Deirdre on reading, writing and living

My new essay, "The Grinder" was just published on Drinking Diaries. It's a follow-up to my "Video Tour of the NYC Bars." I chose one of the places I talked about in the video and expanded on it.

All of this is a spinoff from my as-yet-unpublished memoir Drunk Dreams.

I hope you enjoy the essay (and the video)!

Current Location: New York City
Current Mood: happy
Current Music: silence

I hope you enjoy this special supplement to my (as yet unpublished) memoir.

Current Location: New York City
Current Mood: excited

Last summer I got a little paranoid. Charles was away working in the City while I stayed in the Catskills. Stocks were crashing. The economy was melting. Gas was peaking. And my mother was dying.

I began to hoard food and read up on alternative sources of energy. One was water power. I read many articles on the web and even printed a few in case the electrical grid stopped working and my tech-heavy life was rudely interrupted.

So, last week, when I saw that the Equinunk Historical Society was having a demonstration of their water powered saw mill, I ran over the Lookout. PA and went on a tour.

The photos are on my Facebook page and anyone can look at them here. It's great to know that there are a few examples of the sort of technology that's stood the test of time and requires no electrical juice, only water and gravity.

There are more tours this summer, the second Saturday in August and the first Saturday in October. They happen from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. It's worth the trip.

--

Current Location: Catskills
Current Mood: geeky

I'm happy to say that my manuscript Drunk Dreams: A Memoir was chosen to be one of ten finalists for the Mayborn Literary Nonfiction Conference's Manuscript Contest. The conference is in July from the 24-26th. The winning book will receive $3000 and a publishing contract. I'm thrilled to be one of the finalists and will keep you all posted on the result.

--

Current Location: Catskills
Current Mood: happy
Current Music: silence

I look a little like linebacker with shading under my eye to prevent glare.



It's five days after my tumble off the bike. I'm still sore. My knee, elbow, and right arm still give me sharp reminders of my folly.

But, high on my thigh, hugging my short's seam, I've developed one of the more beautiful marks I've ever had:



Don't ask me what I hit, but whatever it was, it loved me.

--

Current Location: Catskills
Current Mood: calm
Current Music: silence

Okay today was not such a great bike experience as Monday. I didn't even make it to the main road. I had just stopped to let the neighbor's dog sniff me so that he knew I was me and not some deer he had to chase. I began to glide down the damp road that our house sits on. I wanted to go slowly, but I simultaneously squeezed the brakes and stood up to ease my way over a bump. I pressed on the front brake harder than I should have and went right over the top of the bike.

Because my feet were still strapped to the pedals The back of the bike came off the ground and the whole thing flipped over on top of me.

I have a case of bike face:



Not too severe, but I bet that scrape on my cheekbone's gonna get colorful.

Small patches of skin on my elbows, knees, thighs, and one shoulder got scraped off as well.

So Monday I was grateful to be able to ride after 686 days off the bike, today I'm... thankful I didn't get really hurt? Resentful? Feeling a little unbalanced?

I don't know, but I'll get back on in a few days and hope that I have nothing this exciting to write about.

--

Current Location: Catskills
Current Mood: sore
Current Music: silence

Forgive me oh bicycle god, most merciful, for I have sinned. It's been 686 days since my last communion with you.

On June 18, 2007, before the fog burned off hills, I was up and riding down one of the main roads that leads out of town, legs pumping, looking forward to the hill that pops out of the landscape five miles from my summer house. The ride was a sweet one, I made it to the 3.8 mile marker in the next county. The total mileage that day was 13.6. Very good for my morning ride.

The road crosses a small stream that never looked particularly impressive. But two days later a flash flood overflowed the stream bed, carrying with it mud and rocks, trees and garbage. The wall of debris-filled water ripped apart houses, rolled a trailer, tore up large sections of asphalt and flipped them like pancakes. It grabbed cars and trucks sweeping everything down the incline and into the Beaverkill. Four people died.

My house was unharmed, but the hamlet was devastated by grief at losing members of the community and shock at a fourth flood in three years.

I said to Charles, "You never know when it's the last time you get to do something." A few days later, as I was trying to figure out where to ride in the mornings, I hit upon riding to the next town over to pick up the newspaper at their grocery store. It was a ride that provided rolling hills and two challenging inclines. Not only that, if I veered off and took a slight detour, I got to roll over a wooden covered bridge. The solution couldn't have been more delightful. That morning, as I swept by the Willowemoc Creek, where it passes under a towering overpass that holds up the four-lane divided highway, I remembered to be grateful for the privilege of being able to ride.

The summer continued and I continued to ride. My last day on the bike was July 26, 2007.

In late 2008 I was diagnosed with Lichen sclerosus. Okay, it's embarrassing, it's gross, it's painful, and it's inconvenient to say the least. Bike riding was out or so I believed. My OBGYN and I worked on finding a solution. Well, he did most of the work. I just got profoundly depressed. Forget about the bike, we're talking about problems with sex and how to match my desires with my newly-discovered inabilities.

The summer passed with me barely even walking for the paper in the mornings. Those who follow this blog will know that my mother fell in July of 2008 and died in January of 2009. It's enough to say that it was a difficult summer for me and bike riding wasn't even on the agenda.

During the winter, as I contemplated this summer and wondered how I could get moving again, I hit upon the idea that I could buy a hornless bike seat and maybe, just maybe get back in the saddle and start pumping my legs again. I bought the "Spongy Wonder" and had it installed on the bike. And the beautiful son-of-a-gun worked.

My legs aren't as strong as they were 686 days ago, but I felt the old joy of moving on my own power and pumping my legs in rhythm with my beating heart. Will my knees hold out? Can I get used to the difference between a traditional seat the the Spongy Wonder? Will I be able to stay on the bike when giant trucks rush up behind me and try to suck me into their vortex? I don't know. All I know is that today I got to ride the bike again and it made me happy.

--

Current Location: Catskills
Current Mood: cheerful
Current Music: silence

Roger Sinnott was one of my uncles. He was my father's half brother. Roger could have stepped off the TV screen from an episode of Madmen. He was a very smart professional, a two-fisted drinker, and a sparkling wit at parties. Recently a Utica businessman told me that Roger and the Bank of Utica (where he was the president) were responsible for the support and survival of many local enterprises.

I had a passel of uncles. They are all gone now. There was Karl, my mother's brother-in-law. Karl was a big friendly guy who seemed to me to patient and supportive of my Aunt Lillian. Seeing him was a rare pleasure. Uncle Leonard was married to Lucy. He was interested in photography. I'm not really certain where Lucy fits in. I suspect she was related to my grandmother, Helene Doyle.

Uncle Bob ran a leather and luggage store in downtown Utica. He had silky white hair and always seemed happy to see us. His wife, a sister of Roger's, was a delight to be around. Uncle Bill, married to my father's sister Jane, was a mysterious man. He was rail thin, always on death's door, and had no visible means of support besides my aunt. My mother claimed that he'd had every disease in the book except leprosy. But Bill liked his wiskey and that's one of the most notable things about him. He was always a little stewed.

Now I have no Aunts or Uncles left. That layer of the family is completely gone and I feel like I've lost a huge cache of living memory. Last May it was Jane who died, this January my mother, and now Roger.

Roger lived to be 95. He had it his way for many years. He died at home, and that's the way he wanted it. Roger Sinnott, Presente!

--

Current Location: NYC
Current Mood: contemplative
Current Music: Beethoven

It turns out that treasure comes in many forms. If you're in a desert the treasure is water. If you're in the water, the treasure could be a life raft. For me the treasure was the rusted septic tank.

As a city dweller I hardly give much thought to sewage. Too bad, because I'm sure its journey is actually fascinating. In the Catskills however, it's been on my mind since winter. Without going too far into the poo problem, I'll just say things weren't working as they should. But today we began phase one of fixing the problem.

There are photos here.

Tomorrow the new, sparkling-clean, tank will be put into the ground and I will be able to flush freely. Once again I can put the septic tank and all it contains out of my mind.

--

Current Location: Catskills
Current Mood: satisfied

I would have called to say "Happy Easter" even though I'm not religious, nor was she.

I wouldn't have confessed that I'm still shocked she's gone.

I would have announced that I was going to take a walk in Central Park to look at the flowering trees.

I wouldn't have explained that I missed her because she'd still be around to talk to.

I would have reported that yes, they do have elms trees in the park just like I said last fall.

I wouldn't have confided that I'd been thinking about her because that'd be too weird.

I would have updated her on all the birds I saw including a mallard, a cardinal, numerous robins, some warblers, a bunch of sparrows, two house finches, and a grackle.

I wouldn't have mentioned that I love her because that would have made her uncomfortable.

I would have told her that I'd see her soon.

--

Current Location: NYC
Current Mood: melancholy
Current Music: Silence

Robert, my best friend and maid of honor, and I spent a very pleasant day in The Bronx.



We went to Wave Hill, a wonderful park owned by the City of New York. It had spectacular views of the Palisades:



Gardens and a green house:



According to the brochure Wave Hill House "has hosted guests, among them T.H. Huxley and Charles Darwin. Famous tenants included Theodore Roosevelt, Mark Twain, Arturo Toscanini, Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, visited during the British Delegation's tenancy from 1950-1956."

We then tootled over to City Island for some of their legendary seafood.



It was a wonderful day.
--

Current Location: New York City
Current Mood: happy
Current Music: Beethoven

Sunday I was walking up Laguardia Place, just south of Washington Square Park. There is a little ragged-looking garden there. It is enclosed by a fence and had lots of birds, sparrows mostly, pecking about in search of seeds.

Once I stopped focusing on the birds, I noticed that there was some forsythia blooming by the fence. Now forsythia is one of those things that signals that inexorable movement toward warmer weather.

The same can't be said for the snow drops I saw peeping out of the flower beds on 9th Street between Broadway and University. For the last two years warm January weather has encouraged these bulbs to grow too early and they've all been killed by the plummeting temperatures. I see that they are coming up again and this year I'm holding out hope that they will survive long enough to bloom. Careful inspection also revealed that the daffodils are rising as well.

Now if a beautiful Narcissus isn't enough to convince you, another sure sign of winter's passing is Spring Training. I don't follow baseball, but boy I get happy when sportscasters start mentioning the Yankees in Tampa, Florida.

--

Current Location: New York City
Current Mood: hopeful
Current Music: Silence

I have prism hanging in the window. Right now the sun is streaming in shooting little rainbows of light around the room. I put my hand up and caught one of them on my skin. It shoots me back to the living room in Clinton, NY where my grandmother lived and where I lived in junior high school and high school.

On the back wall there were two crystal candelabras. Each had a golden woman in a wide Baroque-style dress with the three candle holders coming up behind her head, almost like an elaborate hairdo. Three sided prisms hung down from the candle holders. When the sun shined through the windows, little multi-colored dots of light appeared all over the room. I used to love staring at them, making them decorate my hand or clothing. I used to move so that the beam of light caught my eye. Deepest blue, green, yellow, and red flashed across my retina. It was one of those small pleasures that I have tried to duplicate in the places that I live.

Seeing the colors on my palm today sent me back to those lost days in Clinton before my grandmother Helene died, before Aunt Carol died, before Aunt Jane died, before Uncle Bill died, before Aunt Marjory and Uncle Bob died, before Aunt Sally died, before Aunt Lucy and Uncle Leonard died, before Dad died and way before Mom died.

It's not that I was happy. It's not that I was safe. It's just that I didn't know that I'd ever be without those people. Today I am all too aware that I will be joining all of them, by-and-by. Back then I didn't know the frustration that comes with wanting.

Each loss was different. Some of the deaths affected me because I liked the person; some barely made a depression in the landscape of the day. Today, they all are adding up. Today there is just one person of that generation left alive, Uncle Roger. He is 95.

Today I am feeling more alone than I have before. Mom was a bridge back. She was memory. She was the repository of stories. She could straighten out my confusions. She was illumination. It's been one month since she died and I miss her.

--

Current Location: New York City
Current Mood: sad
Current Music: silence

My mother died last Tuesday. A blog entry doesn't do her justice. The immediate facts are that she had Multiple Sclerosis for years after being diagnosed in 1992-93. She was extremely independent and lived alone until she fell last July and had to be moved to the hospital. August 2008 she spent her 81st birthday in the hospital. She bounced from hospital to rehab and back again at least three times before we got her back home in October.

Once home she had 24 hour care and seemed for a short while to be improving, however, the MS was on the march. She was in great pain and as the disease progressed everything became more difficult.

In her final few days she was surrounded by her family and aware of her condition and circumstances. She made her own decisions every step of the way.

She died in absolute peace and tranquility on January 13th at about 9:00 AM.


From 2006. Back row: Michael, Deirdre. Front Row: Alison, Wilma, Cole, Dannie.


Her is a copy of her obituary. I'll post more about her in the coming weeks.



---------------

Wilma Beatrice Batchelder Sinnott, 81, of New Hartford, died peacefully at home on Tuesday, January 13, surrounded by her family. She was born August 21, 1927, in Leominster, Massachusetts, a daughter of Perley and Lillian Bowers Batchelder. She moved to Utica in 1952 and married the late John J. Sinnott III, Senior Vice President of the Bank of Utica, in May 1953.

Wilma served as president of the League of Women Voters (1960-62), acted as Finance Officer for Cornhill Neighborhood Improvement Project (1969), was the chairperson of the Charter Revision Commission (1970-71) and was a member of the Oneida County Historical Society. She also served on the Mayor's Advisory Committee for the Development of Utica (1969-71) and was a member of the Utica Zoological Society and the Utica Curling Club. She organized campaign volunteers for Dominick Assaro's 1968 mayoral campaign. Wilma ran a framing shop and the Rutger Gallery, a place where local and national photographers showed their work. Most recently she served on the board of the Resource Center for Independent Living.

She is survived by her three children, her son, J. Michael Sinnott and his wife, Piline, of Ft. Worth, TX, her daughter, Alison Sinnott of New Hartford, and her daughter, Deirdre Sinnott and her husband, Charles Petzold, of New York City. Wilma also leaves her grandson, Dannie Sinnott and his wife, Kathy, of Mattoon, IL, and one great-grandson, Cole Sinnott.

The family would like to extend their special thanks to the wonderful people at Oxford Home Care Services for their kindness and care in these last few months.

The funeral was held on Saturday, January 17, at the Dimbleby, Friedel, Williams & Edmunds Funeral Home, 13 Oxford Rd., New Hartford. Interment will be in St. Agnes Cemetery. Friends may consider a donation to the Oneida County Historical Society or the Community Foundation in her memory.

--

Current Location: New York City
Current Mood: contemplative
Current Music: Silence

I hate to spread rumors, but twice I've read that people believe LiveJournal may go under. I hate to loose the friends I've gained here. I'm on Facebook:
http://www.facebook.com/home.php?ref=home#/profile.php?id=697248311&ref=name

and I've got my own webpage:
http://www.DeirdreSinnott.com

So don't loose touch!

Current Mood: stressed

Rain is splashing the cuffs of my pants. My breath is visible in the chilly air. I'm pushing a hand truck through the streets of New York City trying to find the FedEx drop off center promised to me by a web page.

So why the hell am I worrying about not picking up the coin I thought I saw at the bottom of a puddle a block before?

In 2007 a friend of mine, Vinnie, blogged about his penny pickup program. He picked up evey coin he saw and kept a count. It was a good year for Vinnie, he got lots of jobs and plenty of decent breaks in showbiz. In 2008 he decided that it was too obsessive. Not such a good year it turns out. He's vowed to begin 2009 with a revival of the practice. He hopes it makes him lucky again.

I think of Vinnie when I see coins in the street. Last year I was having hip pain for the first time in my life and I decided not to stoop for anything under a nickel. Don't get me wrong. I'll stoop for jewelry. I've made several hundred dollars on gold chains and earrings I found on the street over the years. But the humble penny didn't seem to be worth it.

Also I'm not a big believer in pure luck. It seems that hard, persistent work brings with it more opportunities for luck. So how could leaving a few pennies on the ground be influencing anything?

Well it can't. So the fact that I told myself to pick up every penny doesn't mean I'm relying on some kind of mystical power to help me, does it?

On Monday night, I walked out of a writing class onto a cold Brooklyn Boulevard. I was chatting with a classmate about writing and careers and trying to mold the two things together. From the dark sidewalk, a glint of copper with the familiar shape and texture of the Lincoln Memorial caught my eye. I stepped off the curb intending to pick up the the penny I knew to be there. For a moment I could find it. Finally I saw the street lamp's light sparkle off the penny again. I explained my new promise, to never turn down the opportunity for free money if I could help it.

My classmate said to me, "That's supposed to be good luck right? Unless it's tails up."

Heads, tails, who cares? That penny found a home in my pocket. Now I'm just waiting for the luck to kick in.

--

Current Location: NYC
Current Mood: giddy
Current Music: silence

This Year I Hope To:

be a better blogger. I got kind of infrequent. I stopped reading the blogs of others. I stopped making comments on things I found interesting or amusing. I hope to remedy at least some of that.

write more. I guess that goes with the one above. Many times an idea I have for a blog entry can be expanded into an essay. Along with this goal is to submit more work. A friend of mine got a wonderful essay published in the New York Times. Her success taught me to aim higher. But no matter what, be it journal entry, blog, essay, or book, I've got to be in the chair writing.

lose some weight. I know, everyone has this one. I've been up and I've been down. I usually don't do diets, but try to change my eating life. Emotional upsets tend to translate into overeating. Right now that's right where I am. My doctor said that some of the problems I have, like arthritic hips and a fatty liver, are due to being overweight. So I'd like to try to eat less on a consistent basis.

be the best daughter I can be. My mom is very ill (my number one emotional upset). I'm doing my best to be there for her and myself. I know I'll have regrets, don't we all, but I'd like to do my very best to love her and support her as she endures the setback that she's had.

get out and speak more. I don't care if it's speaking to ten students in a high school health class or an auditorium full of college freshmen, I should be speaking about alcohol and drug addiction prevention more. Not only that, I need to be reading my work in public. No more isolating, I need to be out there talking.

be politically active and constantly educating myself about the world. This is more of a promise to continue. I will continue to read and participate in the 50bookchallenge. I will go to more demonstrations. I will continue to read newspapers, including the ones not on every newsstand. I will continue to make donations to causes I support.

stop spending so much energy on worry. It gets me nowhere. Planning is okay, but obsessive worry is useless.

forgive myself for anything I don't succeed in accomplishing.

--

Current Mood: contemplative

On Earth Day, I had an old maple cut down. The tree, large enough to hug and most likely more than a hundred years old, stood between my house and Florence's, the next house down the hill. For more than four years Florence mentioned her fear of the tree falling during the next storm. Although our valley is embraced by the Catskill Mountains, a protected little hollow, wild weather can pull at un-nailed shutters and rip away lawn furniture presenting it to the neighbors like baby toys.

The gust of a thunderstorm front moved along the woods, fluttering the leaves on one tree, then the next, and the next, hopping lightly on its way through the Beverkill/Willowemec Valley. Near the top of the maple, lifeless bows, stiffened by the lack of water, shook rather then bent. Branches as thick as my arm littered the untamed area between our houses.

"My house just got sided," said Florence referring to the gleaming vinyl that formed the building's new gray and red skin. "That tree's dying. I don't want your insurance to go up because of some damage."

Wild spring storms rushed through the Midwest. Headline News showed a photo of a sizable tree cradled on a collapsed roof. My maple had to go.

After spending Earth Day watching an "aerial specialist" climb the tree, hang from a strap, brandish his chainsaw, lower massive limbs on ropes, swing from side to side his body silhouetted in the sky, and bring the tree down piece by piece to a waiting crew of men who cut and stacked giant discs of bisected tree, I knew I'd have a Wood Day ahead of me.

Yesterday was Wood Day. Bob, a long and lean New York City transplant who is covered with tattoos, arrived at 8:00 AM with his log splitter hitched to a large red truck, and a cigarette dangling from his lips. Our agreement was that for a ridiculously low hourly wage he would split the entire tree and move it from Florence's lawn where it had sat for three months to my lawn for seasoning.

He arrived alone. "All my money's going to credit cards," he explained. "My other truck almost ran me over yesterday. I forgot to put it in gear and it rolled up behind me. Had to dive clear. Now the cab's got a big dent and windshield's busted. So there's no way I can hire a guy to help."

"I'm going to help you," I said. "I'll just get my gloves and safety goggles. Be right back."

The air was cool and the last wisps of fog were still hovering over the valley. Florence's lawn starts at the woods, stays flat for about ten yards, then slopes sharply, about a six foot drop, to the road.

My first idea was that I would wheelbarrow smaller cuts of wood down her lawn and up my steep driveway to the stone wall where I thought the timber had the best chance of uninterrupted sun. Then Bob began to move a section of the tree trunk out of the brambly wild area to the lawn. The piece was about 20 inches in diameter and 15 inches long and it rolled toward me as he pushed against the rough bark. He got to the top of the slope and gave it one final shove. It wobbled, diverting from its path toward the truck and waiting splitter, heading straight for Florence's freshly dug mailbox post. As it hit the asphalt and rolled up the slight grade, the log pivoted and landed in the center of the street on its flat side. Relieved, I hopped down the lawn and bent to pull it up and move it out of the road into a position that would block additional trunks from creaming the mailbox.

"Don't know if you can lift that," said Bob as I wiggled my fingers under the edge and hoisted it to a rolling position. "I guess you can." He shrugged and turned back to the stack of logs, pulling out the next wooden disc and moving it a few feet away from the top of the slope. As the air heated up, Bob and I established a rhythm, grunting against inertia, coaxing the wood down the hill toward the next step of the day.

"Glad you're helping," he said as we sat on overturned sections for a break.

"I can't see how you could do this alone," I said.

"It would take all day, but I could do it." His razor-cut flattop was flecked with wood chips and glistened with sweat. Blue and red and black and brown tattoo inks decorated his wiry arms. "Is that lady, Florence, out of the hospital yet?"

"No. She's in rehab still. I heard she was walking yesterday, so that's good news. Funny thing is that my Mom is in the hospital too. She fell, broke a few toes, and now is in rehab as well."

"She okay?"

"Well, she has MS, so the definition for okay changes. But she wants to get back home more than anything. I was just up there last week. It's hard."

My mother, determined to live alone, fell while trying to transfer from the bed to her wheelchair. I've watched to slow process of transferring. She struggles to get to the edge of her bed, plumb reddish legs sticking out from under her nightgown as her swollen feet dangle. Just her toes touch the ground. She reaches for her chair, checking to make certain that the wheel locks are secure. She rocks, gaining momentum, until she can pull herself off the bed and stands on wobbly un-straighten-able legs. She slowly pivots, stronger leg taking more weight, weaker leg following the baby steps as best as it can. When she senses that she's near the chair, she collapses into it with a groan.

"I took care of my dad till he died," said Bob. "It was both the best and the worst thing in the world. I'd do it again, but I won't allow my son to do it for me. He always had my back, my dad. Every time I got in trouble he was always there to bail me out, clean up the mess. Had to help my dad. I do it again. But my son, I can't make him drop his life like I did." Bob looked over at the wood that lay at the bottom of the hill. More than forty discs had tumbled down the incline, forming an unruly pile, waiting to be split.

"I'm gonna get a new tattoo on my back. It'll have the front view of the B-17 bomber Memphis Belle, he was on the flight crew for that plane in World War II. The wings'll stretch out across my shoulders. Then on one side I'll have the girl that was painted on its nose and the other side a picture of my dad. He'll have my back, just like he always did."

Bob finished his cigarette and we went back to work, rolling and lifting, splitting and heaving wood. It was Wood Day.

---

Current Location: Catskills
Current Mood: peaceful
Current Music: silence

I've changed, I can't deny it and it seems to be for the better. What's changed? The amount I drive and the way I drive. I have a house outside New York City. For the last few summers I've slipped away from my studio apartment to spend June in the Catskill Mountains.

I also like to save money, so in 2005 I bought a new Toyota Corolla, upping my miles per gallon from 25 on a used Ford Taurus to a promised 37 MPG. It was a number I could live with.

One more thing about me is that I've grown to love data. Once you begin to accumulate data it becomes important. My husband Charles and I kept a log of our gas usage. Each time we pulled into a station we noted the mileage, numbers of gallons purchased, and the cost. We also wrote down what state we bought the petrol in, just for laughs. We had no idea what might be done with this information, but we had it if we needed it.

Occasionally, if I happened to buy ten gallons of gas, I did the very painless math and figure out how the car was doing. It seemed to be within the specs promised, so I didn't worry. Until gas hit $4 per gallon I'll admit I didn't change, but now I have.

Here is the beauty of having the data:
                     Miles Driven / Gallons Used / Money Spent
June 2005      1,821.8            51.77                $109
June 2006       2,248.3           62                      $183
June 2007       1,803.4           54.75                 $162
June 2008       1,556              39.48                $162 

You can see that the amount I drive has dropped and I'm spending the same amount of money as I did in previous years. 
In 2005 the car averaged 35.19 MPG gas cost about $2.11. 
In 2006 I got 36.26 MPG and gas cost $2.95 per gallon.
In 2007 I got 32.94 MPG (I don't know why it was so low) and gas was $2.96.
In 2008 I got a whopping 39.41 MPG and the gas has averaged $4.08!

So how did I up my mileage per gallon so much? I'm driving slower, 55 MPH on the two-lane highway that connects the towns up here instead of 65. And on roads where there are three lanes I drive the speed limit 65. Believe me everyone passes me, but I've noticed that I'm not alone.

I am also starting slower, no more zooming around. My acceleration is much smoother and I don't jam on the gas unless there is some kind of situation I need to power out of. 

Can all this be frustrating? Yes. I used to count the minutes it took me to get from the house to the Lincoln Tunnel. I got it down to 1 hour 53 minutes, but that meant going 70+ MPH on the three lane highways. Now the trip is more like 2 hours 15 minutes. 

What does it all add up to? I basically got a bunch of free miles by driving in a safer manner. And I do really want to keep this lovely little spot I have in the country, so I'm trying to be a changed woman.

I do miss the zooming though. 

--

 

Current Location: Catskills
Current Mood: pleased
Current Music: silence

I've been wrestling with part of the yard for five years and by god I think I've got it!

It's hard to see, but this is the best early shot I have for what I now call the "side garden."



As you can just make out in 2003 it was completely overgrown, including sporting it's own willow.

I worked hard and pulled the brambles, goldenrod, and weeds so that I had a cleared area in 2005.



Just ignore the cats. They didn't lift a paw.

In 2006 I got help from an friend and pulled out a bunch of stumps.






Then tried to plant.



But I was mostly defeated by weeds and poor soil. (Add in a bit of laziness and too little mulch.)



I didn't do much better in 2007, so I finally got smart. In the fall I added humus and manure. I dragged 400 pounds of the stuff up there and covered the whole area.



Over the winter I thought about my problem. I also read several books on the subject of soil and finally decided I needed to take drastic action. In the spring I began to put in raised beds.







I wanted to plant early so I made row covers out of chicken wire and reemay. here you can see lettuce and Brussels sprouts.



I also tucked away potatoes in the upper right bed and various seeds in the bottom bed.



And things started growing.





This is, by far, the best I've ever done. And man it tastes good.

Better soil through adding poop, mulch, and bags of topsoil. I've done better weed management (so far), and got more time for my efforts with season-extending covers.

It's not that the garden evolved, my brain evolved.

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Current Location: Catskills
Current Mood: thankful
Current Music: silence