Pre-judging

Sometimes, we senior citizens get into the habit of pre-judging teenagers.  We can be dead wrong.

Last night, we had new neighbors at the Lost Lake campground, three young men.  They set up two tents and we began to think:  beer party.  We would give them until 10 pm quiet time and call the sheriff if needed.

Instead, it was lights off for them at 9:00 pm, a full half hour before we went to bed.  The sheriff's squad car circled the campground around that time.  Gary says that lately, that happens every Friday and Saturday night. There must have been some complaints.

This morning, two of the guys showed up at our campsite, asking where they could get some wood for their campfire.  The stuff they were trying to burn was too wet, and they'd noticed that Gary once again had a merry blaze. 

Gary pointed them toward the hemlock grove, which had been hit by a windstorm some years ago.  There were still logs that were burnable.  The forest service is happy when campers help them clean up the mess, so windfall burning is allowed. I pointed them to the Tipler Bar and Grill where they could get breakfast and information about obtaining more firewood.

The boys were factory workers from Beaver Dam.  One of them had relatives (the Olsen clan) in the Seymour area.  He told us his family had been camping at Lost Lake for years.  He understood the 10 pm curfew perfectly. Besides, they were shift workers and were too tired by 9:00 to party. We talked camping, campgrounds, and wood lore for some time. 

We had pre-judged them and I let them know that.   We thanked them for being good neighbors. 

Home for Rascal

I hate having to run back and forth to the campsite but besides having to deal with mail, bills and tomatoes, I have an elderly friend here.  The cat.

Rascal was already eight years old when he arrived here in 2001 and now he is eighteen. He is in good health, but these days he has arthritis so mostly sits in the sun warming his old bones.  His other option is to sleep on me which is not always very comfortable for me, but  then we are both getting older.  I can understand his aches and pains.  

He is checked on by friends on neighbors, but I no longer think he should be left alone in the house for more than three or four days.

So this morning I drive to Lost Lake to join Gary for three nights, only to return on Tuesday morning, early, to give him his favorite treats, pet him, and let him use me as a warming cushion.

Soup

Today I am trying to figure out how to process the tomatoes rapidly ripening in my garden.  What made me think it was a good idea to start nineteen plants?

The Roma tomatoes are not yet ready to go in the dehydrator yet.  I have two Big Boys that I will take with me when I return to Lost Lake tomorrow.  Gary and I will be eating BLTs for a couple of days.

I have is far too many cherry tomatoes for salads, so today I am making vegetable soup.  My recipe is simple:

Start with one can of chili.  This takes care of the protein part of the process and adds a nice zest.  Add the tomatoes.  Then go into the cupboard, refrigerator and freezer and start throwing anything that should be used up into the pot.   The soup is never the same but always interesting.

Today, there are green beans from the garden, a can of sweet corn, broccoli from Tuesday's farmers' market, the dregs from a bottle of catsup.  From the freezer came okra (which sort of makes this gumbo, if I understand southern cooking), and peas.  From the refrigerator, carrots, celery, onion, and potatoes. I pulled basil, oregano, pepper and salt from the spice rack.  Oh yes, lots of garlic, good for the heart and soul.

The pot will simmer the entire day.  Toward the end, I will add a tablespoon of brown sugar.

This recipe usually makes ten individual portions which I will freeze up and pull out on cold winter days.  

After four more days of camping I will be home dehydrating more tomatoes, chopping up and freezing zucchini for sweet breads, and hanging up herbs to dry.  I'll make spaghetti sauce, salsa, and more soup, probably my favorite Kansas City steak soup, using up some ground sirloin I found in the back of the freezer.

The squirrels in my back yard are working hard, too, gathering seeds and nuts.  We all prepare for the hunkering down season.

The Adult Summer Reading Program

At every library I performed at this summer, I brought up one of the wonders of my own, the Muehl Public Library in Seymour, Wisconsin.   We have the usual summer reading program for children, an American idea that keeps children reading when they are not at school.  By reading books, they are eligible for rewards and prizes.  Millions of American children go through the program every summer.

But in Seymour, we also have an adult version which encourages us older readers to explore books outside our usual reading habits.  This summer, I had to read six books, not easy since I wasn't able to start until I returned from my tour on July 25 and have only until September 1 to finish up.

The categories:
..A fiction book set in another country.  I chose 44 Scotland Street, by Alexander McCall Smith, set in Edinburgh.
..A non-fiction travel book I've yet to read, Dr. Echener's Dream Machine, about the first zeppelin that circumnavigated the glob.
..A book of choice was Water for Elephants, by Sarah Gruen, recommended by a friend, now deceased.  Yes, Lee, I finally got around to it.
..A classic.  I decided to read Sigurd F. Olson's The Singing Wilderness, one of the twelve environmental classics recommended by the Sierra Club.
..I've yet to read a young adult book, but have started Airborne, a science fantasy book by Kenneth Oppel.  (In the smaller libraries, science fiction and fantasy are often lumped in with young adult fiction, though it's not really the same thing.)
..And finally a large print book, so I chose a sequel to 44 Scotland Street, McCall Smith's The Unbearable Lightness of Scones. 


Each time I finish a book, I take it to the front desk to have my "reader passport" initialed by a librarian.  I feel like a kid again, with that simple act.

There are no big prizes for us grownups other than a chance for small gift certificates but that return to childhood is the best reward of all.

The Farmers' Market

I worked on the planning committee for Seymour's Farmers' Market for two years but now I am just a customer. I walked downtown to the market at Nagel Park on Depot Street and wandered around to see the offerings of the eleven vendors, who shaded themselves under tarpaulins.  Produce now is coming in strong, but there was jewelry, too, lovely things made by my friend Pat, the church secretary at the United Methodist Church where I direct the choir. .

This pleasant Hmong vendor found a wallet one of his customers left behind and chased all over the market trying to find her.   Small town markets are like that.

In the gazebo, St. John the Baptist Catholic Church was having a bake sale.  A different church offers their wares each week.

I came home with tomatoes, broccoli, a lemon tart (in truth, the tart never made it home) and these photos of a pleasant afternoon.

The market is held every Tuesday from 2 to 6 pm.

The Peaceable Kingdom

After Saturday night's beer revelries, things quieted down. On Sunday morning, campers began to pack up equipment still damp from the night's storm. We watched in anticipation.

By Sunday night, we were down to only three of the 28 sites filled, and one of those was ours. The other two were at the other end of the campground. “Clothing optional” Gary announced, but a chill precluded that.

I took a solitary walk along the shore to the cabins opposite the campground. Gary met me at the beach and there we talked to a woman and her small daughter. They were the family of the electrician working in the cabins. They filled us in on the plans for the place. Were the cabins going to be heated? No, but the lights would work better. When will the cabins be open for campers? Next May. Will our friends, Mary and Marty the custodians, be back? They didn't know.

Though there is some construction going on, for the time being we are happy enough not to have the constant sound of barking dogs, screaming children and slammed screen doors from the cabin side of the lake. Neither do we have barking dogs, screaming children, and drunken louts on our side at present.

Sigurd Olson wrote in The Singing Wilderness of the ancient admonition, “Be still and know that I am God.” For him, the joy of the wilderness was the sound of silence. When all the campers leave, I can walk through the forest listening for the soft tap that is the sound of the illusive black backed woodpecker. In past years I've been able to spot him here at Lost Lake. Last night I followed the tap-tapping and came to a rotting log beside the road, but instead it was the amazing pileated woodpecker, much bigger and brighter.

A juvenile red-shouldered hawk was along the trail, plaintively calling for his parents, but they likely have decided he's old enough to be on his own. The hummingbirds have finally discovered Gary's feeder and have started turf wars, though surely there is enough nectar for all.

This morning another group of campers left, leaving just one other site occupied. The ranger stopped in to replenish the toilet paper in the pit toilets and swab down the floors.

Peace has settled in our little kingdom.

Everything is as it should be.

Beer Parties

When I was camping at a national forest campground near Hunstsville, Utah, some teenagers decided to have a beer party in the campsite next to mine.  I put up with it until 1:00 a.m. then grabbed my car keys and hit the car alarm which went off for about five seconds before I turned it off.  Silence reigned in a Mormon state where children are regularly chastised and "real" beer is illegal.

Soon after Gary set up camp on site 38 at Laura Lake, two teenage girls were checking out no. 39.  Both sites were isolated, far away from the rest of the campground.  That evening, cars began to roll in, parking along the road.  Teenagers tumbled out of the vehicles carrying cases of beer. 

Gary strolled over to the information kiosk and noted the number of the county sheriff.  Then he waited as the kids got noisier and noisier.  At 10:00 pm, all campers are supposed to be observe an eight hour quiet period, but of course, these guys didn't.  At 10:15 he called the sheriff.  Fifteen minutes later, another pickup tore down the road and the driver yelled, "The cops are coming!"  He must have been listening to the scanner. 

Most of the vehicles left and the sheriff gave the rest of the "campers" a serious talking to.  Quiet reigned and early the next day, site 39 was empty.

Last night, another beer party seemed to be starting at Lost Lake.  Gary and I had the number of the Florence County sheriff.  Once again, we waited until the mandatory  quiet time. 

However, Mother Nature took care of things.  Almost precisely at 10:00 pm there was a loud clap of thunder followed by a deluge.  Other than the patter of rain on top of our camper, silence reigned.

All was well on our end, but campers closer to the miscreants reported to us that yes, they weren't talking loudly all night but they played their radio with the bass turned up, which meant a sort of thump, thump sound. 

At 1:39 a.m. someone shot a gun.  (I woke up and checked my watch.)  We'll report all of this to the ranger when he shows up today.  I expect the party crowd will be gone by the end of the day.

And once again silence will reign.