HAMMER TIME

PUTTING ON MY BIG PANTS

This is not your ordinary how-to article although if you want to learn how to drill a hole in concrete this shouldn't disappoint. We've spent the last half of the pandemic working on laying out and establishing our backyard gardens. There's now a potager, a cutting flower garden, a new deck, an oval fire pit patio, an extended grilling area and a refurbished lavender garden all in various states of completion. We've never been the type to start and finish one project before we start another.

Since the raised planting beds had to be built and the surrounding areas had to be leveled, lined and layered with pea gravel before we could start planting we are just now beginning to see some sprouts.  With a very short growing season in Wisconsin this is going to be a race against time to see the fruits of our labor and to see if we are going to qualify as true gentlemen gardeners or paupers from the unexpected cash output necessary to qualify as top echelon gardeners. 

Cultivated gardening is a very civil activity separated in tone and fashion from farming, the hardcore bib overall version of growing crops. Gardening done with kidskin gloves, a straw hat from Saks summer collection and a stylish a pair of Wellies is the mark of  the well tooled hobbyist. Those tools for working a garden are mostly miniature and dainty by comparison to what a farmer uses. The essentials you need are a trowel, a hand rack, secateurs for cutting back the roses and something comfortable to kneel on for the in ground planting or a cushioned stool if you're dealing with raised beds. The heaviest tools a gardener might encounter are a shovel and a spade or a rake for leveling out the pea gravel. Anything beyond that is usually hired out to those whose lives depend on doing the dirty work. There's a vast difference between poking your finger in the dirt to deposit a seed and drilling a hole in the ground to deposit a fence post.

I actually don't like gardening. For me it's just one more responsibility that never ends. Sure the results are rewarding. You've made something grow. You've created a vibrant hairy orange carrot from a little tiny seed, but to get that carrot that you could have bought for pennies at your local Piggly Wiggly you needed to spend hours weeding, fertilizing, nurturing and watering it at a cost well beyond the a supermarket version.  

Gardening has been my partner's passion and wanting to be supportive I've tried to be there when needed, mostly to do what he doesn't want to do or thinks he can't do.  As hard as I've tried to avoid most aspects of this caretaker's role I've still been obliged to take on my position in the rotation schedule of who's day it is to spend the hour it takes to water all these needy little plants. Right now the task has it's positive moments of solitude but once summer moves into full swing and mosquito season begins the task and the difficulty of aiming a hose or toting a watering can while swatting those pesky little stingers will take any joy of gardening and turn it into torture.

I am thankful that Wisconsin does not seem to have the No-See-Um version of blood sucking insects we had at our weekend home in New York's Catskills region. Bites from them would cause me to balloon and fester for weeks. Back in my gardening days in the Catskills I had to purchase a beekeeper's outfit of gloves and headgear to protect myself when outside playing my supportive role as assistant gardener first class. For some reason these bugs had an affinity for me but they left Rick completely alone.

My family, sick of hearing me complain about my assistant garden role, has steered me toward other outside tasks to placate my resistance to the nurturing tasks most gardeners enjoy. I have become the stone layer. I tote the dirt. I layout the footprint for the gardens and then rake and level the dirt base of the gardens and patios before laying the fabric barrier and then spreading the pea gravel and edging the spaces with tumbled granite pavers. For a sissy boy this has been a tremendous boost to my masculine inner identity. But for all this machismo I drew the line when asked to attach a galvanized window well to the house's concrete foundation that would make another raised planter for a painted iron trellis we found at a garage sale. I fought this one tooth and nail, literally. Drilling has never been my forte. A butterfly anchor scares me to death. I had to work really hard to convince myself that my doing this wouldn't bring the house tumbling down, or that we wouldn't end up with my making so many holes in the wall that it would look more like the bullet riddled walls of London during the Blitz. 

The decision ended up being made for me. We couldn't find a handyman willing to come to my rescue unless we were willing to wait till the snow starts to fall.

From there my approach was to go straight to Google to find a tutorial on putting a screw in concrete. You can find anything on Google. I went straight to" See Jane Drill" and I didn't make that up. Nothing like a woman to teach me how to screw. First she showed me my options for screws. There were three kinds: removable screws, permanent sleeve anchors, and permanent drive anchors (the only one meant specifically for concrete).  The drive anchor seemed the logical choice and the least likely to go wrong. I would need to drill a hole, clean the hole out and then pound my screw into the hole securing the window well to the wall. Easy Peasy, right? Eight tiny screws, that's all I'd have to do. I was starting to feel my mojo until Jane pulled out the big guns. The only way I was going get those screws into the concrete was with a hammer drill...a hammer drill. All my confidence dribbled down my leg. 

So here's the deal: it was sink or swim, drill baby drill or succumb to sissydom. I took a deep breath, pulled up my big boy pants and grabbed the hammer drill along with our vacuum cleaner to suck out the drilled dust and a chopstick wrapped with a piece of green tape to indicate the depth of the hole necessary for each screw to penetrate the wall to its maximum length.

I put on my gloves (the worn cloth ones, not the kid glove kind) and started the simultaneous action of drilling and pounding. What a rush! Perhaps a larger man could have held this piece of burning metal without vibrating like a plastic plate piled with jell-o on a two-year-old's lunch tray. The process was to simultaneously drill and pound, then suck the resulting dust out of the hole with the vac until I could stick the chopstick into the hole and have it reach the green tape marker. After I did it once I was pretty confident that I could do it seven more times without messing up. Amazingly I did it having acquired several blisters I displayed for all to see as proof of my heroic effort. Then came the test: would the holes I had drilled line up with the holes in the galvanized metal window well? Measure twice, drill once and success came my way. It was now just a matter of putting the well in place and pounding the permanent drive anchors with their accompanying washers into the wall using an actual hammer. 

Sometimes a real wave of accomplishment can come from the most mundane activities. This one was not mundane for me. It was stepping over a line in the sand. You never know what you're capable of doing until you try. I may not have a green thumb or an interest in developing one but I now know I can conquer concrete with a drill hammer and that opens up a whole new aspect of my self-image. Watch out all you HGTV superstars. Lee is out there.

REFLECTIONS ON FATHER'S DAY, FATHERHOOD AND WHAT IT ALL MEANS TO ME

Father's Day means many things to many people and I think that is because Fathers come in many shapes, sizes, guises and demeanors.  My relationship with the concept of the word Father is a complex one, not complicated but complex.  You see I am neither a biological father nor did I grow up knowing my biological father. My history might make me somewhat unique. It might give me a perspective on fatherhood that fosters an insight that few others have but does that really matter?  It's what I know. It's my reality. There are others whose knowledge of fatherhood comes with a story outside the normal. There is the so named "step" Father and in many families the step means nothing at all.  Many uncles step into the roll of father and for those kids uncle is father indeed.  And how many single mothers' best friend takes on the mantle of father? What really makes a father?

When I was young I didn't know my father Raymond all that well because he was so dedicated to the welfare of our family he worked so much.  He was often out the door by 5 am and not home until almost midnight.  As life got more financially stable Daddy was around much more and with this additional time to spend together we got to know each other and our bond grew very strong.  Now Daddy was very handy but I didn't pickup his mechanical prowess though my love for gardening is all because of him.  His roses and dahlias were astounding, his knowledge of shrubs and trees was encyclopedic and I defy anyone to come up with a summer's treat tastier and more sensual than taking a salt shaker into the garden to feast on a sun warmed, freshly plucked tomato.  My Daddy was always supportive and proud of me even when in my early forty's I came out to him because I too wanted to become a father with my loving partner Lee hoping for my father's approval and acceptance.  I never should have even questioned.

Still all my life something in the back of my mind was always nagging at me, I mean something more than my own homosexuality.  I didn't look anything like my four siblings, I seemed to be treated differently than them, no not in a bad way, hardly in a bad way at all just somehow different.  I even remember asking my oldest sister if I was adopted.  It wasn't until my own daughter was born that the answer to this nagging question came.  Mother had been dead for nearly 5 years and I was for some reason alone at our house in the country.  I received a phone call from my brother who told me a man who claimed to be my "real" father tracked him down and wanted to connect with me.  Of course I gave him permission to divulge my telephone number to this man.  Minutes later the phone rang.  "Hello, is this Rick?"  "Yes" I answered.  Rick this is Mike so-and-so and I'm certain that I am your real father".  We talked for a few minutes, him telling about the affair with my Mother and that he had always loved her.  Then came "the" question.  "Can I ask you a question?"  "Yes".  "Are you gay?"  "Yes" I responded "why do you ask?"  "I can tell by your voice."  My knees buckled, his arrow had hit my Achilles heel.  In school I had always been teased that I "talked like a girl". I remained silent as he went on to tell me that he had a granddaughter who was gay and he had disowned her because he did not approve of such a "lifestyle".  Still he proceeded, he was dying and because he had loved my Mother so much he wanted to leave me some money.  Still stunned, anger and rage building at the audacity of this man came my retort: "I have no idea who you are but Raymond Shaver is my Father and always has been and another thing you are not half the man he is."  I slammed down the telephone receiver and sat in silence picking up all the pieces then putting them together.

 

My own chance at fatherhood had come some short time before that enlightening phone call.  25 years ago, after a few years of trying to adopt on July 1st, against our lawyer's advice, Lee and I boarded a flight to San Antonio, Texas.  Emmy's Birth Mother had requested we be with her at the birth.  Our lawyer was strongly opposed to this idea citing how devastating it would be should the mother back out at the last minute.  Still we had promised and so we went.  July 4th was the due date but doctors valuing golfing and vacation over nature induced labor on July 2nd.  It was an agonizing day.  Watching and waiting.  Finally the doctor decided it best to discontinue the oxytocin given to stimulate the contractions and speed the labor and subsequent birth.  Lee and I retreated to our hotel with anxiety and expectation still running high.  At six am the next morning we received a call that they were going to induce labor once again and we should come to the hospital, oh and by the way, the mother would like us to bring a six-pack of Dr. Pepper.   Laughter added levity.

Nurses and the doctor came and went and finally at 11:20 Central Time our daughter Emmy was born.  I always describe it as if she swam out of the womb, eyes wide open looking like a very agile dolphin.  When I asked the nurse if I could hold her she answered, "Of course you can. She's your daughter". I burst into tears. The rest is history and what a wonderful history it's been.  There has been no greater blessing in my life than becoming a father and Lee and I celebrate Father's Day every day of our lives knowing how lucky we are to be dads.

SPRING CLEANING: THE FIREPLACE

LETS GO WILD

Spring's here; at least we hope so. It's Wisconsin and winter can still make a mockery of all our outside flowerbeds well into June. Yet inside the windows are open letting in that sweet smell of spring. The logs in the fireplace have been burnt to ash and the ashes have now all been swept away. The issue is what's next. You can always leave the hearth empty until winter rolls around again or you can use it as an opportunity to do something wild. After the pandemic we all need to let loose a little.

Lets start easy. A simple coat of paint and color can hide the ash marks and bring some color where fire once hid.

If balloons are not your thing then chose your own balls. We found someone who stuffed their fireplace with vintage croquet balls. Highlighting a collection of objet d'art, or anything you didn't have a place to showcase before has potential as becoming the centerpiece of your focal fireplace.  

When the flue's been closed, the outside temperature is hovering around ninety and the hearth's been cleaned but you want to light a romantic flame, think about this. Fill the fireplace with candles and let the real heat come from what's happening in front of the hearth.

I'm not trying to channel the book burners of yore but here's a solution for what to do with your overflow book collection. Using the firebox as an extension of your library can be a beautiful way of showing off your J.K. Rowling and Vladimir Nabokov collection.

If you've got a green thumb let it shine in the hearth. Springtime is filled with flowers and that means it's time to throw out the plastic lilies and put a pot of real ones in that closed up winter firebox.

Those that don't have a wood shed and not many of us do can use their firebox as a place to store the wood that didn't get burned during that last cold day. The problem here is the wood can't be just any wood. You're going to have to step it up with even cuts and clean timber to make this work.

The cleverest transformation I was able to find was a dog lover's dream. What better place to let Fido sleep than on a cushy bed tucked in his own little firehouse palace?

I'm always short on space so finding an extra mini-room no matter how small is a bonus even if I have to give it up when snow once again begins to fall.

THE GALLERY

Two Women and a Cat, Wallace Nutting, photographer

NO MOW MAY

BEES AND BEEHIVES

I like to think I'm environmentally cognizant but apparently I have a few things to learn. On May first the first in a string of comments popped up on the email feed on our neighborhood communication tool know as the Nextdoor Digest. It had to do with bees, mowing your lawn and the accusation of murder. There was one neighbor who had a lot to say. Here's how it went:

"I heard a lawnmower going across the street. I went over and told the lady that I bet she hadn't heard of the "No Mow May" policy. I assured her she wouldn't be fined. She, immediately, answered, "You mean about the bees!" So, it's obvious she knew about the policy and the reasons for it. Her defense was that her neighbor had, already, mowed and that she "couldn't" (wouldn't) wait to mow. People know better than what they are doing. Pollinators are getting it from all sides! Pesticides, banned in Europe, are used here. It is thought that herbicide residue remains in the corn syrup, used to replace their stolen honey. Small wonder, in wide areas of our country, over 90% of hives have "collapsed"--that's to avoid saying the bees all died!"

When you start out by insinuating your neighbor is a murderer seems like you should be expecting some response. This was the type of comment that kind of demands a reaction and just like that the neighbors started hitting their keyboards. What my initial furrowed brow and inquisitive mind wanted to know was when the neighbor said that "she heard a lawnmower going across the street" was that driverless mower headed for her yard? Was this an act of neighborhood warfare? 

 The first string of words to collectively tie themselves together on my laptop's screen were polite, non-threatening, and merely inquisitive

"Is this a policy or a recommendation? "Policy" makes it sound as though people aren't allowed to mow as opposed to shouldn't mow."

Let the debate begin. With the question out there, the gauntlet had been tossed. The defense of the concept was the first to hit the reply button.

"Participating in #NoMowMay can have a significantly positive impact on bees, according to a 2020 study. This study measured floral and bee richness and abundance with impressive findings: yards participating in No Mow May had three-times higher bee species richness and five-times higher bee abundance than nearby parks that had been mowed"

"I think all the creeping Charlie, violets and dandelions are so beautiful. Who is there to impress???

Clearly this weed lover hasn't met us. We are the kings of curb appeal and we are definitely out to impress. Nothing makes us smile more than a car stopping or in a few incidents a car actually passing by then backing up to shout out how much they loved our front garden

Good curb appeal makes for good neighbors and we've gone so far as to dole out free design guidance to a few of our neighbors who have asked for our help with their curb appeal

After the pros of No Mow May were danced across the internet it didn't take long for the other side of the coin to show its face

"No way can I avoid mowing my backyard. With two good sized dogs, long grass makes cleaning up after them a gross mess."

"So which one of you is going to mow my yard for free June 1 when it's almost 2 feet tall?"

" May is one of the fastest growing months! If I did not mow in May, there is NO WAY I would be able to get my mower through it."

" I mowed my lawn but I still have dandelions and violets. I don't want my neighbors calling the city on me"

The vitriol did manage to take what I now assume was an unintentional  break and like any good novel added a touch of light-heartedness to the dialogue:

"We decided to do a mullet lawn for May :) Short in the front for "curb appeal," long in the back for the pollinators, chickens, and daughters that love bringing me dandelion bouquets"

We did the "mullet too. We mowed the terrace to keep the City Happy and leave (sic) the backyard a short meadow. Does that work?"

The mullet concept was a bad idea in the eighties. I haven't turned the corner on this one. It still seems like a bad idea to me even when it comes to a look for your lawn.

The mullet wasn't the only fashion statement some neighbors were willing to suggest.

"It's really challenging to mow once the grass is super tall. Ours was getting out of control so we had to mow or it would be impossible to get through. Our option, if you have to mow, Is to leave the dandelions and violets around the edges and just mow the really long grassy areas in the middle."

I hate to make so many hair analogies but come on, clip the center and leaving the edges go wild is not a great look.

I get the message and the reason why "No Mow May" is something we all need to be made aware of. Bees are a very important part of our ecosystem but minimizing their culinary appetite to dandelions and creeping Charlie seems a little unfair.

Neglecting your turf grass lawn and allowing it to be overrun with weeds, in the long run, isn't a healthy option for your yard.

If you  are truly concerned with your communities bee population maintain some native plantings, don't use harmful herbicides and keep your flower beds blooming for not just the month of May but for the entire growing season. The bees will be very thankful and so will your lawn. But most importantly don't try to demonize a neighbor or you might be the one getting stung.

THE GALLERY

Ronald Fisher, Beekeeper, Davis, California, 1981, Richard Avedon, photographer, represented by Pace Gallery, New York

 

HOW WE EAT TODAY

SERVICE OR SELF-SERVE

You may think this is a post about nutrition and if so you would be very wrong.

I love cultural history and especially the history of food, manners and methods of cooking and eating.  Many of my friends find my choice of reading material a bit odd but if it they have a question about food, cooking etcetera I’m their first stop.  Now I don’t know all there is to know, god no, that’s why I continue to read but I’ll take on any of them in a game of cultural trivia.

When most Americans sit down for a meal, that is if they indeed sit down for a meal together, it is usually served “family style” where all the food is placed on the table and each person helps themselves.  This style is very much akin to “service a la francaise”  employed by European and American upper classes until sometime in the middle to late 19th century.  Though similar in style to today’s family style it was a much more elaborate, even formal affair.  It consisted of many courses eaten in a particular order but all set out at once on the table and arranged much like a centerpiece.  Needless to say once you got to the final courses some were cold.

By the late 19th century service a la francaise gave way to “service a la russe” where each course was presented in order hot from the kitchen passed around and offered by a servant.  This required the need of one or more footmen.  Obviously unless you were an Astor or a Vanderbilt the evening meal was somewhat of a free for all as it was in my home growing up, though certain civilities were expected.

Today many people when entertaining opt for a buffet style spread of food which really is much like service a la francaise.  Obviously it is easier, less formal and allows each person to pick and choose whatever they want to eat and as well as the portion.  

When in a restaurant we are actually dining in the style of service a la russe though I’ve yet to see any footmen, arrogant waiters maybe but no footmen.

Before the recent Covid pandemic most of our lives were hectic and too many of us, me included, took to eating on the go, standing up and even in our cars.  I blame the rise of the “drive-thru” window!  

My first memory of ever eating in the car was when I was about six years old and my family journeyed down to Florida for some “fun in the sun”.  On the way we stopped at a “drive-in”, we all ordered hamburgers, French fries and a coke.  The meal was delivered on a metal tray that somehow hooked onto the door of the car.  What a marvel!

As an interior designer in order to meet the needs and desires of my clients it is necessary for me to become intimate to how the individual, couple or family lives.  Though a formal dining room is always a demand I’ve come to know it is rarely used.

If the meals are taken at a table it is usually in the breakfast room or kitchen.  Many clients request counters with stools in the kitchen work area for eating. 

TV trays which were popular in the 1950’s and 60’s are back.  I confess our family does this many nights.  This will horrify our dear friend Adam but then he’s a Brit and insists the plates be warmed before bringing them to the table.  

Again TV has become so ingrained in our lives and for some “dinner and a show” is an evening must raising the need for choosing the right coffee table to allow for such an activity.  

There are even high/low versions on the market which look like a typical cocktail table but then raise and “scissor” the table into a height and position allowing for dining from the sofa.  Again I fear if Adam reads this his wife JoHannah will have to pick him up off the floor.  

Finally there is the “Breakfast Tray” very popular in the 1920’s and solely used by the female gender - real men don’t breakfast in bed.  Downton Abbey fans and Emily Post aficionados will be well acquainted with this archaic indulgence.  Mrs. Post's early etiquette books even instructed how the tray should be laid out.

But believe it or not many people ferry their meals on a tray to their beds to feast in front of the evening TV line-up.  I admit red faced to this practice and once again urge my beloved friend JoHannah to pick Adam up off the floor!   

THE GALLERY

Italian Plums, After G.G., 2015, Paulette Tavormina, photographer, represented by Robert Klein Gallery, Bosto