A New Year...

It's 2012, so I'm thinking that if the world is going to be ending soon, I should probably get back to leaving my legacy for the ant people to read after we're all decimated.

Anyway, to my readers from last year, I apologize for my rather lackluster conclusion to last year's blog - I know I kind of faded off mid-August (okay, mid-June) and you never heard from me again, but this year I can definitely say that I'm a changed woman. I'm a Mrs., after all! Well, maybe I'll still be the same old flake I've always been, but at least I come with more jewelry this time around.

The good thing is, that with a year's experience under my belt, gardening this year should be a piece of cake. I've learned a few things the hard way, but was able to rake in heaps of vegetables despite the complications.

August of last year was so busy that I never had time to blog; don't get me wrong, I desperately wanted to tell you all about my conclusion to the summer, but weddings don't plan themselves, and thus, I was swept up into floral arrangements and found myself looking at the calendar and it was June 2012.  The end of August, naturally, brought the most surreal of experiences of my life thusfar - the pinnacle of culture, the climax of my lifetime achievements.  Yes, I experienced the great, great, Great Minnesota Get-Together.  The Minnesota State Fair. 

I was called up by a friend of mine who is from Minnesota, who informed me that I couldn't very well live more than a year in the Land of 10,000 Lakes without attending at least one Fair.  So I agreed to accompany her to the Fair, because she baited me with promises of things like Wine Ice-Cream and people-watching like I'd never seen before.  We hopped on a bus, and the next thing I knew, I was being swept up into the crowds, thrusting forward into a land of bizarre foods, strange fanny-packs and fake roads.  Yes, there are many deep-fat-fried delicacies, most of which are on sticks, but this is something that I was completely prepared for - it was the menagerie within the Fair that I was most unprepared for. 

I guess I should preface this story with the show that I watched a few days before my excursion to the Fair.  It was a special on the local news, which I was initially not paying much attention to.  The newscaster was talking about the Fair, and how that very day they were exhibiting the pigs, which caught my attention, because, well, who doesn't love a pig? There was a boy, maybe 9 years-old, being interviewed for the program, and he was bragging about his pig, Gilbert, and how he was going to win the blue ribbon.  As the newscaster interviewed him, the pigs paraded in the background, showing off their grace, their strength, and best of all - the cajones on these pigs!  I have never seen something so obscene on the early morning news.  I hate to go into too much more detail, but it was like two fleshy water-balloons bouncing around, it was horrific!  I felt like any place that had pig testicles that enormous and on display was certainly someplace I had to be.

We paid our admission, entered the grounds, and were shuttled through the crowd into a huge barn, where I ran into some friends from work.  On a side note, I never really believed in the whole, "It's a small world" thing until I moved out here.  There was an awful lot of commotion going on in the center of the barn, and there was stadium seating around the area, where people had all gathered to watch something clearly captivating.  I stood on the risers, and to my horror, there, in the middle of hundreds of people, on closed-circuit television monitoring, people pressed against the fence, was a cow, GIVING BIRTH. 

Now, I'm all for a good time.  I really am.  I've made fun times out of a trip to Shop-Rite.  But something tells me that this cow was not having a good time, and that something was the blood-curdling squeals she let out on regular intervals.  And as if that wasn't enough, her bulging, dripping rear-end was swinging to and fro with little calf hooves protruding, while young children sat with their faces literally centimeters away from the orifice.  My friends and I dubbed this the "Splash Zone," and tried to stay far away.  People began cheering when they saw that the little calf was progressing into the world of public humiliation and spectacle, and the cow continued to groan.  Finally, the baby calf slid onto the ground, rolled around in the hay a few times, and everybody went on their way after a few hoots and clinks of glasses.  It was, in my opinion, the strangest experience of my life.  Imagine if human people had to go through such an ordeal?  It would be called TLC and it would be on my TiVo.

The remainder of the Fair included a rodeo, some deep-fat-fried Hot Dish on a stick (which is a casserole, for those of my East Coast fans), and deep-fat-fried pickles.  I don't know where those pickles have been all my life, but I'll tell you where they'll be for the rest of it, and that's in my mouth.  If you'll notice in this story, I've intentionally capitalized the "F" in Fair, because it is, in my opinion, the best place that I have ever been.  Happy, fat, crazy people all standing around eating fried foods and watching animals in various states of sexual reproductivity, that's my idea of a banner day.

My mother is coming out this year, and I am insisting on taking her to the Great Minnesota Hoe-Down, or whatever they call it.  I can't wait to see the look on her face when we get to the Swine Pavilion.

Deer Repellant

Ted and I were gone for a few hours one Saturday recently, and when we came back to the house, there were hoof prints all over the garden. Our largest tomato plant had 4 green tomatoes on it when we'd left in the morning, and when we returned, they'd all been eaten. Remarkably, there was nothing else touched, leading me to believe that we'd probably come home and frightened him away before he'd gotten the chance to do some real damage.

On Memorial Day weekend, a few of Ted's and my friends were over, playing catch in the backyard, bean bags (or as they call it on the East Coast, Cornhole). As we entered our second round of a competitive bocce game, a young buck decided to make his entrance as an obstacle as we played. Sauntering over the fence, he moseyed his way into our backyard, prancing right between our small group and the group of balls that we were aiming at. Remarkable as he was with his budding antlers and graceful presence, he was actually in the way of us finishing our game - and he wouldn't move! He stood there for close to five minutes, eyeing us down, watching to see if we'd make the first move, when he finally got bored of the contest and strode on towards the neighbors'. He jumped the fence as though it were a mere blade of grass, and carried on through the neighborhood.

After all of this, it became evident that we needed to do something about this wayward gentleman. Lithe, though he was, and probably very handsome in his circle of friends, he needed to stop eating my plants. I Googled "ways to get rid of deer," at which point I was greeted with many websites arguing the efficacy of a .22 gauge versus a crossbow. I was picturing myself, poised over the deck bannister, cradling a military assault rifle, cackling as I sprayed haphazard bullets into the poor, unsuspecting youngster. I imagined the black eye I would inevitably get after the recoil shattered my cheekbone. I envisioned myself wearing a racoon-skin hat, picking my teeth with a wheat blade, wearing overalls and belching loudly while sitting on a tree stump. I honed my search. "Deer Repellant." This yielded more appropriate results. Suggestions for items like capsaicin, flashing motion-sensor lights, water guns and the like all came into view. There was a reccomendation for something sold at Home Depot, and I figured, if it's sold at the Home Depot, it's got to have a Questions/Comments number that I can call when the substance ultimately fails.

There are several different varieties of so-called Deer Repellant at the Depot, and I put one in my cart that had a happy picture of a deer on the front. They probably took that photo right before they sprayed the plant with that repellant. I looked closer at the bottle, and it said, "For flowers and non-edible plants." Good thing I read it, because I started to think it might be Deer-a-cide after reading some of the ingredients. And what can kill a 100-lb deer could probably kill a 100-lb me. Just kidding, I don't weigh 100-lbs. Actually, for all some people reading this might know, I do. Yes, 100-lbs, 5'9'', and I am an expert marksman.

Anywho, I found the stuff that you can spray on edible plants, and bought the largest container that I could find. I probably drastically overestimated how much I would need, but one thing I hate is running out of stuff. That is why I am a good candidate for wholesale stores like Costco and BJs, and why I will probably never run out of powdered taco seasoning.

I read the instructions online for deer repellant, which seemed to indicate that you have to rotate the method by which you assault the deer every 2 weeks. They apparently can get used to a sensory insult within 2 weeks, and then they will overlook a bad taste, bright light, or foul smell. So as I understand it, I'm going to have to switch to waking up at 2am at some point in the next few days, running outside in my pajamas, and sounding off a fog horn in the general direction of my garden. This sounds like fun for all, especially my neighbors.

So I brought the tank of repellant out into the backyard to open-er-up. I followed the instructions on the container - open childproof lid, remove quality freshness seal, puncture inner lid with spraying device, turn sprayer on, spray plants. Only, when I removed the quality freshness seal, the freshness sprayed absolutely all over me. And by freshness, I will now attempt to describe to you the most putrid of all stenches that have ever been known to mankind. "Ah-YEEEEEEE!!!" One whiff of the coagulated, creamy, milky-clear liquid nearly rendered me unconscious. I must also state the obvious, and that is, I have smelled my fair share of foul odors. I have smelled things oozing out of orifices that in your wildest dreams you didn't know could ooze from there. I have smelled things that people do not speak their name, for fear it will rise up and haunt them from wherever they have buried it in the trash. And this, this deer repellant made by Satan hisself, is the most repulsive. By far. It smells like the worst vomit smell anyone has ever upchucked. As I made my fast attachment of the nozzle to the tank, I ran willy-nilly about the outside of the garden, spraying leaves in a dead sprint. It was pitch-black outside at the time, and I have no idea if I was spraying the tomato plants, or poor Margie. I knew I just had to get out of there. From 50 yards away, the back door opened. "Hey Elle, uh-WHAT THE HELL IS-" and the back door slammed shut again. The smell had carried to the backdoor, at which point I realized that this deer was probably off somewhere, maybe 15, 20 miles away, awoken from a peaceful slumber going, "Awww, crap."

I tucked the tank of disgustingness into the corner of the garage, first peering at the labeled ingredients. Capsaicin, peppermint, and the best ingredient of all - "putrescent egg particles". Let's break that one down for a moment. Putrescent Egg Particles. Putrescent, meaning disgusting. Egg, meaning white milky disgusting. Particles, meaning the entire container of disgusting. I don't know - forget the .22 Magnum, I think to really do some damage, you could just spray Putrescent Egg Particles directly ON the deer. He'll likely melt into oblivion. I actually felt bad for my loofah sponge when I showered the stench off of myself 15-seconds later.

I also must add here that I am very proud of my poor Ted. This self-sacrificing man, probably the most squeamish person I've met in my life, actually had the constitution to survive re-spraying the garden after a rainstorm we had while I was on the East Coast. Not many people can claim to have withstood this challenge, and I think I'm not the only one who can say she is proud of the sacrifice of dignity, stomach, and sanity that spraying the garden-vomit took. I am thinking of having shirts made up for anyone who can complete this challenge, more as an incentive for someone else besides me to do it.

Anyway, the deer hasn't made a reappearance in quite some time. I fished a zucchini that was about half as large as Margie, which would put it somewhere close to 8lbs. Cucumbers are growing, 3 pumpkins are almost as large as my head, and the zinnias are blooming beautifully, The Swiss chard is delicious, and I've pureed and frozen 4 batches of basil pesto sauce (and there is still way too much basil still growing). My tomatoes are just out of control now. I can't even get into the garden anymore- Ted and I refer to it as the Little Shop of Horrors, as I suspect the plants inside are forming an alliance and one day will launch a rebellion against me, chanting, "Hell no, we won't grow! Vomit spray is a no-no!"

Overdue Updates

For those of you who follow me, I apologize for leaving you hanging for a few weeks. As they say, no news is indeed good news, although I have a mixture of fails and successes in the ornery dirt patch that is my garden.

For starters, since last I updated, Ted and I gave our fowled friends, the white ducks, to a lady who has a beautiful barnyard full of animals. After re-reading my previous post, you'll understand how easy it was to part ways with my feathered friends. Since I no longer felt comfortable letting them amble around the yard without supervision, they were spending 90% of their time living in a hutch in the backyard. That is, clearly, no way for barnyard birds to live, and so Ted's grandmother found a woman who takes in animals, feeds them and cares for them, and runs a petting zoo for children. As much as I miss my ducks, whom I raised from a mere 2 days old, I feel no remorse thinking about the little kids who are going to stand beyond their enclosure attempting to mimick their throaty quacks. Here is a link to the video of the farm the duckies now call home: http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=552319990505

Getting rid of the ducks really didn't seem to affect Margie, bless her soul. She has still fixated on the patch of lawn where the duck hutch used to sit, and at the risk of giving you all TMI, wholeheartedly believes that their droppings are akin to Chanel No. 5. After the ducks left, I watched helplessly as she writhed around on her back, in the small area that sat directly below the hutch. She was more pleased with herself than I can explain.

At any rate, things are progressing nicely with the house. Thanks to Ted's mom, the dining room and living room are no longer lilac sponge-painted; her and I painted the rooms a lovely olive shade, covering up the hideous and adding some color where there once wasn't. Taking advantage of the rollers and edgers that she lent me, I tackled an upstairs bedroom which was also a shade of purple. Now it is a teal-grey, definitely much more attractive and much less like a gramma's place.

As far as the garden is concerned, I have to say, I am surprised. After replanting several squashes/melons, I had very low expectations for the patch formerly claimed by the mole. However, after some TLC (and by TLC, I mean I completely ignored it for a few days), every single one of the seeds that I planted in that area sprouted. Every. Single. One. Which means that the zucchini and cucumbers might be a little bit crowded, but to be honest, I really don't care - because at least a crowded garden LOOKS like a lush, verdant oasis. Even if it is just a totally hot mess.

The flower patch is also a disaster area - they're all growing pretty haphazardly, but they're GROWING. I can't even believe that I'm going to have zinnias, and a few sunflowers are already 2 feet high and getting bigger every time I go out there. I have about 5-6 corn stalks thanks to the ducks - they ate their corn feed, dropped some feed into their water supply, and grew me a few corn stalks. I transplanted them, although I'm not entirely sure they'll grow ears without some cross polination something-or-other. We'll see, but if they don't grow fruit, it's still something green in my garden...

The radishes are growing so fast, I can hardly keep up with them. The leaf lettuce is doing well, the Swiss chard is successful, and the carrots are meagerly growing. My problem child, with the exception of my hearty basil plants, are my herbs. I planted rosemary, nothing. I re-planted rosemary, nothing. I planted chives, nothing. I re-planted chives, and got one, tiny, scraggley little blade. The parsely never arrived. Worst of all, the mint! I scattered the seed, I planted, re-planted, then re-re-planted the mint, and the only place I can get the mint to grow is in-between the paving stones on my back patio. I thought that stuff was supposed to be an invasive species - well, invasive species my butt! The only thing this mint is going to invade is the history books, as the first mint to ever not take-over an entire garden. I'm going to rue these words one day, I can just feel it.

Most importantly, and in the most exciting news of my entire summer, my tomatoes have absolutely exploded. Not literally, because that would be a real mess. The tomato plants, the Big Boys, the Cherries, and the Beefsteaks - they have all been such wonderful successes. Thinking they would be total failures, I planted them too close together. Now, I need to space them apart, and I attempted to do so in the famous scandal that will now be known as TomatoGate 2011. I transplanted a small hot pepper plant to an area that was better for its size, and tried to move a Beefsteak plant into its spot. I had it out of the ground for 30 seconds, and the once lush, delicious-smelling little plant wilted like a girl in the orchestra section at a Beatles' concert. I transplanted it, but I fear the damage has been done. I guess I should probably mention that it was upwards of 98 degrees outside when I did this - thinking about it now, if I were sitting comfortably in my central A/C-ed house and someone picked me up and dragged me out to Death Valley, I'd probably pass out too.

Here's to the tomatoes, which will make this all worth it.

Interactions With Wildlife

I'm taking an online course in Critical Care Nursing, which has me sitting in front of the computer for at least 8 hours a day. Needless to say, I am continually looking for distractions from the endless stream of calculating Cardiac Output and the Loop of Henle. At any rate, I had somewhat of a tumultuous day, and it's only 2:30pm Central Time.

It all started when I decided to let the ducks roam around the backyard during the day. I let them out of their hutch, then turned the hose on to fill up their pond, which is on a patio about one foot above the garden. I went inside, made myself breakfast, completely forgetting that I'd left the hose running. For those of you wondering, I had eggs sunny-side up with homemade salsa, Sriracha all on whole-wheat toast, which was totally delicious. Anywho, my sister called, I talked to her on the phone for a while, and poked my head out the back door. I didn't see the ducks anywhere, but I did notice that about 1/4 of the garden was completely flooded. "Holy crap!" I yelled, and cranked the hose shut. The cucumber/zucchini/pumpkin/watermelon plants, which I will now refer to as my Troubled Youths, were totally submerged by water. I thought the situation in that corner couldn't get any worse: first, crumbling, brown plants, then a near-drowning - it would be St. Fiacre's direct intervention if this corner ever survived.

At any rate, I poked around the patio while on the phone, noticing that the water in the garden had already disappeared after about a minute or two. Strange, I thought. I looked closer. Directly in the line of the cucumber patch, the patch that hasn't even shown the slightest bit of promise, all of the water was disappearing down a hole that was about 4 inches wide, and plunged deep into the ground. "G! There's a hole in the cucumber patch! A big, deep hole in the garden!" I squeaked to my sister over the phone. "Sounds like a mole," she told me. Once again, I'll remind readers that I know little to nothing about garden pests/weeds/soil/plants/-ing, so I gasped. Is this GARDEN CANCER?! Fortunately, she reassured me, told me that I'd probably just have to get a mole-a-cide and replant the cukes. I can do that. But imagine if I hadn't flooded the garden? I'd have only myself to blame for the lack of tzatziki in my life!

I went back inside, hit the books, and started up a few tests on the Critical Care website. The ducks, as it turned out, had camped themselves out directly outside of the sliding glass door next to the computer where I was working. As I answered questions, they ate ferns growing off of the deck, calmly quacking to each other as if to say, "I love a garden salad now and again."

The question on the screen was something about systemic vascular resistance when I saw it- the smallest flicker of red out of the corner of my eye. I turned towards the source of the movement, and there, sitting perched exactly five feet, behind the large fern my clueless birds were devouring was a FOX. About four feet from tip of the nose to tip of the tale, it pointed its narrow face towards my little guys, coiled on its haunches, braced to pounce. I jumped up as though my pants were on fire, ran to the sliding door, and tried to open the door. I panicked - it was locked, and I couldn't figure out how to open it. I began pounding on the glass, making enough noise that the fox darted in a different direction, but it was only attempting another angle of approach. By that time, I figured out the lock mechanism, wrenched the door open, and ran towards the red menace yelling, "Raaaawwwwrr!!!" I continued to bellow shouts in the fox's direction as he disappeared into the thick brush in our yard. I turned to the ducks and said, "You idiots! You have no idea how close you were to being a high-class brunch!" I drove them back up the hill and re-hutched them, all the while they clucked their complacent little happy noises. Stupid birds.

I realized at that point what a right-place-right-time day it's been so far. Had I not been sitting in the only seat in the entire house that looks out that window, I'd be hosing feathers off the deck right now. Had the ducks not decided to hang out in a place in the yard where they literally NEVER hang out, I'd be traipsing all over kingdom come looking for a beak here, a webbed foot there. Critical Care classes probably save lots of peoples' lives every day, but I'm pretty sure this is the first time in history it has ever saved the lives of fowl.

You, My, Brown-Thumbed Girl

I apologize for not updating sooner. Between cleaning up after the homeless, attempting to train a pair of very stupid fowl, and working in the ICU, things have been hectic here in Crooklyn Park.

Remember my hesitation with asking my neighbor about borrowing his tiller? Well, I should have listened to my instincts (as usual), because it backfired like I knew it would. I went over to the neighbor dude's house, and he showed me how to crank that bad-boy up, and had the motor revving up and blades a-churnin' before I rolled it back to my yard. Simple enough - put the red lever all the way down, turn the switch "On," and yank the cord. The first time I did it, it purred like a happy little kitten for about 3/4 of a second, and then turned back off. The second time I attempted it, the cord came out, no noise came from the motor, and the cord then wouldn't retract back into the motor. Now, I don't know much about motors - in fact, I know absolutely nothing about motors. Scratch that - I know even less than nothing about motors - in my opinion, opening the hood of my car and sticking a screwdriver into some things, wiggling them around a few times, then kicking the bumper is a good solution for motor-related issues. So I decided to open-er-up. I know there are more than one of you reading this, thinking, "Oh my God, this is such a dumb idea," and to you I say, I am now currently hiring for the voice of my conscience.

At any rate, fortunately for the tiller, I was summarily unable to disassemble any of the tiller, because the gas tank was sitting on top of the motor, and I'd have had to remove the gas tank. Frankly, I wasn't willing to run the risk of my garage reeking of gasoline, not to mention each drop leaked is now worth about $15.00. After using my phone-a-Dad, the futility of attempting repair on my own was confirmed. Now, I was faced with my only available option: Craigslist.

I found a nice man online who was willing to lend me his tiller for $40 - he even offered to till it for me for an extra couple of bucks, but I figured I'd save some cash by forcing Ted to do it for me. Memorial Day, there was poor Tebby, tilling his little heart out in the humidity of late May. A few of his friends stopped by and I used my charming ways to enlist their help with the fencing. For those of you who haven't had the good fortune of assembling a wire-and-stake green fence, I suggest you try it sometime if you're looking for an excuse to shout the word "GODDAMMIT!" as loudly as possible while suffering eight or so puncture wounds to the thigh. It really is a terrible, terrible thing to assemble, and it never comes out quite right - bowing and swaying in odd places, and just when you think you've gotten the wire completely taught between the stakes, you step back and there is a great, big bend in the top part of the fence. They should really be made illegal.

At any rate, the actual planting commenced later that afternoon and into the evening. I set my tomatoes and basil close to the entrance of the garden, as I'll likely be using those most frequently. The tomatoes and basil that I pre-planted were doing very well in their little egg-carton homes, vibrant and green, with strong stems and good roots. The rest of the herbs I hadn't pre-planted, so I put in some chive, rosemary and parsley seeds in my herb zone. Next to the tomatoes, I planted some spicy peppers - habaneros, jalapenos and red peppers. Those also were pre-planted and appeared to be doing well. Their leaves were waxy and stems looked strong. Then I planted a row of Swiss Chard, one of arugula, a row of green leaf lettuce, a row of carrots and one of radishes, all by seed. I planted my beans close to the fence on the far side, and then I worked on the squash/melon area. I decided to transplant the watermelon, zucchini and cucumber that I'd pre-planted, which had a few brown leaves but looked mostly healthy. Just to cover myself, I added in a few more seeds of each of those, as I wasn't sure how they'd fare. Then in an adjacent area, I put my disastrous Black-Eyed Susans (they never grew in my pot, now I understand why that Susan has a shiner), a few sunflowers, some zinnias and some wildflowers.

It is now almost a week after my initial planting, and I'm a bit distressed. I get agita thinking about it. My basil looks alright, albeit weaker than it did in the pot. My tomatoes are all leaning over, probably secondary to the strong winds we got on Tuesday. The rest of the herbs are fine, the root vegetables are coming up great, and the lettuces are sprouting with ease. The spicy peppers are looking harried. Worst of all, though, the entire melon/squash patch, with the pumpkins, watermelons, zucchini and cucumber, is absolutely bare. It is as though the plants I put there just evaporated into thin air, and nothing is sprouting forth. This is a most disturbing thing for me, as my barbecues this summer are going to be disastrous without the kee-nee. No cucumber salad? I don't know if I've ever had such a summer. I have tried watering, the soil looks great, and they get plenty of sunlight. At the risk of sounding like a total amateur, doesn't that cover the ABC's of gardening?

I returned the tiller, and my neighbor seemed confused as to how I'd managed to break it, but he wasn't surprised. It was apparently very old and a "piece of junk anyway." Made me feel a little bit worse that I'd been picking on this geriatric farm implement with my willy-nilly cord yankin'. I was, however, glad that we'd used the rental, as it was an industrial quality implement with about 5 blades, where my neighbor's only had 2. Maybe it was fate that the tiller kicked the bucket when it did. I don't know, I still don't see too much green in my garden...

In Other, Non-Gardening News

When I was around 5 years old, a hurricane hit Long Island while my family was vacationing out there. A few days into the vacation, we began hearing that a storm was approaching New England, and that Long Island would be hit pretty hard. Evacuations were issued for the eastern part of the island, especially Montauk point and the Hamptons, where my family was. Knowing that the family house was constructed of solid, 4-foot cement walls was reassuring - my family stayed to weather the storm. My siblings, their friends, a pair of cousins, an aunt and uncle all totaled about 14 people crammed into the house for the hurricane. My mom at some point reminded my dad that there was a family from our church upstate staying in a trailer home near Montauk, which would probably be the hardest hit by the storm. She coaxed my father and his brother-in-law to drive out to Montauk to search for Linda Hefner and her four very young daughters to make sure that they had shelter during the storm. My father describes it as a war-torn ghost town. Those who hadn't found refuge from the storm were running about the trailer park, securing their lawn furniture and packing up their cars for the mass exodus from the point. "Linda! Linda Hefner! Linda Hefner!"My dad and uncle made their way around the Hither Hills Campground, calling out for the woman and asking everyone of her whereabouts. "Linda Hefner!" A voice called out to them amid the whipping wind and the crashing ocean waves. "I'm Linda! Over here!" My father and uncle ran towards the voice, which called back, "Were you looking for Linda Heffer?" I'm Linda Heffer!" "Not Heffer, Hef-ner-" Realizing that Linda Hefner had likely found shelter, he turned to the strange woman and asked her if she had a safe place to stay during the hurricane. "No! It's just me and my four sons! We have no other place to go, we were just going to stay here and see how bad the storm got..." With that, my father and uncle told Linda and her four sons that they would be taking them back to the cement fortress, where they would be out of harm's way. She thanked them for their generosity, and they drove back to East Hampton. My mother, waiting for Linda Hefner and her four girls, laughs when she remembers seeing a strange woman and her four very young sons, running up the stairs, drenched. "It's nice to meet you! I'm Linda Heffer!"

My family spent close to 3 days, waiting for the effects of the storm to subside, with these total strangers. My mother says that the entirety of the hurricane, the smallest of the Heffer children followed her around, asking her, "I can list all of the animals in the animal kingdom - would you like them listed fastest to slowest? Or slowest to fastest?" After the final rainstorm, my father and uncle returned Linda and her sons to their trailer home, or what was left of it. Hither Hills had been turned upside-down, and Linda Heffer was now staring at the reality of what the gales had done to her trailer home. She made a phone call and found shelter with family, but she and my mother corresponded for some time afterward. There are some home videos of my family during the storm, and every time I look at them I can't help but be proud of my family for being incredibly flexible during a very odd situation. Hurricane Bob cost a few million dollars in damages, made a few hundred people homeless, and killed about 20 people in the end, a toll that might have been five people higher had my dad not said, "I don't care who you are - get in the van!"

I tell this story now, because Sunday was a very odd day. I was working in the ICU, and as the day went on, the sky started looking more and more foreboding. I haven't lived through many bad storms, but just one glance and you could tell that there was something brewing. The news came on a patient's TV around 2pm that said a tornado had been sighted just north of Minneapolis. North of Minneapolis, that's where I live! Having just moved here, I don't know the geography that well, but I know enough to make me nervous. I had left my poor little dog in the foyer, surrounded on three sides by glass. As soon as I clocked out, I raced home to survey the damage. Not a single twig on my property was bent, and Margie greeted me happily. There was, however, a large amount of debris - insulation, siding, shingles, wood - all strewn about the yard. From what I could tell, none of this debris was from any house in the neighborhood. I picked up the yard and went inside to check the news. As everyone knows by now, I watched the footage of what was left of North Minneapolis. A tornado had ripped through dozens of homes, killed a man, injured several and made more than 200 people completely homeless.

I should mention now that Ted was on a business trip, and was due to arrive home within the hour. A thought struck me at this point: Ted and I have three spare rooms, why wouldn't we open up our home to someone who had been affected by this disaster? I made up my mind that I would call the Catholic Charities of North Minneapolis to see if they needed to relocated anyone affected by the storm. "You called a mens' shelter," the man on the other end of the phone told me. "If you wanna help people, just stay out of North Minneapolis and let the police do their work." He was right - I should just send a monetary donation to the Red Cross or something. I got a phone call about 30 minutes later. "Are you the lady who called about the house before?" I asked him if he needed any help, and he said, "Well, I have this father and son who are looking for a place, they've been pre-approved by our organization to receive charity, so we know they're safe to have at your home. I'll give Edward your contact information." And with that, he hung up, and my phone rang almost immediately. "Hi! This is Edward! What are you kind folks willing to offer me?" I told him we could make him dinner, give him a warm home to sleep in, a bed, a shower. "You folks got cable TV?" I laughed and said yes, and that he and his son would be more than welcome to stay for the night. He gave me his address and wished me luck because "All the streets done be blocked off by trees!"

Ted arrived home, exhausted from a weekend's worth of traveling. "I don't want to talk to anyone, I just want to go to bed," he managed to get out before throwing his duffel bag into the foyer. I told him about the tornado, and he said that he'd heard something about a storm while his plane was circling, waiting to land. "North Minneapolis is a rough part of town - ton of crime, it's a really dangerous area there," he told me. I figured it was now or never- "Listen, uh, I kind of offered to let a few people who don't have a place to stay tonight use a room, just for the night, you don't have to stay awake or anything, I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to pick them up right now..." After a few "You what's?!" and "What were you thinking's?!" and definitely one or two "This is going to be a disaster's," Ted finally told me that he wasn't going to let me drive into North Minneapolis alone, not to mention pick up some strange men by myself. We drove to the address, over live power lines, navigating carefully around a minefield of branches, twisted wooden construction and cars with mailboxes sitting on top of them to find Edward and his son.

Byront stood on the porch, and called out to his dad as we approached. "Dad! Dad! They's here!" He shouted, from the doorway of the only house left standing on the entire block. A tree was resting against the house, but no apparent structural damage had pervaded this tiny two-bedroom home. We introduced ourselves, made small-talk, and helped Edward and Byront, a thirteen-year old cross-eyed kid, gather their belongings together and get to the car. As I drove through the rubble, they pointed at some structures - "That was Kenny's house! Oh, man! There's a tree right through that truck!" We drove on towards Brooklyn Park. I told them that I was going to make a nice, hot meal, and they insisted that we stop at McDonald's instead. I acquiesced, and they ordered two of everything off the dollar menu - the most money I've ever spent on fast food in my life. I couldn't even remember what McDonald's served, and as I thought about my selection, Byront hopped out of the car. "The kid's got the ADHD - can't sit still for a second!" As Byront did laps around the drive-thru lane, we ordered, paid, and drove home. As an afterthought, Edward said, "Yeah, I dunno what I woulda done without you kind folks. We was gonna stay with my stepson, but his wife don't like us comin' over, so she called him up - he work for the charity, he the guy you spoke to on the phone - and she made him call you folks back. She don't like us comin' over so she made sure we has a place to go."

Pulling up to the house, Byront screamed out, "Wow! You guys rich! You guys rich! How much a house like this costed you?" I told him that we had gotten it for a really great price, and he said, "NO- but how much a house like this costed you?!" I said, "Well, around two sixty-five," at which he replied, "Wow! Two thousand six-hundred fifty dollars! That's a lotta money!

Inside the house, Edward kept muttering, "Wow, a house like this, make you wanna dream!" I took their "bags", which were two plastic grocery sacks, full of holes and dripping with some foul-smelling liquid. I gathered his and Byront's clothes, and started a wash load. Edward took off his black sweatshirt, and I threw that in the laundry. As I unpacked the rest of his bag, a large piece of cardboard drifted out of the bag. "What's that?" I asked him. "Oh, it's nothing, I'll just take that from you," Edward said. "No, really, what is that?" He blushed, and opened it up. Homeless, any change you can spare for a poor man, it read. "Where do you use a sign like that?" I asked him. "Well, I stand at the corner where Route 94 exits for the University," he said, proudly. "That's my corner!" It was at that moment that I realized that I had just, unwittingly, invited a pair of homeless dudes into my house for the evening. There was really no turning back at this point, so I laughed and threw Ted an 'oh-my-GOD-what-was-I-thinking' grimace.

Byront sat at the computer for the majority of the evening, playing You-Tube videos of gangsta rap, and dancing in our family room to the Motha-F-In This and the Motha-F-In That latest hits of today, while the window panes rattled away. "Yo neighbors gonna look ova and see a little black boy dancin in yo house, they's gonna be like, 'uh-oh!'" Edward said. Byront kept asking for chocolate milk, and all I had were chocolate Ensures from when I exercise. I mixed them up with some cold milk, and he gulped it down as though he had been in the desert for months. Edward helped me take the clothes out of the dryer when they were done. His black sweatshirt, to my surprise, was actually a light grey color. "This look nice- this probably the first time it ever been washed!" "How long have you had that sweatshirt, Edward?" "Ah, it's going on four years, I think," he said offhandedly. That was the point where I handed out the towels and showed them to the showers with the nice Dove soap and the clean socks and pajamas.

We showed Edward to the bedroom downstairs, and he opened the door and peered in. "Ah-ah, no way am I staying in that room," he said, backing out. "What's the problem?" "Right there," he said, pointing to the sliding door in the bedroom. "Black people - we's afraid of the dark." And as though that wasn't ridiculous enough, he continued, "Bigfoot! The Bigfoot gonna come and get you in the dark! Naw, no way I stay in that room. Bigfoot gonna come." I wish I could say that the man were kidding, but he was just about as serious as a person could get. "Alrighty, well you can share the room upstairs with Byront." Ted was showing Byront his room for the evening, when he ran up to the windows, exclaiming, "Dad! Dad! Look! Check this out!" And using the crank feature, began opening and closing, opening and closing the windows. "This is so cool!"

The night passed uneventfully, and I woke up early to make pancakes for Byront and bring him to school. Edward tagged along, and wanted me to drop him off at his house to pick up a few things. Ted accompanied me, and eventually Edward directed us to drop him off at the exit ramp off Rt. 94. "I'll stay here for the day 'till Byront gets outta school, then I go pick him up." He whipped out his cardboard sign and stepped out of the car, and out of our lives. "Thanks again, you mighty kind people!" He grinned his toothless grin, and walked down the block. Ted and I headed home, with a mixture of confusion, sadness, relief and hilarity - the tornado had, indeed, touched down in Brooklyn Park, manifesting itself as a pair of pungent, discarded homeless dudes, just looking for some cable TV.

I found a human head!

I dug from 1130am yesterday until about 7pm, clearing out the areas of grass, heaving it into a wheelbarrow, then piling it in a corner of the backyard. Needless to say, I can barely tilt my neck forward to look at my shoes, and bending at the waist is completely out of the question. I overdid it, I really did. But all that needs to happen now is the rental of a tiller, and then we're in business. I think my tomatoes are about to march themselves down the the Depot, rent a truck and till it themselves. They're ready - they barely fit in their little container anymore.

My new next-door neighbor has a tiller that he said he'd let me borrow if I needed it. However, I'm in sort of a pickle with that. Ted and I borrowed his ladder once and returned it, and he was very nice about it. That being said, I don't want to be "those neighbors". You know the kind, don't want to pay for their own drill bits, so they're always over in your garage, drilling holes in things and leaving their sawdust on your floor for your dog to track into your house. What I should have done is borrowed the ladder from a DIFFERENT neighbor, then borrowed the tiller from the guy next-door. How was I supposed to know that the ladder guy would also end up being the tiller guy?? I know if I go over there and say, "Hey, can we borrow that great tiller of yours?" He will happily lend it to me - but then we become THOSE neighbors. "Those irresponsible kids who moved next-door and are always coming over here and borrowing things!" I can see it now: Woman, 24, Tarred and Feathered for Borrowing Too Often. So do I pay the extra $50 to rent some tiller off Craigslist from a man named Jim? Or do I swallow my pride and go next-door?

At any rate, I found a human head while digging yesterday. I saw a fleshy thing in the soil, and a shiver went down my spine. I can see it now: Woman, 24, Finds Human Head in New Yard, Sues Township and Makes Millions. I jammed my trowel into the dirt, spraying soil across the grass. "Who cares if there are rocks in the grass - there is a HUMAN HEAD!!!" Well, after I finally resurrected my treasure, I confirmed my suspicions. R.I.P. Ken, your head must have been ripped from your body during a child's casual play, nobody gave any thought to your diginity... Well, maybe the grubworm curled around your ear did.