NEW $20 HEAD SHOT?

We don’t seem to be able to leave things alone.

The latest national correction has to do with replacing Andrew Jackson on the $20 bill. I am loathe to change much, being old and set in my ways, but there are some out there who want this guy replaced. To tell the truth, he probably wouldn’t make it to the 2¢ stamp today. Changing times are not kind to yesterday’s heroes.

Frankly, I am not sure why we need to change anything, but bureaucrats, lobbyists and revisionists, being what they are, need something to keep them busy so why not redecorate the “20”? There is also a huge sense that too many unsung heroes need to be honored. There aren’t enough currency denominations available to honor even a faction of them. Anyway, who cares? As long as the paper works at the cash register, what does it matter?

Here’s what. It’s like the flag. It is next in line as the national symbol. When you think of he American Greenback Dollar you think George Washington, the Land of the Free and Home of the Brave. You really don’t want to mess with that. On the face of it it doesn’t mean a thing, but just a step behind the face of it is everything American. I’m speaking symbolically, of course. Being American, of course, is more about a way of life than all those national symbols.

We don’ really need Andrew Jackson. Why not replace him? Just one reason will do. The Indian Removal Act of 1830. The so-called Five Civilized Tribes were moved out of their ancestral lands in the fertile southeastern states which white people wanted, to be “resettled” in land unwanted by whites in the arid southwest. That tragic removal, known as the Trail of Tears, is one of the blackest marks on our muddled history with non-whites. Good riddance Mr. Jackson.

My nomination for the “20” would be Kermit the Frog. He is lovable, very human, never hurt anyone and would blend in with the general color scheme. I mean what else do you need? Besides he is a national figure with a huge following. Find me one person who does not love him and I’ll shovel your snow. No, wait - I’ll find someone else to shovel your snow.

Harriet Tubman is a leading contender for the slot. Her nomination would be a satisfying statement ratifying the “under history” of our nation rather than enthroning another national front page politician for the honor. It really doesn’t make any difference in the long run. It’s just money, and I never have many 20s in my pocket anyway. But somehow I find it sweet justice to know that every time some billionaire white guy gave a $20 bill to a cabbie he had to know the person on the face of the bill was an Engineer on the Underground Railroad. There’s that.

SALT

Nothing is more basic than salt. Sea water covers most of the earth and is salty. Fossilized salt is found high in the foothills of the Himalayas. Salt is harvested from the sea, found in giant deposits in the earth. Salt is everywhere. You even sweat salt.

We just spent a high energy weekend with friends and at one lull in the conversation the subject of cooking came up along with the use of salt, at which point I made the comment that I am tired of recipes calling for Kosher salt when just salt would do the job. Well, I might have well have thrown gasoline on a campfire. Our host - I’ll call her Sue - brought out samples of half dozen salts from around the world as a preamble to setting me straight on this savory culinary subject.

Meanwhile, as I am spouting off about all salt being sea salt, which is close to the truth, and adding that therefore it is all the same, which, as I was about to discover is false, Sue lays out her samples and commands me to test them and see just how uninformed I am.

Well, even with my ancient, mostly numb taste buds, I could detect some variances in flavor and strength between the Hawaiian Black Lava, the Himalayan Crystal Pink, the Persian Blue Diamond, Kosher, Morton’s, and Celtic. After such a demonstration, I felt that my usual mantra that “All salt is sea salt” and is just sodium chloride and therefore is just salt, was a bit thin for this sophisticated company. It’s the size of the crystals and the minerals, of course which differ from place to place and which do impart flavor which is unique.

As to the Kosher question, chefs seem to prefer it because of its milder taste and coarser granule. It has nothing to do with the Rabbinical salting of meats.

So I am duly chastened and set on a path toward more subtile seasoning of everything from my sunny side ups to my regionally famous shrimp etouffeé.

This discussion reminded me of that little packet of Celtic salt I had purchased months ago and forgotten. So when I got home from the weekend I found it and put it into a new salt grinder. My first grinding was into my palm for the “test”. Yep - it was salty!

BOWLING ALONE

I READ THIS MOST INTERESTING PIECE THIS MORNING IN THE POST. It was about doing things alone, as in, without someone with you. I’m talking about going for a walk, or to a movie, or out to eat - alone.

There have been two periods in my life when I was actually alone. While reading this article, I recognized myself as the piece unfolded. I did all the stuff it talked about. There I was without a partner in life and uncertain about how to act in public without one. It’s embarrassing to be so damned transparent, even to people you don’t know.  Aside from that, it was an interesting read. It talked about eating out alone, bowling alone ( I’m serious ), going to the movies or museums alone, and so on.

I can remember once in my latter “alone” period when I was living in a most desirable little woodland apartment in Newburgh, Maine, that I was overcome with he idea that I needed to get out of my little Shangri-La and do something - alone. I decided to drive down to Belfast, about 15 miles, and have something to eat and do a little light shopping. I was a Sunday. Perfect timing, I thought.

About half way to my destination, driving through Brooks, Maine, I began to have a rather high level of decider’s remorse (What am I doing out here alone. It just makes me feel more alone) and pulled off the road in front of the hardware store, made a U-turn and headed home. To say I was conflicted would be he understatement of the century. As I drove back toward home, an unseen hand hauled me over to the side of he road and made me stop. Suddenly, I realized that if I didn’t get to Belfast, the whole world would know what a looser I was. I had to laugh: the world didn’t know I existed. Why can’t I do what I want to do, even though it’s what I want to do? I looked both ways, did a U-turn and made a bee-line for Belfast.

I really wasn't hungry but nevertheless, I had a bite to eat.  It was a face saving activity.  Then I did a little shopping and bought some kitchen trinket and a book of chili recipes ( I have never needed a chili recipe ) and drove home smug in the realization that I had completed a solo flight without incident with only a single brief episode of disorientation. There was a smile on my face.

It bears mentioning that the author’s sources for the article I had read were marketing people whose purpose in life is to get people like me to go out and purchase some stuff. I’m not sure they gave a flying jingle bell whether I had a good day or not as long as some money changed hands in the market place. Well, I did get out and have a good time. I did feel better. I didn’t spend enough money to put a blip on anybody’s chart.

Everybody came out winners: the author of the article I had read, the merchants in Belfast and best of all - I got out - alone! To tell the truth, I think as long as I didn’t see anyone I knew, I’d even enjoy a line or two of bowling alone. Do they let just one person take up a whole lane?

EXTRA EXTRA! READ ALLL ABOUT IT!

My grandfather Shug, used to say, believe nothing of what you hear and only half of what you read in the paper. I think he was quoting Will Rogers, but I don’t know for sure. Yet, I love reading a news paper. There were some years that I didn’t get a regular paper but then I realized that I missed it. I enjoy reading a real paper more than I thought I would. Then there are, of course, the comics.

Sadly, we stopped the paper. The guy who delivers it started wadding it up in a tight roll, rather than just folding it, and slipping it into a plastic bag knotting the open end with two or three tight knots requiring me to have tear the bag to get to the paper which will not lay flat due to the tight roll. Even though we had a receptacle for the paper, it would end up on the ground most of the time. I called and emailed and got the person in charge of circulation and he said our route man was the best. He said, I’ll fix it, and so on. He didn’t fix anything. The route guy seemed to get more diligent in his effort to roll the paper more tightly. Passive aggressive son of a bitch. We quit.

Here you have a fine news paper with a delivery system that is broken. And I told them so. Yeah, Baby! I’m surprised they didn’t close up shop after that salvo.

Real hard copy news papers seem to be a thing of the past. We are witnessing their funeral days now. The only thing sustaining them now are car ads, intrusive folds, stick on ads that cover real information and the list goes on. Too bad. I’d still be subscribing to the whole thing if they could get it to me without being mangled. Pity.

On most weekends I drive down to the corner and purchase a paper that is lying flat and can be read without fighting the thing itself. Either that or I’ll go over to Pineland where they also have the paper lying flat and where they have world class sweet rolls as well. You know - bad news goes down better with a sweet roll and a pot of darkroast.

THE SHIFTING SANDS OF TIME

GOOD MORNING. I FEEL MUCH BETTER THANK YOU. TWO EXTRA STRENGTH TYLENOL CAPS AND A COMPLETE NIGHT’S SLEEP ARE TANTAMOUNT TO MODERN MIRACLES.

If you are paying attention, and I do understand that there are times when not to pay attention is more comforting, you do not have to grow old to realize that things begin to change as time goes on. Things like the erosion of eyesight, which for most of us begins in childhood, the odd toothache, or other physical defects such as chronic sinuses and allergies.

I remember sitting in my dentist’s chair for a regular cleaning visit and mentioning how now and then there are small “areas of discomfort” that just go away on their own. He said it was like the shifting sands of time about which nothing can be done, except to adjust to the changing oral topography and to call if those shifting sands uncover an unexploded land mine.

That was many years ago but those words - that mental stance - have stayed with me as I have applied that principle to the entire matter of being an old human being. (See the various categories of shifting sands listed above and add a few of your own).

I rolled out of bed a couple of weeks ago and kept going in a more or less counterclockwise direction as the room seemed to be moving in the opposite direction. I didn’t worry too much until a similar episode happened while completing my stretching session a day later. My tendency is to interpret these issues as simple speed bumps in my personal octogenarian highway. But this felt differently.

I called my primary who sent me for an MRI (I know I have been over all this before) to check on the brain neighborhood. Nothing there (so to speak) but the sinuses were in bad shape. Did you know that there is a whole field in Physical Therapy that deals with balance issues and that can impact the middle ear’s contribution to things like stumbling out of bed? I didn’t.

I have been given a series of stretches and exercised that will, A - correct my posture, and B- increase my range of movement in the spinal area, all of which is said to be related to my initial complaint. After two days of this regimen, I am a basket case of aches and stiffness. Hey, I yelled. This is supposed to be getting better! Which brings me back to the two Tylenol supper caps at bed time last night.

What’s a modern miracle is being here in the first place. The shifting sands of time seem to be acting more and more like the quicksands of time. Anyway, all is well and I can get out of bed and remain upright long enough to get to the bathroom.

Be well and stay tuned. The adventure continues.

I’m Jerry Henderson

GARDENING AGAINST ALL ODDS

Maybe if I think about gardening a little more and less about this lingering season of cold, wet, snowy semi spring, I'll feel better about things. Problem is - I haven't been too successful at the gardening thing for the past few seasons either. Seems like another just right place to use my favorite bail out expression: Hapless Hope.

I GREW UP IN A VEGETABLE GARDEN. I am old enough to remember when there was no TV, no telephone and no food in our house in tin cans. There was food in tin cans but we ate from home canned jars and right out of the gardens that my maternal grandfather maintained the year round. Disclaimer: OK, so this was in southern Louisiana. We had three seasons: Summer, still summer and a week in January that we called winter. We cut the grass in January, just so you know.

In his younger days My grandfather, Shug, sold much of what he produced. He was what was called a truck farmer. After moving to Baton Rouge and going to work at Standard Oil, he became mostly what is called a market farmer, selling much of his produce to local grocery stores directly. Of course, my mother and aunt next door put up great amounts of food and after the deep freeze came into our house many things were frozen.

Shug made an effort at making a farmer out of me. It didn't take too well. This was the day of the big wheeled push plow, an instrument hardly seen anymore except in antique shops and displays of torture devices such as the rack, thumb screw and whip. I never got the hang of plowing a straight line, and he never let me forget it. Years later, I realized that I got more from him than he ever knew. He talked about what he was doing and I suppose I soaked up some of that gardening wisdom without knowing it.

I have had excellent gardens. Such a garden has not happened recently. As a matter of fact, it has been a rough several years for gardening for food here on Elmwood Road. There are reasons for some of that. First we have been too busy doing other things and being away. A good garden demands some attention. Second, last year we forgot to "sweeten" our acidic soil and things just did not work well. This year we did not forget and we made some wonderful garlic at least. I figure if you make garlic, you can claim a certain amount of success. Who has not experienced that rush that comes from pealing a thumb sized clove of garlic, fresh from the soil, and popping it into your mouth? It's what summer in Maine is all about. You can just feel the healing deep inside. Don't mind the tears - and tears will come - it's all good.

I used to "start" seedlings in the throes of winter to get a head start on things. That worked just like it was supposed to but - well, I don't know, I am not sure that the effort brings forth the result that is anticipated. For me, anyway. We go down to THE GARDEN SPOT in North Pownal and load up on sets that only need to be put into the prepared beds. Call me lazy. Call me a sluggard. Call me a shortcut artist. Call me Jerry however when it's supper time.

What I do miss about gardening at these latitudes is speckled butter beans, crowder peas (purple hull), okra and figs. Yes figs. How I loved to put up jars of figs. My cousin by marriage, Edna, sent me four pints of fig preserves from her back yard last summer. I have one pint left. I'm thinking of some nice things to say to her that might encourage her to repeat such a generous gift. Not much equals a hot biscuit covered with preserved figs.

We will do the garden again. We will exercise our hope glands and dig, fertilize and water with all the assurance of true believers. What happens is what we get. I actually like the process. All except the digging and hauling of dirt. Thing is - time spent in the dirt is never wasted time. I read that somewhere. Could it be true?

GO TO THE CHICKADEE

There are dozens of these chickadees that hang out at our house all winter. Of course we feed them the highest quality black oil sunflower seeds. And Just as "of course" they eat them voraciously. They know a good thing. It seems that they are specially hungry this spring. When I consider the possibility that one day they won't be here at all I become afraid for humanity itself. You who doubt - look to the bees. They are declining in record numbers and we don't know why. Or do we? Some say we are loosing over 10,000 species a year at a minimum. Maybe as much as ten times that.

There have always been birds. As a boy I slaughtered dozens of them if they got near the family fig tree. My BB gun was a ready implement of home defense. There was nothing sweeter and more anticipated than mother's preserved figs on hot biscuits and I was doing my part. Anyway, that's what I believed at the time.

A case could be made, and often is, for forgiveness of that age of un-enlightenment during the late 1930's and early 1940's. I mean, whacking a few tiny birds that were threatening the household fig supply was no big deal - at the time. No, I'm not proud of it, but I am also not into denial. There could have been another way to chase the birds away.

Yesterday as we drove away from the bird survival store with $40 worth of bird food in the trunk, I wondered what would happen to all those delightful Carolina Chickadees if we didn't feed them. Good question. One view goes like this: they got along without us before they knew us, they could get along with out us now. Besides, neighbor Dean will feed them avian sirloin as long as he can walk.

Consider this: Those little birds eat all day, one seed at a time. They go to the feeder and grab one seed in their tiny beaks and the race off to a safe bush or tree to break the seed open and eat the kernel. That scenario is repeated over and over all day. I sometimes wonder what they do for fun. Then I realize it is a matter of life or death. They are not messing around. They are trying to stay alive. They eat all the time. Of course, that's all I ever see them do.

Secretly I envy them. I wish I could eat all the time. Imagine: eating and flying all day long. But if I ate all the time like those little birds, I'd be as big as a horse. Forget my Levi 501s. I'd be left with designer blankets for my public appearances. However, if I covered the ground that they do in their gastronomical flights, I could maintain my svelte figure as easily as they do. They are not as big as crows because they spend all day flying dozens of miles eating 25 pound bags of premium black oil sunflower seeds

You can catch me from time to time just watching them. Flitting from feeder to bush or tree and holding the seed between their feet and a branch. Pecking and munching out. Now and then stopping off at the water bowl. What a life!