Long Bike Ride Part 2

There is an interesting abandoned house from the 1800's about 4.5 miles along the trail.

I think I like it better in sepia



Here is another view of the Canal



 Some lucky folks who had a house on Old Route 17 decided to stay there.  Here's one of them:

There are a great many things I love about the trail.  Please consider these two signs.  I'm not sure which one cracks me up more.  This one:

or this one:

I did not have an ummmm "bear encounter" on this trip.  Here is the view from Kelly's where I tucked into a Greek salad for lunch:





Long Bike Ride

On Saturday, I drove across the canal above via this bridge:

And across here

To this bike trail.  This was once Route 17, but they made a new 17 and turned this into a bike/hiking trail.

This was an unbelievable feast for the senses on Saturday.  A light breeze was blowing.  The piercingly sweet scent of flowering blackberries and honeysuckle made the 16 miles fly by.

The trail is bordered by the Great Dismal Swamp Canal, part of the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway.  I guess they call it "dismal" because the water appears black from the tanic acid from the trees.  The Canal is ANYTHING but Dismal.  The water is more like a sheet of black glass the reflects everything around it.

This area reminded me of Monet's work with lily pads at Giverny, France.

More to follow in Part 2.

Triangle Flower Bed

'

No matter what I put in this triangle flower bed, it didn't do well.  The spot is shady quite often during they day. There is a crepe myrtle tree off camera and the roots run under the bed, which didn't help.

I was reading one of those special interest magazines that was called "Cottage Gardens."  There were pages after pages of concepts called "Garden Rooms" where homeowners actually planned out outdoor rooms with park benches, bird baths, and other architectural elements.

I didn't have a lot of money to spend, so I settled on bright kindergarten colors and focused on some old chairs I had.  My neighbor, Nancy, rescued the cabinet hanging on the fence from the trash left out one Thursday night.

National Police Week 2011

In Valor There is Hope
I never talk about my law enforcement side of the house on this blog, but I was so moved today at the Portsmouth Law Enforcement Memorial service today that had to mark it somewhere, somehow.

Twelve department members, 11 officers and one crossing guard, have died in the line of duty in the Portsmouth Virginia Police Department.  The first African American police officer killed in the line of duty died in Portsmouth about a hundred years ago.  The most recent member to die in the line of duty was Officer Rick Spaulding in 2006.  Rick was a retired Coast Guard service  member and had been an auxiliary (volunteer) officer before joining the force as a paid officer.  He had a wife and family.

Congress designated this week to remember fallen law enforcement officers.  Over 19,000 officers have died in the performance of their jobs since the 1800's.  In this country, a law enforcement officer is killed every 53 hours.  Sixty thousand law enforcement officers are physically attacked in the performance of their duties every year.   Deaths in the line of duty are up 17% over 2011. 

Our keynote speak today was Dr. Jack Enter, a retired police officer, who had been providing departmental training on proactive policing.  His speech was short, but extremely poignant.   He relayed how history has found one of the first police officers to die in the line of duty in Pompei, which was over taken by the eruption of Mount Vesuvias (modern day Naples) in 79 A.D.

As archeologists were working to excavate the site, they were less careful in one part of the city, where people would have had enough time and distance from the eruption to survive.  They did not expect to find human remains.  Soon, however, a human foot was found and further digging revealed a Roman centurion with his breastplate and distinctive helmet still intact.  The judgment of the archeologists was that he died there because he stayed at his post, doing his duty until the volcano engulfed him.  Died at his post, in the line of duty.

The media loves to concentrate on

Evening Bike Ride to Olde Towne

I think this looks much more like somewhere in Europe than it does like a very favorite restaurant in my own hometown of Portsmouth, Virginia.   This should be in Vienna or Berlin or something.  They have some rocking cucumber salad and cooked red cabbage that makes me want to put on some lederhosen and yodel.

After having an entirely frustrating time working on an important Powerpoint presentation that the computer apparently ATE, I redid the three hours of work I lost.  A friend suggested that I go get a Starbucks.  I did just that, in the gathering shadows of the late afternoon.  I rode my bike instead of driving, along the Naval Hospital and the Elizabeth River. 

I love the light of this time of day, not the glaring harsh light of mid-day, but the more mellow colors that you see after 4 p.m.  Olde Towne is a fun area, not far by bike from my little neighborhood.  The Bier Garden in the pic is not too far away from Starbucks and considerably more quaint.  I love the way the vines grow all over the garden area.  

And by the time I got home, I was refreshed, invigorated, and nearly forgot about the computer.

A Cum Laude Miracle

This is my baby.  Surprised?  Me,too!  I never thought I'd have a six foot four inch African American son, but here he is.  He doesn't look that tall standing next to his girl?  Let me give you a hint, she just graduated from NC State, captain of the basketball team.  Did I give birth to him?  No, but I might as well have.

This is what he looked like when I first met him, just a young kid fooling around with my big wolf malamute hybred on Halloween:

Julius, child of my heart...my thinker, my court jester, my clown.  The kid who fell through the balcony from the second floor and landed standing on his feet hollering, "I didn't do it" as the railing crashed to the floor.  Julius who danced to "I Will Survive" in the spare bedroom so hard with his younger brothers that my dining room ceiling fell in.  Literally.

When Julius was about 11, he must have seen an Elvis movie with a female character named Claire.  Most people who do Elvis impressions say, "Thank you, thank you verrah much."  For years, Julius would say, "I love you, Claire" in a perfect Elvis voice to me as he left the house.

As he got older, his vocabulary expanded.  His voice got pretty deep after it changed and when he was particularly disgusted by something he'd say, "Miss Annie, that's riDICulous, it truly is."

After Julius went on a full scholarship to a private Christian University in Raleigh, NC, he sadly said to me, "Miss Annie, I don't come home much, because everyone I came up with is either dead or in jail."   It was a commentary on an entire generation of African American males.  Thank God he is in Raleigh.

Today I watched a miracle.  I watched Julius Gregory graduate with honors from Shaw University.  My Number 15, GO SHAW BEARS. He beat the odds.  He left the streets.  He starts his job coaching young people on Monday morning.  Thank you, Jesus.  Thank you verrah much.

Is Your Breadmaker Out in the Garage?



Where's your breadmaker?  Do you still have it?  Is it out in the garage on top of the old refrigerator in a laundry basket with a hole in the side next to the almost empty can of bug spray from last summer?  Bring it inside!

I bet you haven't used it in a while.  Don't worry, you can download the instructions from the Internet.  There are all sorts of fabulous recipes on line, here is a good place to start looking:  http://allrecipes.com/Recipes/bread/bread-machine/Main.aspx

So here's the secret about bread machines.  Bread cooked in a bread machine tastes icky because it is actually steamed and not baked.  However DOUGH prepared in a bread machine is a lot easier to work with  The little paddle on the inside mixes things very effectively and there's no mess on the counter.  The bread machine does a lovely job of letting the dough rise.  When your dough is finished, you take it out and pop it into the oven. 

I use my bread machine to prepare pizza dough about once a week.  I make a whole wheat crust and put Italian spices right into the dough. The dough process takes about an hour and a half.  Then I knead and form the crust.   I put the crust only into the oven and cook for half the recommended time.  This keeps the crust from getting soggy when the ingredients are put on top.

I take the pizza out, brush it with olive oil, add my vegetables and cheese and put it back in to finish. You can see the result above; this particular pizza was topped with sliced fresh Roma tomatoes, carmalized onions, mushrooms, and green peppers.  Another favorite combination is spinach, carmalized onions, red peppers, and feta cheese.

Grilled Cheese

We all have comfort foods, don't we?  They are the yummies that we gravitate towards when we are feeling puny or the weather is cold.  Nursery food, they call it in Great Britain.

I don't think you can do much better in the comfort food department than grilled cheese.  Humble you might say.  Sublime I say.

Yesterday was a frustrating day. You know, one of those times when you have to do five things to get one thing accomplished.  While I was preparing dinner, I had a very important phone call come in, the cordless phone went missing.  Then I cut myself chopping vegetables.  All rightie then, bring on the grilled cheese.

No expensive Brie, Gouda, or Chevre need aplly for this job.  Nope.  Just your basic individually-wrapped American cheese singles and some good quality whole grain bread.  Just the right amount of browning on each side in the skillet.  Too little...the sandwich is too soft.  Too much and it is burned.  Other than the weighty timing issue, the grilled cheese sandwich couldn't be more simple. 

I served my grilled cheese last night with homemade soup and orange slices.  Yikes, was that first bite of crunchy toasted bread and molten cheese the essence of perfectly balanced flavor and texture or what.  And comforting?  Boy howdy.

My grandmother, Helen, used to suggest that a "nice cup of tea" would make everything better.  I'm sure she was right, but last night, it was all about a nice grilled cheese sandwich.

Why I am not Martha Stewart

The other day I was hurrying out the door to the gym.  I noticed that the yellow roses in my elegantly tarnished silver pitcher (purchased at Goodwill for $3.25) needed to have the water changed.  No ordinary dime store vase for me, oh no, all my containers have to be chic, thrifted, special, vintage, or antique.  Thinking that this little chore would just take a moment, I put fresh water in an ironstone pitcher and filled the silver one.  And filled.  And filled.  My, I thought, that water must have really gotten low.  

Then I noticed that the water I was pouring in was pouring back out down the spout of the silver pitcher all over the dining room table, on the green silk runner, all over the napkins, and the green placemats.   Finally, it was developing into a puddle on the floor. It was a Martha Stewart moment for sure.

The next morning, I took a whole chicken from the freezer and left it in the sink to thaw.  About four, I decided to stuff the chicken full of fresh herbs and lemon slices and roast it.  Then I realized that I had frozen the bird with the giblets inside.  The chicken was frozen solid down the middle.  I had no other ideas for dinner.  I started running water into the cavity.  It didn't budge.

Then I had a brilliant idea. Needle-nosed pliers, that's it!  I got some and started pulling and pulling.  I was GOING to get that frozen giblet packet out.  I braced myself, concentrated, and gave a mighty pull. The pliers slipped off and the momentum caused me to smack myself right in the face.

And that, my friends, is why I'm not Martha.

Rest in Peace AT LAST Pride of Midtown

Engine 54, Ladder 4, Battalion 9

THE PRIDE OF MIDTOWN

Psalm 72:2

May He judge your people in righteousness, your afflicted ones with justice.
 
Finally, may you rest in peace.

Sunset on the James

 I had dinner here last night, a grilled steak salad and a nice chilly glass of Pinot with my mom, her cousin Marianne and Marianne's husband, Bill.  The sun was setting over the James River and the temperature was nearly 80 degrees yesterday.  Amazing.

Funny how things happen.  My mother has had a home at Kingsmill for over twenty years.  It is a resort and golf course with private homes built around it.  Marianne went exploring around and said, "Hey what about that restaurant on the River?"  I'm not sure what we all thought it was, but we'd never been there.  Just goes to show what you can see and find when you look at things from a new perspective.

I had that familiar pain when I saw my father's jacket hanging near the door on the way in. We leave it there.  The jacket is a sort of talisman or something, I notice we all touch it lightly from time to time.

Most of the time, I don't have to think that often about my father's death.  My mother and I did the talking on the phone, since my father was rather deaf.  I don't think he enjoyed talking on the phone even when his hearing was better.  They lived most of the year in Atlanta, so it was not unusual for me to go for periods of time without talking to him.

But when I walk into the house at Kingsmill and he is not in his old familiar spot on the couch rising up with a smile to give me a hug, I can't really push his absence out of my mind.  In some ways, the distance is good because I can carry on with my life.  In this way, however, it is bad, because I experience his death all over again every time I go through the door.

I'm kind of glad that we didn't discover the restauarant on the water until after he was in heaven.  This gives us a new memory to make with the family as it is now and not as it was.  Life goes on and God's mercies are new every morning.

Don't You Love Before and After's?

Okay, obviously the above is a "before" shot of a dollhouse that I found left out for the trash.  I'm always so eager to get started on a project that I often forget the "before" shot.  I nearly forgot again!  I had already started "aftering" the dollhouse and then remembered to run in for the digital camera.

The simple dollhouse made me sad when I rescued it.  Some "Papa Joseph" or "Daddy Tom" or plain ole Grandpa must have lovingly made it from plywood for a small girl he cared for very much.  He carefully cut some extra flooring for the kitchen and different colors of carpeting for the other three rooms.  My heart hurt to see it out there for the trash.   I felt like I was witnessing the Velveteen Rabbit story gone wrong.  I HAD to rescue the lonely dollhouse.   

Here's the after, the finished project, bolted to the endless weathered fence around the back yard.  This is on the front yard side, actually.  I thought the finished treatment gave the house some curb appeal.

Here's a close up on one of the cubbies or pukas as they say in Hawaii.  Since I lived in the Aloha State for many years, they are pukas to me, too:



Those are just Goodwill and garage sale things, painted in the three kindergarten simple colors I use outside the house. 

Ahhhhhhhh, I feel so much better.  This is a much happier place for Grandpa's loving work than the trash!  Honestly, I felt almost outraged that the dollhouse was there.

Blue Skies After the Storm

Whew!  Last night was a little scary, with a tornado warning and massive thunderstorms...all part of that killer storm that started out in Texas.  I had the basement door open and ready as a refuge and lit the oil lamps. 

We were very fortunate here in my town, but there were 7 deaths in our area.  God help the survivors in Gloucester, Virginia and northeastern North Carolina.

God's mercies are new every morning.  Today dawned a fresh spring day with blue, blue skies.  I headed to Starbucks on my bike.  I don't think I've mentioned lately here how much I love my vintage red bike with the basket in the front.  Forget about high-tech mountain bikes, stupid biking shorts, gears, speeds, making time...none of that works for me.

Just give me a pair of jeans and a hoody sweatshirt.  Let me peddle at my own pace, stopping to look at lovely gardens or porches with white wicker or gingerbread architecture out front.  I want to take pictures of the Craftsman-style cottage and surrounding fence, created with little round stones. The cottage and the fence both have the stone finish. Hansel and Gretel live there, not sure if you heard about that.  Want to see it?  Follow the trail of bread crumbs.

I don't care if the cool peeps in the Portsmouth Riding Group pass me by at all.  I see no reason to dress up like a court jester to ride my bike, let's just start there. 

Secondly, no offense to all men who love biking shorts, but I don't need to be able to see whether you are circumcised or not.  C'mon, you're not Lance Armstrong, you're just the former assistant city manager taking a bike ride on Sunday morning.  To be honest, men in bike shorts (and Speedos for pity's sake) all look like they're trying to smuggle plums.  TOO MUCH INFORMATION.  Go to Europe, they love that kind of thing.

So I pedaled in my modest fashion (but still got my heart rate up there) wending my way along Constitution to Peninsula to Spratley to Navy Avenue to Crawford to North to Starbucks.  Please note that there are no trendy names along the way containing words like Trace, Arch, Trail, or Crescent, instead of Street, Drive or Avenue, nor any neighborhood where all the street names are kinds of trees.  And none of the houses have two-story Palladian windows.  Just sayin'

So I had my vente three equal sugar free vanilla latte thanks to a sweet friend who put so much money on my Starbucks card (for my birthday) that it made me blush and read the New York Times.  This is Sunday afternoon for me this time of year.  I think it is pretty swell.

Wisteria

Happy Friday! 

This is the wisteria bush right outside my back door.  If you look very closely you can see my little Lulu staring at me as I take the picture. 

The wisteria vine is twined around another bush that blooms yellow at this time each year.  I have no idea what the yellow blooms are called.  However, the two gorgeous pastel colors mixed together makes me think of Easter.  I'm very pleased that someone long ago decided to grace my house with this beauty.  Thank you, thank you so much!

Wisteria blooms should be the flowers that grapes come from, don't you think?  Actually, the wisteria plant is part of the pea family, of all things!  The aroma as I go out the back door to play with the dog or hang laundry is piercingly sweet.  My wisteria is a little grace note in my day that I appreciate.

I Heart Mowing the Lawn

Okay, I don't have anything as fly as the Flymo, but I love mowing the lawn.  I really do.  I live on three city lots set on a corner, so there's a whole lotta lawn to love.

I love mowing the same way I love to iron.  To me, they're kinda the same.  The only difference is that you can iron and watch "Law and Order" rer-runs and still appear virtuous and busy.  One must always appear to be both virtuous and busy.

They're the same thing.  You kinda push your "machine" up and down and smooth things out.  The feel-good results are instantaneous.  Ahhhhh look, now doesn't that green row look tidy, neat, and oh-so-Leave-it-to-Beaver? 

It could be a green plaid shirt or my lawn, it doesn't matter.  These chores are methodical and predictable.  Well, aside from the occasional rock that flies up or a smocked bodice.  I didn't really need this parenthetical thought.  I think I just wanted to type "smocked bodice" which is a phrase I don't often use.  The Queen's dresser may use this phrase more than I.  Getting part of the task of either mowing or ironing done just makes you want to finish the whole thing.

Mowing the lawn smells good.  I love the smell of cut grass.  Ironing smells good too because I get this lavender scented item I call "sniffy stuff" at The Dollar Store,  It isn't spray starch. 

Just my thoughts from sunny Portsmouth, Virginia.  The back is mowed.  The front remains.  I have to make an apple crisp for my dear friend Joseph who was just in hospital.  I didn't forget the "the" in that sentence.  He is British and that's how he says it.  I am doing something exciting with a doll house and picking up a prescription.  I bring Lulu with me in the Jeep to go through the Navy Rx Drive Through and she get's a dog treat.  I'd like a little chocolate cupcake with pink frosting, but the Navy thinks that's a little over the top.  Have a good day.

Don't Let Her Sweet Look Fool You

So you think this is a cute looking dog, do you?  I beg to differ. 

Meet the tyrant of the household; 18 lbs of teeth and attitude.  She just knocked over the lentil soup I had left out for lunch and ate it.  I don't even want to think about the digestive celebration which will ensue in about six hours.

She is smart. Little Bit is aware of the exact geographic center of a king-sized bed in case you might be thinking of bathing her. And on that bathing subject, she's filing a complaint with PETA.

This is the only dog I have ever encountered who growls when she wishes to be petted.  I'm not quite certain where or how she picked up this little trick.  I keep trying to tell her that supplication is much more effective.  She tells me she is a student of Donald Trump and finds intimidaton works better for her. And that I'm fired cause her kibble just isn't cuttin' it.

Little Bit, a deceptively adorable name by the way, picks fights with big dogs.  She's like the little guy that always starts the bar fight by sucker punching the meaty football player.  She'll bark like a ferocious lunatic until the offended dog wanders near.  Little Bit has always been walked along with bigger brothers or sisters over the years.  If it looks like the other dog might be trouble, she casually walks underneath a taller canine sibling.  She keeps calm and carries on, just like Queen Mary.

Or should I say the Queen of Sheba, because Little Bit must occupy the choicest spot in any given room. She searches out the freshly-washed quilt on the back of the sofa, the newly-changed bed with the sheets dried on the line, or a new living room chair, and parks herself right on it. She owns it, you see. It is hers by the divine right of kings or should I say queens? She is, after all, Little Bit. Where else should she lie down?

Saturday

 I like to go in to Pier One, but not for the reason you might think.  It is rare that I buy anything there.  For the most part, I think Pier One is really over-priced.  You can occassionally find things on sale.  No, the real reason I enjoy browsing in Pier One that I greatly enjoy looking at how they stage and display items.  They do a lovely job of it.  Sometimes I get ideas for table settings.  Other times, I see an intriguing color combination that I might not have put together.

Today was different.  Today that sweet tray with the blue bird on it had MY NAME ON IT.  And now it is mine.

Wednesdsay

This antique chair once had a caned seat that someone's bottom eventually wore clean through.  The chair didn't sell at a friend's yard sale, so I rescued it and painted it red.  I should buy stock in Krylon Spray Paint...I really should. 

I found a basket that fit right in the seat.  I drag a chair like this out every spring.  I'm going to find a nice grapevine wreath for the fence and create one of my little outside "rooms."

I filled my "fresh flowers" container that is made with salvaged materials, including part of an old staircase.  I keep it full of something April to November...pansies, geraniums, mini-pumpkins, etc.

As my grandmother Helen used to say, "it's a good drying day."



White Roses

If I could have a rose for every time I thought of you, the world would be empty of them.