Gardening tips and tales

A few years ago, Mrs. Hall was entertaining outside in the covered porch, and as the ladies looked out over the back forty, one of them commented on the lovely pumpkins running along the length of the fence. She enquired of Mrs. H.'s technique for getting them to grow so well, and Mrs. Hall replied that it wasn't hard, but it took some planning and that you have to begin the year before.
"First, you take all the pumpkins you labored over so long with the carving, and after they get gruesome enough to elicit complaints from your neighbors, you throw them carelessly into a wheelbarrow. Then you toss the remains casually against the furthest most part of the fence, allowing the choicer parts to sort of drool down the slats into place. Though I hadn't read about this anywhere, I suppose it was noteworthy that the dogs messed around in them and ate most of the seeds, spreading the goo about fairly evenly and insuring a healthy distribution. Then you just ignore the whole thing until the following fall, when you begin to notice the trailing vines interfering with the lawn getting mown, and the children harangue you mercilessly to let them grow. Martha Stewart may have her own more widely used methods, but frankly, the results look the same in the end, and besides, I'm tired of that woman ruining my life."
The Monitor is happy to report that this method has once again proved successful in producing seasonal squashy results. Last year, on orders of Mr. Hall, young Ian removed all the pumpkins from the front porch, and in a moment of desperation to finish the job and head to the mall, he quietly dumped the wheelbarrow contents in the ruins of the old wooden planter at the end of the driveway and covered them up with leaves. Thinking no one was the wiser, he rinsed out the wheelbarrow, put it away and subsequently left for the Marines. About two weeks ago, Mr. Hall discovered the volunteer pumpkins waking up and stretching their little viney arms all along the driveway. Colleen managed to intercede for them, curling the vines so they would remain within the confines of the old planter, and just last week, Mrs. Hall discovered the budding beginnings of what will no doubt be a crackerjack jack 0'lantern.
The Monitor will continue to post updated pictures of it's progress throughout the fall. Thankfully, it's hidden under some leaves at this time, so perhaps it will survive the onset of school and any youthful pranksters. Stay tuned.

Walking the dog days of summer

"So the plane bounced twice on its wheels, veered to the left and ended up right in the giggly-weeds." Mr. Hall looked over to Mrs. Hall for her reaction. She was staring out of the windows watching the trees going by. "You know, the trees are changing color already. I think it's going to be an early fall this year." Mr. Hall sighed; he knew better. It was all he could do to keep Mrs. H's mind off the kids.
He had done his best to keep her occupied as much as possible. Last week, he accompanied her to the Onondaga-Oswego Funeral Directors Association (acronymically known as "OOFDA") Clambake over at Hinderwadel's in north Syracuse. Mrs. Hall always looks forward to that annual event eagerly, ever since the first year she won a scooter for one of the door prizes. (There are still funeral directors in the area that, recalling how she rolled around the facility on her new wheels, yell out "Hey Scooter!" when she walks by.) The food was terrific and the company even better; this year the Halls were joined by Stevie Iltsch and his lovely wife Pam. It's a cinch that nothing tastes better than a tray of freshly steamed clams on a hot summer night, and Mrs. Hall never mentioned the children once. Bon vivant and man-about-town Hugh Norris even joined them, dragging young Albert Clos into the act, for a short while. Just about the time the party was slowing down and the little band reflected that this was the first year they hadn't won any of the door prizes, they announced the winner of the 50/50 contest. Steve yelled out, "Sammie, Sammie- that's you! You won!" and Mr. Hall strolled up leisurely to the booth to collect his $250 in winnings. "There's a seat right here for you," said Bob Zamierski, former hearse driver for Mr. Hall, as he patted the bench at the poker table, but Mr. H. just smiled and waved him off.

The Eastern Star ladies had had a festival on the grounds of their old folks home in Oriskany last week as well. The Halls usually arrive early to help work the breakfast booth, but work demanded they show up a little later, and they ended up serving up lunches at the sausage booth instead. The festival at Oriskany brings out not only the well-dressed but the worthies and right worthies as well; the grand officers in the group could be distinguished by their white attire and broad smiles. Mrs. Hall waved to the Grand Matron and Patron for NY as well as the officers from her own district. "Next year, you'll be wearing white with these ladies, too," remarked Mr. Hall, proudly. "Ah, yes. Yet another good reason to go shopping!" answered Mrs. Hall. The heat was oppressive that day, so leaving the outdoor festivities to the younger set, they headed on back down the toll road towards home. Mrs. Hall was just leaning back in the big black car, indulging in the air conditioning, when she realized they weren't exactly following the flight plan. "I thought we'd stop for a short visit to the Turning Stone Casino," piped Mr. Hall brightly. Mrs. Hall patted him on the back and remarked the evening was looking up after all.

A few years back, an unfortunate flood in the Southern Tier had forced the PGA to move their BC Open venue from the En-Joie golf course in Endicott to the Turning Stone course in Verona. From that point forward, the Turning Stone never looked back. Determined to host PGA sponsored events ever more frequently, they invested heavily in world class upgrades to the resort, and the result was a much nicer, more elegant course, pro shop, lodge and of course, casino. The Halls took in a quick show and a cocktail and strolled the grounds, steering their way past four wedding events taking place at the same time. They finished up by checking out the new spa on the grounds, but by that time, Mr. Hall was so tired he couldn't even get up out of the chair. "Com'n big fellow," coaxed Mrs. Hall. "It's time to take you home." Carefully avoiding the slots and the roulette tables, they slid back into the big black car, turned on the auto pilot and cruised back home again.

That's why they call it a noble gas

For the Gentle Reader's pleasure:

A montage of neon signs encountered on our travels (click to enlarge)

They also serve who stay home and serve... dinner

In between going to 3D movies and taking up space at Daniel's Grill, the Halls have been having fun readjusting to life NOT on the road. Even though their ranks have diminished at home, the kids are still keeping them hopping:

Last Saturday, Ian decided to have a bunch of his friends in; partially because it was a beautiful summer day, but mostly because the time had come for him to shove off for US Marine Corps boot camp and he felt like a last hurrah. Buddies started dribbling in around 4:00 pm, and Ian struck up an impromptu poker game in the family room. Mrs. Hall brought out a round of floats in coconut cups for the boys and they migrated to the video game consoles until dinner. Ian had requested his signature burgers (Angus beef, caramelized onions, sautéed mushrooms, and smoky Gouda cheese) for dinner, served with garlic fries and sweet corn, which seemed to hold them for an hour or so. Just as Mrs. Hall thought perhaps things would settle down for a little while, a furious game of Nerf Wars broke out and she kicked them all outside. Later, she noticed it was getting dark and they still hadn't come in, so she charged them with rounding up the ammo and calling the game a draw. The Halls had thoughtfully purchased a small cache of fireworks for the tots as a token of their appreciation for finding the house all in one piece when they got back from their trip, and Ian decided to detonate his portion that evening with his friends. The driveway was littered with scorch spots and charred remains when Mr. Hall came out and finally called the show quits at 10:00 pm. "We don't want the neighbors complaining," he explained, and shook his head when he looked down at his driveway. "We're having it re-blacked next week anyway," soothed Mrs. Hall. The following day, after filling out the remainder of the paper work, he was whisked off to Hancock Airport, where he was re-sworn in with his fellow recruits and shuttled off to his flight. Later that evening, Mrs. H. received the obligatory but unintelligible call from Parris Island informing her he had arrived.
Mistress Colleen, cognizant that her time at home was drawing to a close soon as well, planned to have a few of her friends in likewise. It was however, somewhat disconcerting for Mrs. Hall, when on vacation, to check Colleen's facebook page and find out that Colleen had posted the event there and was taking RSVP's before Mrs. H. even knew her house was to be the venue. But after a few conversations passed, held at a somewhat higher volume than usual, peace again reigned at the Hall and the party went on, as scheduled.
Last Thursday, Mrs. Hall raced across town from work in time to see Colleen receive an honor; she had finally earned her orange belt in shaolin kempo karate from SiGung Duncan. She already had her yellow belt in judo, which she earned when she was nine, and she enjoyed martial arts so much, she had started taking karate in college. She plans on continuing her education in karate when she moves to California.

I saw a man, he danced with his wife

"Looks like a storm coming in," remarked Mr. Hall. Sitting in the lounge on the 96th floor of the John Hancock building, they had a clear view of the coming inclement weather. "Pass some more of that beer cheese and pretzel bread."
After a day of trudging about the museum, it felt good to relax and watch the city put on its lights and prepare for evening. The storm blew in, washed out the view for awhile and then passed, leaving the pavements freshly scrubbed and twinkling in the streetlights. "Feel like walking around a bit downtown?" he asked.

A long time ago, Mrs. Hall had worked at Water Tower Place, and it was nice to see her old haunts again. Oak Street still favored the designer boutiques and the piano bars, and sidewalk bistros around Rush St. still looked as inviting as ever. One of the great things about big cities is that no matter what time of day you find yourself on the streets, there is always something going on and businesses open. Bookstores called longingly to Mrs. H. and travel agencies beckoned. A light mist made everything appear dreamlike.

"Harry's Uptown Bar and Grill used to be here," remembered Mrs. Hall; "and Sweetwater was here and this used to be Elliot's Nest- I remember because I met Nick Nickolas, famous for Nick's Fishmarket, there one night." "That's all well and good, but we're here now, and I think this looks like a good place." said Mr. Hall authoritatively, and they slid into Trader Vic's.

Maybe it was the giddy feeling of being in one of her favorite towns, maybe it was the nostalgia for another time, maybe it was the sensation that their vacation was winding to a close; whatever the reason, Mrs. Hall decided to be a little more carefree in her choice of beverage than usual and gayly allowed the bartender to "surprize her." The bartender returned with a glass of something, hoisting what looked like a lot of fruit. Mr. Hall took a more commanding stance and immediately ordered some food. The tiny sirloin cutlets on the appetizer menu looked appealing, but when they came accompanied with a sterno volcano and some skewers, Mrs. Hall really sat up and took notice. "Flames, alcohol and lots of pointy objects in the hands of the inebriated; well, I mean, really- what spells FUN more than that?" she asked. Finishing their fiery repast, the Halls wound their way slowly back down Michigan Avenue and back to the hotel to call it a night.

The sun seemed to shining more brightly than usual the next morning. In fact, to Mrs. Hall it seemed to be glaring right in at her personally. "Get up- you look like you could use a good breakfast." Even if their room wasn't up on the 38th floor, she would still have been a little dizzy. "I think I got a bad strawberry in that drink last night," mumbled Mrs. Hall, rubbing her head. "All the more reason for some good grub," he said. A short walk later and they were happily ensconced at that North Shore favorite, the Original Pancake House. While the giant German Apple Pancake looked wonderful, Mrs. H. was sure she couldn't manage it herself, and Mr. Hall had already ordered the gutbuster special for himself. "I'll take the Dutch Baby, with ligonberries, instead." Photographic evidence would have shown what a splendid breakfast it was, if the photographer had been a little faster.

Feeling more like the world was on their side, they decided to take in a bit of the city. The elevated dropped them off in the lower loop, where they gazed around at some of the more interesting art pieces at town, and some of them even gazed back. "Wait, wait- there is one piece I just have to see!" exclaimed Mrs. Hall. She ran into a nearby drugstore and grabbed a postcard bearing the image of the attraction. "This is it- and it's just around the corner; let's go!" Racing down Michigan Ave. to Millienium Park, they took the steps two at a time and faced the raised platform. There, reflecting the beauty of the city and the sky, was The Bean. Serene and shiny, its curvy underside seemed to just invite company. Chicago has a long and playful connection with its art and the city dwellers here have come to expect that any piece laid down in the parameters of the urban art scape should be walked on/in, handled and generally explored. This is the elemental joy of the other plaza attraction: the Crown Fountain. Mrs. Hall sat watching the little children scamper in the water at its base until she could stand it no longer; pulling off her shoes, she stood gingerly on the edge of the reflecting pool, until a bevy of munchkins raced by and soaked her thoroughly.

Their time was running short then; after popping in a few of their favorite spots, the lobby of the Palmer House and the old Berghoff, they headed off to pick up their bags and check in at the Union Station Amtrak lounge for first class passengers. "This is the only way to travel," sighed Mr. Hall, as he waited for his complimentary wine and cheese in the dining car. "I'm going to sleep tonight." And as the train pulled out later that night and sped off east with its happy passengers tucked away in their cozy sleepers, Mrs Hall was pleased to see Mr. Hall's prediction come true.