Two Years In

Okay, I bogged down on the blog again. It happened when I tried to write a post about the New Jersey attitude (you know what I mean). Perhaps I will write that soon.

The bigger reason was I wanted to spend some time in my new home state before proceeding. Well, I've been here two years now and I think I'm ready to go.

Sunnybank

Albert Payson Terhune and Sunnybank Collies 

Photo from Sunnybank Collies Website

To Lad the real world was bounded by The Place. Outside, there were a certain number of miles of land and there were an uncertain number of people. But the miles were uninspiring, except for a cross-country tramp with the Master. And the people were foolish and strange folk who either stared at him which always annoyed Lad—or else tried to pat him; which he hated. But The Place was—The Place. 

Always, he had lived on The Place. He felt he owned it. It was assuredly his to enjoy, to guard, to patrol from high road to lake. It was his world.

The denizens of every world must have at least one deity to worship. Lad had one: the Master. Indeed, he had two: the Master and the Mistress. And because the dog was strong of soul and chivalric, withal, and because the Mistress was altogether lovable, Lad placed her altar even above the Master’s. Which was wholly as it should have been.
There were other people at The Place people to whom a dog must be courteous, as becomes a thoroughbred, and whose caresses he must accept. Very often, there were guests, too. And from puppyhood, Lad had been taught the sacredness of the Guest Law. Civilly, he would endure the pettings of these visiting outlanders. Gravely, he would shake hands with them, on request. He would even permit them to paw him or haul him about, if they were of the obnoxious, dog-mauling breed. But the moment politeness would permit, he always withdrew, very quietly, from their reach and, if possible, from their sight as well.

 -- Albert Payson Terhune, Lad: A Dog, 1919

When I was a child my favorite place was my grandmother's 100+ year-old cabin. Nestled in a hollow in the mountains a few miles from Asheville, North Carolina and surrounded by forest and beautiful countryside, it was a delight for me and my 20+ cousins. We, or at least I, thought it was heaven, even though there was no running water and I was called upon daily to haul heavy buckets of water from a spring several hundred yards away (and what cold, delicious water it was!).

My Grandmother's Ramshackle Cabin

There were many wonderful things to see and do at my grannie's cabin: wander through the woods, pick blackberries or shell black walnuts, swing from the big oak tree or climb the cherry tree, walk to the country store to buy treats, make sandwiches with Wonder Bread and Miracle Whip and just-picked tomatoes from the garden while fireflies flickered, visit the Meadows children at the end of the long driveway, play the many box turtles on the land, collect blackberries, or splash through the small stream, disrupting the crawdads-- but my biggest delight was a bookcase with a long line of books by early twentieth-century author Albert Payson Terhune. Terhune raised collies at an estate called Sunnybank in New Jersey and he wrote books about his wonderful dogs Lad, Lady, Bruce, Wolf, and others. I and many of my cousins devoured them, reading of collies one doing noble and heroic act after another. I loved those books.

LTR: My Brother Rick, Beauregard, A Dog Whose Name I Don't Remember, and Me (1959)

In my early visits Grannie actually had a collie. His name was Beauregard. He was big and shaggy and beautiful and, unlike the collies of today which have had the intelligence and broad snouts of traditional collies bred out of them in pursuit of show trophies, the very personification of Sunnybank Lad. I loved Beaury and he passed too soon. I loved my grannie, too.

My Grandmother in Her Garden. Note the Tomatoes! (1974)

Those days and my grandmother and her cottage are long gone, but I and I'm sure some of my cousins remember vividly the exploits of the Sunnybank collies.

Somehow across the decades I disremembered Sunnybank was in New Jersey-- but when returning home from Wayne one day a year or so ago I saw Terhune Boulevard. Could it be? Yes! Had to be named after the author of the collie books!

As soon as I got home I consulted The Google and discovered Sunnybank Estate had been preserved as a Terhune Memorial Park in Pompton Lakes. Every time I was in or near Terhune Boulevard I looked for the park but never managed to spot it.

Finally I decided to make a concerted effort to locate the park. It turned out to be right on Terhune Boulevard. The entrance was marked with a small blue sign, easy to miss.

Terhune park is a lovely place, wooded and bordering tranquil Pompton Lake. I could see why Terhune found it so special. It would be a perfect place for an afternoon of reading or quiet contemplation or for a picnic or as a spot to visit while boating on Pompton Lake. There are plenty of benches and I have a book already marked out.

The Terhune home place, by the way, is long gone, razed in the 1960s because it had fallen into disrepair. The parking lot marks its location.

I own a couple of Terhune's books. I recently re-read Lad: A Dog and found Terhune's style hyperbolically sentimental-- a trait non uncommon in 1919, when it was written. Terhune's sense of personal superiority, which was invisible to my childhood self, manifests in my adult reading and when describing an attempted burglarly (foiled, of course, by Lad); his fawning adoration of women is of course sexist, and he manifests the racism of his time. Nonetheless I enjoyed my read and plan to re-read more of Terhune's books. A half-dozen or so are available in electronic format and, happily, all seem to be selling for three dollars or so at Advanced Book Exchange. I think I'll build a set.

Here are some images from my visit.

 Lad, the Terhunes' Most Famous Dog, is Buried Close by the Parking Area

The Terhunes' Beloved Lily Pool Long Since Dried Up

Puppy Yard Photo From Sunnybank Collies Website

Our House Is Now in Its Blue Period

If Picasso can have a blue period, why can't a house? I ask you.

I mean, our house wanted to be blue. I know it did. Just look at it.

Now check it out when it was a nondescript gray.

I rest my case.

Pot Van

So-- I'm walking with my friend Rena, in Manhattan, just off Times Square, and we pass this van. This marijuana van. Weed World, it proclaimed.

"Did I just see what I think I saw?" I asked.

"You did," said Rena,and walked over to ask the driver if he was really selling pot.

"What did he say?" I asked upon her return.

"He said "Duh!" she said.

It really is a pot van. Check these flavors of ice cream:

AK-47, Bubble Kush, Sour Diesel, and Girl Scout Cookie. There are also cookies and brownies. All varieties are five dollars.

Newspaper reports say there's no marijuana in the products.

Smoking out a scam, NYPD officers “field-tested” the candy and found it contained no marijuana, officials told The Post. 

“Maybe we can slap them with a charge of lying to the public,” a law-enforcement source said. 

The bogus-buzz traffickers haven’t been busted for drug pushing or consumer fraud, but cops are cracking down on aggressive sales tactics. The outfit recruits “street teams and candy girls” to draw customers. (New York Post, August 11, 2013).

I might just have to give the Bubble Kush a try.

No Grits for You!

Photo By sashafatcat

Grits are a fact of life in the South. From Virginia to East Texas, they're part of breakfast-- and sometimes the entirety of breakfast. Every home cooking restaurant serves them, and many fast food places and chain restaurants have them on the menu-- for instance, both Cracker Barrel and IHOP do.

Grits are simply ground up maize (corn). They're of Native American origin and related to corn porridges from around the world-- for example, polenta. In the American South they're not made from dried raw corn, but rather from dried ground hominy. Grits, and for that matter corn meal or hominy, can be made from either yellow or white corn.

(See this article by Linda Brandt for a discussion of grits, polenta, porridge, and mush).

Hominy, for those who might not know, is made from dried corn soaked and heated in an alkaline solution in a process called (no kidding!) nixtamalization; this increases the flavor and aroma of the corn and makes it easier to grind. Most grocery stores in the south and most hispanic groceries in the north sell hominy, which is called posole in Spanish.

Grits come in three varieties:

Instant grits, which should be mixed with hot water and then thrown away;

Quick grits, which cook in five minutes and will do in a pinch;

And grits, which cook in twenty or so minutes.

The hardcore like their grits stone ground.

Grits are, or should be a savory dish. They are served on a plate next to bacon or eggs, or in a bowl. They should never be sweetened, unless that's how your poor old mama made them, in which case it's okay if you use sugar or honey, provided they're for your own consumption. Most Southerners add just salt, pepper, and butter to their grits.

Grits should have the consistency of mashed potatoes; just say no to runny grits.

It's okay to add cheese to grits, or crumbled bacon, or country ham, but baked grits are not a breakfast dish. I've never tasted them, so I'll reserve my opinion on them.

Grits are uncommon in the Northeast. Most people who live north of Maryland have heard of grits and may have even tried them, and most have a negative opinion. I shudder to think of the grits they have tried. Many northerners believe they have led totally gritless lives.

That's not quite true. Corn porridge, mush, and polenta, which are widely consumed above the Mason-Dixon line, are pretty much the same thing. But just try convincing Vinnie of that.

(Grits play a significant role in My Cousin Vinnie. Check this out)

It's fairly difficult to find boxes or bags of grits in grocery stores in New Jersey (usually they carry only instant and/or quick grits) and damn near impossible to find them in restaurants. Diners, which have the world's largest menus, don't serve them. Even Cracker Barrel and IHOP don't seem to have them on its NJ menus.

So, paraphrasing the Soup Nazi, if you're from the South and you find yourself in New Jersey--

No Grits For You!

One Year in Jersey

January 28 marked the one year anniversary of my move to New Jersey. I've been mostly silent on this blog because I wanted to log in some time here before I started commenting much about my new home state. I wanted to know more or less what I was talking about and I figured a year would do it.

So, first upin the next post-- grits

Sears Good, Sears, Better, Sears Best

Sears is known for offering merchandise in a variety of grades-- typically good, better, and best.

The system was Good, Better, Best. Here's how it worked. Let's say that you wanted to buy a circular saw. You would go to the tools section of the catalog and look at the pictures and descriptions of Craftsman circular saws. You might discover, for example, that the Good saw boasted a 7" diameter blade and used a 2 1/2 horsepower motor for $29.99. The Better saw may have used 7" or 8" blades powered by a 3 1/2 horsepower motor - plus it had a spring-loaded safety guard for $39.99. Finally, the Best saw had 7" or 8" interchangeable blades, a 5 hp motor, the spring loaded guard and a built-in leveling system for straighter cuts for $49.99, for example. -- From DigIt Sales Blog

When it came to appliances, good was usually cheap goods-- a washer with a small tub and weak motor, a refrigerator with metal shelves, a stove with no window in the oven door. The better products usually were more robust, sharing mechanical components with products positioned as best, but with fewer bells and whistles. The better stove, for example, might have the same frame and heating elements as the best stove, but lack time delay baking capability and chrome-plated oven racks.

My mentor and friend Floyd Dennis always urged consumers to go with Sears Better. Best, the premium products, have more features and thus more things to go wrong. Better ultimately gave better service than best, and for less money.

I've always heeded Floyd's advice. Consequently, here's the control panel on the washer I left in Georgia when I sold my house.

A knob to the left offered three water levels: low, medium, and high.

Here's the control panel from our new washer:

No, wait, that's one of the control panels from a Boeing 747 jetliner. Here are the controls for our washer:

The dryer panel is similarly complex.

The knob to the left isn't so bad. It has what, nine positions which can be easily selected by turning. I have no idea why I need an allergy or bedding or sanitize setting, or just what they do, but yeah, I can see a use for heavy duty, quick wash, permanent press, and delicates. And normal, which is what I almost always use.

The panel to the right is where I take issue with the washer. Check it out.

I don't really need an Eco Warm setting (whatever that is) or a delayed end. And what do I need steam for? And yeah, there's a sound button, probably because the damn thing plays Mozart. I'm not kidding. This is Jersey. Why not Springsteen? Hmmm... do you think there might be Four Seasons and Springsteen selections as well as for old Wolfgang Amadeus?

It just seems like a lot of stuff that can break and too much to have to bother with when you just want to dry your socks. Thank goodness Heather bought 10 year warranties on both the washer and dryer.

p.s. Can someone explain to me why there's a smiley face with a hat icon?

p.p.s. In all seriousness, Heather lost her washer and dryer when her basement flooded in Hurricane Irene. There was no reason to replace them because she could have easily lost the replacements. Consequently she spent three years taking her dirty laundry to laundromats. So God bless her. When we were shopping for the washer and dryer I urged her to get whatever she wanted. She did, and I'm more than happy to have more settings than I can figure out.

Washer Blues: Part the Third

So yeah, Heather broke the dryer.

Not deliberately, you understand. Or so she says.

It seems she removed the filter and ran a load without it in place.

And so of course her knee-highs got sucked down this hole into the machinery.

The results were predictable.

See the horizontal strip that's halfway visible between the tub and the front of the dryer? It's hinged and, when opened (which can happen when clothes fall into it and perhaps by suction when the machine is running), it leads to this rotor.

The dryer worked afterward, but made a terrible noise.

"Repair division, how may I help you!"

"Dryer 911!"

"Can you be more specific?"

"Not without incriminating the person I love the most in the world."

So, the repair guy came out and pulled nylon knee-highs from the rotor. "Wonder how those got in there?" I said. Two days later the dryer was making noises again. This time he replaced the rotor and left the old (and probably perfectly fine) rotor with us.

So the washer and dryer are fine for now, but I have to schedule another visit because the control panel on the dryer isn't attached properly after the repair and because the idiots who brought the washer and dryer to the house damaged one of the feet on the washer, making it impossible to level it.

Washer Blues: Part the Second

Before Heather and I could figure out what was going on with the washer, her parents Phil and Linda and my sister Tanya respectively drove and flew in for our wedding. We were married and then my sister and I took off to Connecticut, where I was scheduled to deliver a keynote at a conference, and Heather and her mom and dad turned their attention to what was really important-- the washer.

They leveled the beast, and leveled it again, and leveled it again. No dice. It still shook like a rabid dog. Thinking that perhaps the floor needed bracing, they purchased a 3/4" sheet of plywood and screwed it to the floor. No dice. At the end of a fruitless day they retired to lick their wounds.

When I was back at the house I watched Linda and Phil spend another half-day trying to get the washer to work-- with no luck. I was sitting nearby trying to stay out of the action because, darn, they were so serious and I didn't want to be in the line of fire, but finally I thought, "I wonder if the idiots who delivered the appliances took out the restraining bolts?"

I ventured as much, and we immediately looked behind the washer. There were three big bolts, but they had clips on them to hold wires, so maybe they weren't the restraining bolts-- but then again, maybe they were.

Within seconds Linda and I were Goggling Samsung washer restraining bolts. Finally I found an image and yes, those were the restraining bolts. Phil removed them and we started the washer and, happily, it no longer shook.

When Heather got home from work and we told her the washer was working she was delighted, and remained so until she broke the dryer.

No-- she didn't!

Yes, she did.

Washer Blues: Part the First

Oh dear! I see I forgot to finish the sage of our new washer and dryer! How remiss of me!

So-- several thousand dollars later we had the necessary electrical and plumbing connections to finally hook up the fancy washer and dryer which stood idle for three or four months while we continued to take our clothing to the laundromat.

Seriously-- if you don't live around here, laundromats are as scarce as hens' teeth! Back in Atlanta there's one on just about every corner-- here there's maybe one in every town. And they're expensive.

But back to the long-neglected saga of our washer and dryer.

With the necessary connections in place and the washer and dryer hooked up, I put a load of dirty clothing in the washer and turned it on-- a process that was rather mystifying because of the many options and selections. I found a setting that sounded reasonable, added soap, and hoped for the best..

Things went well until the tub began to spin. Within seconds the stacked washer and dryer were bucking and heaving around the floor like a three-year-old gelding that had been hit with electric spurs. I managed to turn the machine off before the hoses were yanked out.

When Heather got home from work I gave her the bad news. Of course she had to try it herself. Surprise! The same thing happened.

We did out best to level the stack-- which wasn't easy, considering the clowns who had brought it in had broken one of the leveling feet. More bucking.

Back to the laundromat.

Noooooooo!

Washer and Dryer

I left a perfectly good washer and dryer (above) when I sold my house in Georgia.

There's a story, of course. There always is.

Heather lost her old but serviceable washer and dryer in 2011's Hurricane Irene. She was living in Sloatsburg, NY in an apartment just above the Ramapo River. All of Sloatsburg flooded and there was eight feet of water in the basement, which played hell with her appliances.

She phoned me on the day of the hurricane to tell me water was in the foyer of the building. It was one four-inch step away from flooding her apartment.

I told her to get her cats and laptop and toothbrush and get the hell out and call me when she was safe. She did. I didn't realize it, but anticipating flooding, she had parked her car on the other side of highway 17. To get to it she waded across four lanes with six inches of rushing water. Was that safe? No it wasn't, but she made it.

Whenever she was able to get a cell signal I served as her OnStar girl, guiding her toward her friends' house in Washingtonville. Roads were closed and closing all around her, but after four hours she managed to find an open road and reach her destination and a well-deserved warm night's sleep.

The water didn't get into the apartment, but everything in the basement was a loss. Her washer and dryer were hauled away and discarded, and she elected not to get replacements. So began the era of the laundromat.

Back in Georgia there's a laundromat on every corner, but they're rather rare in the Hudson Valley and northern New Jersey. For several years she haunted them-- or rather I should say visited them, for she went only when she had absolutely no clean clothes. On the frequent occasions when I was visiting I would go with her and pretend to not know how to fold clothes.

Scratch that. I really don't know how to fold clothes. Or just let me say that I consider them folded, but Heather doesn't. Most people wouldn't. I consider it a problem in topology.

When we bought our house in Ringwood I volunteered to bring my washer and dryer, but after suffering through more than three years without, Heather wanted high-efficiency machines. Who was I do deny a woman who had suffered for so long?

In the new house the hookups for the washer and dryer were in the basement. It's a nice basement, so far as basements go, but the stairs were more ladder than anything else, and even when we had them rebuilt they remained narrow-- I'm talking two feet wide. Width is limited by the log construction, which dates to 1940.

Neither of us wanted to lug clothes up and down narrow steps, so we looked for alternatives. Would it be possible, we wondered, to relocate the washer and dryer to the kitchen area?

Yes, it would.

Heather selected a Samsung washer and a Samsung dryer and had them delivered and stacked. Throughout the horrible winter we continued to visit the laundromat, but when the snow was finally gone we contracted with the two Daves to run plumbing and electric wires to our new appliances.

The two Daves are Dave Harvey (Plumbing) and Dave Burton (Electricity). Both of them did a great job. They worked fast and their charges were reasonable.

We knew Dave Harvey because his wife works with Heather; we got Dave Burton's name from Mark Fanella, whose name we got through Dave Harvey. It's all about connections.

We had Mark back later to replace the sheetrock which had to be removed for the wiring and plumbing.

We've had no problems with the double Daves' work, but we did hit a hiccup when we tried to use the washer and dryer. Film at eleven.