come to expect in life: food, a roof over my head, a hot shower. I know I'm being a little weird, but you grow up having those things, you kind-of get hooked on them. Sure, there are other things that I thoroughly enjoy (sooo glad I bought some more coffee yesterday!), and probably always will.

This morning, I went to take my shower and got cold water. Now, granted, the hot water usually takes a few seconds to get from the water heater to the shower, but then it runs predictably well: turn the hot and cold knobs, and whoever is in the shower gets water that's neither too hot nor too cold...but just right, sort-of like Goldilock's porridge in the three bears' place. (Don't get me started on trippy lit for kids...) The other thing is that if you leave the hot water knob on too long, you'll eventually need to turn it off and let the water heater work its magic. No big deal...unless the water heater has decided to call it quits, without the proper two-week-notice. So annoying when things like this happen without notice.

So, this morning, M. was in the shower bright and early, since he has to be out of the house by 6-ish for his part-time job. While I can't vouch for it, I'm pretty sure he had hot water. He's been known to emit an ear-piercing shriek when hit with ice cold water first thing in the morning. Go figure. That'll wake you up quicker'n a pot of cappuccino. (That referring to both the cold water and the shriek.)

The second person hit the shower without problems...or, in the case, without ice water.

Several hours after the second running-of-the-shower, I decided to make a go of it. That's when I discovered that the water heater had gone AWOL. At first, I thought that maybe I'd cranked the cold water knob too far and the hot water not far enough. But finally, I turned them both on (with the shower knob in the full-force rain position), then turned only the hot water knob back on. It was wonderful...if you like cold showers.

Now, don't get me wrong, there are times I do enjoy a fairly cold shower. But it's usually in late August when I've spent the afternoon mowing the lawn. Those of you who have ever lived in Florida during August can relate; if you're from upstate New York, say, Buffalo or Rochester or upper New England; think February, then think its polar opposite. There you go. August in Florida is like sitting in a hot and humid sauna that is cranked up to the max and packed with the gold metal Olympic Sumo Wrestling team. Mow the lawn on an August afternoon, that cold shower'll feel real nice. Any other time, fuhgeddaboudit! (Yup, my NY accent might be showing.)

So, I called the landlord's answering service. This is, after all, Saturday. I kept thinking that I really hoped someone would call back today, since I don't relish the thought of another two days of cold showers. Fortunately, the property manager did call back. But since she's booked up this morning with repairs, she couldn't promise that she'd be here this afternoon, other than to find out if it's simply the heating element or the whole water heater that'll need replacing.

In the meantime, I think I'll go grab another cup of coffee. At least my coffee maker works and I have the coffee I bought yesterday to put into said coffee maker. I might as well have coffee; I'm already awake.

Walking/Running/Getting Out of the House

I went out for a walk this morning. I used to run and hope to get back into running.

Unfortunately, I haven't been out walking or hitting the gym the way I used to and the way I know I should. I'd started walking a little before friend hubby and I got married, when we were simply seeing each other. Back then, I walked maybe all of half-a-mile, then got ready for work.

Sometime after P. and I got married, I started running. Actually, I think it started off as walking Osha, our Cocker Spaniel. She loved going for walks. For her, it was a big deal. But then, I got to the point where I'd walk her several days, then go out for a run on the other days. Got to where I was really getting good at it, and enjoying it. Even started a running blog about how my runs (or walks) had gone.

After several deaths in the family, I slowed down on the running. Every time I'd start back, it seemed to take longer and longer to really get back into it. Then, on Halloween, 2010, I fell off a ladder at roof level and ended up in a local emergency room. It was a good two months before I could go out for any kind of a walk.

There are three holidays when I absolutely love going for a long walk. On Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter, I'll bake up pies and pumpkin bread first thing in the morning. Then, after getting the turkey in the oven, I'll throw on my shoes and walk through the nearby park. It usually takes about an hour, maybe a little more if I really take my time and enjoy the scenery. But by Thanksgiving after the ladder incident, there was no way I was up to going through the park. Heck, I barely had the energy to get the pies done and the turkey into the oven. Thank goodness I was up to walking on Christmas that year.

Since then, my walking or running has been sporatic, at best. But this morning, I figured it was now or never. It would have been too easy to come up with any number of excuses not to go out. Instead, I got changed as though I was actually going to go out for a walk. Then, I got out the door and actually went for a walk.

I'd forgotten how much I actually enjoy getting out the door for a morning walk or run. First off, I tend to notice things that have changed since I've started different routes, or even since the last time I've walked a certain route.

It tends to go something along like this: Oh, wow, that house is up for sale again. They just bought that house last year; I wonder why they're selling now? Wow, they bulldozed more of the woods. On the plus side, they planted a bunch of trees over there. I can't believe how much that colt over there has grown since last year! And on it goes.

Then there's the whole thinking aspect of it. Since I don't bring along a radio, iPod, or any other gadget to listen to music, I really have very little to distract me. Sure, I bring along my cell phone, since I tend to go cross country a lot on my walks. I've found myself face down on a dirt path more than once after tripping over a tree root or having a stone roll under my foot. Heck, I've been known to trip over bumps in the sidewalk! (Check out that Grace post again.) But as far as bringing along anything that would distract me from my surroundings, forget it. So, while I'm noticing the scenery, my mind is also mulling over stuff, wondering if I'll hear back on a job, if something I've written will sell, how best to edit a section of film, if...

...maybe I'll head out again tomorrow morning. (I think I will...)

Sand Candles

I spent the past few days making sand candles. That almost sounds like I've spent the entire day, several days in a row, making candles. But it's more like an hour here, half-an-hour there to come up with four nice-looking candles.

As with most things in life, especially if one is past a certain age, there's a back story. One doesn't simply decide I'm bored, I think I'll make sand candles today and then jump in and do it. For starters, you have to have wax with which to make the candles, unless you're making soy or bees wax candles.

Most of what is commonly called wax these days is actually paraffin, a petroleum-based substance. (Candlescience.com is a basic site for candle stuff; for a short, easy to read blurb on paraffin, check here.)

But back to the sand candles. Besides wax, you've got to have sand. I know, shocking, right? Sand candles, sand. You also need wicks so you can light the candles, and some way to anchor the bottom of the wick so that it doesn't float to the surface of the liquid wax. Then, if you want your candles to be something other than white, and maybe even have a nice scent, you'll need these, too.

Okay, so I had all this stuff. I'd bought wax - tons and tons of it - that I'd bought over the years. Maybe not tons of it, but I'd bought enough of the stuff in 14-pound blocks to be ridiculous. I still had the busted up remnants of a block of wax, as well as some leftover coloring, scents, molds, and wicks.

Over the past ten years or so, I'd made chunk candles. This involved melting several blocks of wax in small amounts, adding different colors to each batch, pouring each batch into a large pan (old, beat-up metal baking pans are great for this), then, letting each batch harden. Somewhere along the hardening process, when the wax is starting to firm up and no longer liquidy, but not hard hard, I'd take a sharp knife and cut criss-cross lines in the wax. That way, when the wax was hard, it'd break up fairly easily.

Once I had enough variety of colored chunks, I'd take the candle molds out, oil up the inside of them (this makes sliding the hardened candles out a lot easier), start melting some colored wax, making sure to dip the wicks into the hot liquid, then put the wicks into the molds. (There are holes in the bottom of most of the molds I used, through which to thread the wicks. You then have to have a way to finish plugging the hole.) Then, as the wax melted, I'd take chunks of wax in complimentary colors and arrange them throughout the molds in such a way that they show up around the edges of the candle after the main color was poured.

The nice thing with these chunk candles is that you can use the colors to make candles for different holidays and times of the year: a combination of red, green and white for winter holidays; red, white and blue for, say, the 4th of July; reds, oranges, yellows and browns for fall, etc. The main problem with the chunk candles happens to be the fact that you need tons of different colored chunks and a ton of time. Even with all the chunks ready, making a batch of chunk candles will easily eat up a couple of hours at a time - and that's not counting letting the candles cool and harden.

Sand candles are easier. You take sand, put it into a container, such as a small casserole dish, then use your hands to scoop out the candle's shape. While chunk candles (or most candles, for that matter) tend to be vertical, sand candles are horizontal. Once you dig out the shape, making sure that the bottom will be flat (and anchoring the wick[s]), you can add shells around the edges. This is what I like to do, since it adds a little more interest to the candle.

So, getting back to the candle-making: I knew I had wax set aside, just being there. I also knew I didn't have the time or energy to make chunk candles. Also, my daughter, M.H., and her family live near the beach. M.H. is frequently offering to drive me to the beach. We've actually managed to make it there once without a car mishap.

I'd mentioned once or twice that I needed sand for sand candles. M.H. offered to pick sand up the next time she went to the beach. Of course, when she'd get there, she wouldn't have anything to bring any sand home in. Several weeks ago, though, she swung by my place.

"How about coming with me?" she asked when she was ready to leave. "I've got to stop by work for a little while, and then wanted to go to the beach."

Off we went. After stopping by work, we picked up a couple of small pails to carry sand home in, then headed for the beach.

The sky was gray and looked like it might rain before the end of the day; it fit in well with the gray water and lighter-colored sand. M.H. and I walked around, picking up shells, walking ankle-deep into the water, enjoying the almost-empty beach. Between the sound of the waves, the raucous cawing of seagulls, the sound of the wind, and the skittishness of the small sandpipers, it was wildly peaceful. (If you've ever walked on the beach before a storm, you know that wildly peaceful in not an oxymoron.) The occasional person walking by didn't bother me the way seeing people on a packed beach would have.

Just before we left the beach with our shells, we filled the two small pails with sand, then put the pails into a couple of bags and tied the tops to keep the sand in.

Periodically, M.H. would ask if I'd made any sand candles yet, and I'd have to tell her I hadn't. We hang up and I'd think I really should get around to making them. After all, I'd mentioned needing the sand and shells so often to make them, it would be crazy not to.

A couple of days ago, I pulled down a small casserole container and filled it with sand. Then, as the wax melted into a blue-ish green, I set some broken shells around the edges of the scooped-out mold.

The first candle came out beautifully; so did the next three that I made yesterday. When M.H. and her daughter G. came by today, I showed her four sand candles.

"They're neat," M.H. said. "But why is there sand all over the outside of the candles?" I explained that was how I'd made the molds; she'd thought I added the sand to the wax. We both had different ideas of what sand candles meant.

I have to admit: adding sand to the wax might not be a bad idea.

Now if I could get another hour or two to try making sand candles with sand in the wax, that just might be something to see!

Boston Marathon Explosions

This afternoon, while checking out Facebook, I noticed a post from a friend, K.C., that seemed almost cryptic: "Not. Cool. I hope everybody's okay!" She then included a link, along with the headline that read "Explosions Reported At The Boston Marathon; Dozens Injured [Updating]".

At first, I didn't pay any attention: didn't read the headline, was aware of a photo but didn't look close, didn't check the link. But when another person, a professor that K.C. and I know from school, posted a comment: "This looks really bad. Here's another link to what's going on in Boston right now:" and a link. I went back and looked at K.C.'s post, followed both links, then turned on CNN, then, after a few minutes, turned to MSNBC.

What had happened, what is known so far, is this: The Boston Marathon ran today. It runs every year on Patriot's Day (the third Monday in April), beginning in 1897. This afternoon, two bombs went off at the finish line, after the first wave of runners had crossed the finish line. An incident also occurred at the JFK Library; at first, the incident was reported as a fire, then as a third bomb. (At this time, reports on whether it was, in fact, a fire or third bomb are conflicting.)

I lived in the northeast corner of Connecticut for a little over four years, first in Thompson, right across the line from Webster, Mass., then in South Woodstock. During those years, living equidistance from Providence, Hartford, and Boston (*see below), my parents would frequently bring my sister, brother and me to each of those cities; each of them hold a special place in my memories. For years, I'd thought how wonderful it would be to someday run the Boston Marathon, then spend a day or two (or more) hanging out there.

Years later, when I first started running, the idea of running a marathon and eventually qualifying for Boston reemerged. Sure, I'd watch the New York Marathon, multiple Olympic Marathons, was aware of local marathons...But the Boston Marathon has remained the marathon that sparks the imagination, especially for one who lived in New England for a few years.

As I listened and watched the news, I was as stunned as I'm sure most people watching the unfolding news were. And it's still unfolding: The FBI would be sending agents to investigate; two people are now reported dead, over 100 injured; Logan Airport is closed; people are being told not to be in crowds for safety's sake.

With athletes from around the world in Boston to run the marathon, this becomes not just an attack on the U.S., but on the international community to a degree.

As President Barack Obama has just stated in a press conference, in something like this, "There are no Democrats or Republicans." We can add that there are no Americans, Africans, Europeans, Asians...there are simply people.

May God/Allah/Jehovah/Great Spirit/Mother Earth bless and care for us all.



*Providence is the capital of Rhode Island, Hartford, the capital of Connecticut, and Boston, the capital of Massachusettes.

So, We're a Crafty Bunch of Artists...

My daughter, M.H., stopped by this afternoon. She couldn't stay long, but she did want to drop off some stuff, as well as pick up a few things. Nothing earth-shattering.

Sometimes, though, she'll drop off craft stuff, or we'll go out and pick up a few odds and ends. It's always kind-of fun to figure out what crafty, artist-y things we'll end up with. I'm still wondering what kind of painting she did on the black canvas she picked up last month; I know what I'd paint on a one. (Note to self: Must pick up a few black canvases ASAP.)

Artistic talent runs in our family. Mom was a writer, though her writing output seems to have dwindled over the past few years. But when I was a kid growing up in New York (state, not city) decades ago, she had an old typewriter on a desk in a small out-of-the-way nook in the kitchen. I'd watch her write, then, later, as she started fixing dinner, I'd write stories on the same typewriter, hunting and pecking away. One of my job-search cover letters starts out, "I am a writer. According to certain relatives, I was born, not with a silver spoon, but a pencil in one hand and a stack of paper in the other. It took me a while to crawl to the typewriter. (Mom and Dad may have exaggerated a little.)" The apple - or writer - doesn't fall too far...

She also did quite a bit of painting over the years; I have two of her watercolor paintings of flower arrangements on my wall. Years earlier, she'd worked in oils.

Mom and I have two cousins, a brother and sister, who are also very artistic. D. had a small studio in his parents' basement for painting; his sister was also so inclined.

My paternal grandfather's artistry tended toward the mechanical workings of radios, which he repaired in his electronic repair shop for years. But on my dad's side of the family, there are definitely artists and craftsmen. (Check out Art-N-Time Creations.)

My oldest son, J.A., also has a painting hanging on the same wall as his grandmother's watercolors. It's a really cool oil painting of a sunset, and looks like it's of the Southwestern U.S. I've had numerous people admire it; they're almost always surprised upon hearing that J.A. was 13 when he painted it, it's that good. He's now trying his hand at craft beers, with thoughts of eventually starting a microbrewery. (Butternut squash ale, anyone?) I wish he also kept up with the painting, too. He also wrote a lot; I keep running across old notebooks of his with stories and drawings in them.

My younger two, who still live at home, also write. A lot.

Getting back to M.H...When she discovered that some of my old acrylic paints were no longer usable, she decided it was time for us to get some more. Ditto on stuff to make Sculpey creations.

Note: For anyone who is unfamiliar with Sculpey, it's a type of polymer clay that is hardened in a regular oven. I first heard of it from my ex-, who used to make beads with it, then hand out bracelets to various people. I've also used it to make all sorts of creations. (Here is one of the sites for Sculpey.)

The next thing that M.H. and I have to pick up is a bucket of sand; since M.H. lives near the beach (remember the Tampa Bay (Car) Triangle fiasco?), that shouldn't be a problem. Between that and a bunch of shells (both whole and in pieces), we'll be making a bunch of sand candles. We won't get into my photography and videos (you could check out http://robinshwedoproductions.weebly.com).

Sand candles, Sculpey creations, paintings, writing, ale, time piecs, photography, videos...we're just a crafty bunch of artists.