Rainbow sky

Yesterday, late afternoon.

What a downpour we had!  Finally, the rain stopped and when I looked out the window, the air was filled with a golden glow. I knew what that meant.

If I went outside, there'd be a rainbow.

Sure enough, a colorful arc stretched across the lake.  Although I could see both ends, the southern arch was much more distinct. But just as thrilling as the colored arc were the blue streaks of light that spread westward from the horizon, bisecting the rainbow and continuing outward and upward.

Moment by moment, the sky changed colors.  The north end of the rainbow, which had been visible only seconds before, disappeared, hidden beneath a cover of clouds.

Even with the rainbow gone, the sky remained gorgeous.  The lake was calm with a light mist rising.

And everywhere I looked - north, south, east and west - was a gorgeous view.  I love a rainbow sky.

Ode to a wet cormorant

The cormorant sits in the rain

It sits there all day long

It barely moves

It sings no song

It simple muddles on

If I found myself outside

With rain that had no end

I doubt if I would be as calm

As my stoic feathered friend

An "ap-peeling" rain

SIMPLY LIVING

Dogs may run and hide and toddlers cover their ears, but when I hear thunder followed by a sudden rush of rain, I head for the porch to enjoy the show.

 

The other day, rain was coming down in torrents, a pounding tattoo on the metal roof.  I settled in on the porch floor to listen to the rain while preparing Florida sand pears for pear sauce.  It was the perfect combination of activities.  

A box of sand pears awaits peeling

Unlike commercial bosc or Bartlett pears, which soften as they ripen, mature sand pears remain hard with a tough outer skin that, if left intact, gives the sauce an unappealing gritty consistency.  Removing that skin with a sharp knife is tedious work but cutting off the skin while listening to the sound of the storm passing through eases the tedium. 

I didn’t have an iPod with me.  I wasn’t listening to NPR.  The computer was in the other room as was my phone.  I was just me and the pears, a sharp paring knife, the rain and a misty breeze blowing through the screens.  Delightful.

As I sat there on the floor peeling fruit, my mind wandered back to our early years in Florida when our children were little and used to play in the rain.  What fun we had (all of us!), running outside and splashing in puddles.  We scooped up rainwater in buckets to throw at each other.  We poured it on our hair.  We laughed as we played.  We didn’t care how wet we got because the warm air made the rain refreshing.  

Summer downpours in Florida are quite different from their northern counterparts.  They don’t chill or cause shivers.  They’re fun to play in, to listen to and observe. 

That difference was reinforced last month when Ralph and I exited the airport in Hartford.  As we stepped out of the air-conditioned terminal, we walked into a chilling rush of summer rain.  Until that moment, I had forgotten how unpleasant it could be to stand outside in rain.  It was August, for heaven’s sake, we were in Connecticut not Canada.  We had not anticipated, packed or worn appropriate clothing for cold weather but, nonetheless, that’s what we got.  Cold, rainy, shiver-inducing weather – at least that’s how it seemed to a couple of spoiled southern transplants who had come to rely on the comfort of warm precipitation.

Back on the porch with the sand pears, I smiled at the thought of how dependent I’ve become on summer downpours being experiences to enjoy not dread.  I like the way the raindrop’s loud percussive beat drowns out otherwise omnipresent swirl of digital sounds.  I appreciate the way the wind blows a refreshing wet mist through the screens.  I enjoy anticipating the likelihood (very strong!) of a rainbow soon to follow.

Before long, the pears were all peeled and cut into small pieces.  I poured them into the crockpot to cook together with a little lemon juice and ginger.  The rain too had ended, or at least abated.  There was a softer sound on the metal roof as fewer drops landed with less intensity than they had before.

That’s something else I like about summer rainstorms in Florida – they come on strong and end quickly.  Before long, it’s sunny again, hot, humid and sticky.  But that’s okay, I don’t mind the heat.  It will rain again soon and since I have more sand pears to peel (my hands get tired if I peel too many at once), I know where I’ll be when it does.  I’ll be out in the porch, on the floor, unplugged from technology savoring the sound of rain falling down.

It's raining it's pouring...

A "Simply" Extra
What a storm tonight!

The rain poured down, the wind picked up.  A beautiful storm

It started to storm just after we returned got home from berry picking. While unloading the car, I glanced at the lake and saw a sandhill crane in the distance, standing on the island where the cranes had their nest.

With all this rain, there's not much of an island left but one of the cranes still spends the night there occasionally

I haven't seen the family of cranes since they moved to an abutting property when the baby was 12 days old.  But every now and then the male returns to the island where they built their nest.

Seeing him makes me hopeful that one day the entire family - mom, dad and their baby - will come back to our property.  Baby cranes can fly when they are 70 days old and that's just about how long it's been since the fluffy chick hatched out of its egg.  Perhaps the male crane returns to the nesting site by himself to check things out before bringing back the whole family.  I like to think so anyway.

A couple other pictures I took today during the downpour:

Cucumber growing bigger by the minute with all the water coming down

Green peppers that we're hoping will turn red soon.  Maybe the rain will help.

And finally, a picture of the Blue Timber Bamboo by the clay wall.  Bamboos love rain.   It makes the new shoots grow tall even faster than they normally do, about a foot a day!  

A Holding Pattern...

Unripe fruit – neither ripening nor rotting – on a papaya tree

Simply Living
January 28, 2013

Even though it’s winter, the papaya tree on the south side of our house still has fruit.  The fruit aren’t ripe nor have they noticeably matured over the last few months.  On the other hand, they haven’t frozen or fallen off.  They haven’t rotted either.  They’re in a holding pattern, a tropical plant trying to exist in a semi-tropical locale.

I can identify with the papaya.  I’m hanging on too, waiting to see what will happen.

We all go through situations with resolutions beyond our control.  We wait.  We wonder.  We anticipate results.  What kind of winds will blow?  Will they be cold and biting or warm with relief?

With plants, the answer is relatively simple and unimportant.  Sure, I want the papaya tree to survive.  I’d love to know it made it through the winter so we can reap our reward and enjoy the sweet fruit.  But if it doesn’t make it – if the fruits fall to the ground and rot - it will be a small disappointment.  

We tried.  We failed.  We’ll try harder next time.

With people, it’s different.  The result is everything, the waiting interminable.  We do our best to improve situations.  We ask questions, do research, discuss and debate.  Ultimately, it’s no different than it is with the papaya.  We hang on and wait to see what will transpire.

To be a successful gardener, you must choose the right plants to put in the proper location at the appropriate time of year.  If you provide adequate water, the right soil mixture and fertilizers and monitor pests, there’s a good chance the plants will thrive. 

But not always. 

Unanticipated variables can arise.  Unexpected weather shifts can wreak havoc on a garden or grove.  So can insect infestations or damage done by animals.  Sometimes plants don’t thrive even when it seems you’ve done everything right.  

That’s how it can be with people too.

You nurture your internal garden.  You plant judiciously, feed and exercise with care.  You provide balance and an ideal locale.  Still unexpected variables emerge, dispelling intentions, redirecting plans. 

Sometimes I wish it were simpler.  I wish for a formula – a prescription of truth.  In my personal sci-fi fantasy, we start each day by stepping into a fail-proof machine to calculate body chemistry.  If the machine finds an excess or lack of a specific nutrient, it spells out in unequivocal detail a remedy for the problem.  No conflicting data.  No Google search needed. 

Although I try not to squander valuable time contemplating imaginary scenarios, lately I can’t help but wish for something better than our current medical system.  When plants are in a holding pattern, we can afford to let them be but people are too precious for a similar passivity.

Unfortunately, conversations about health care reform often fail to answer the most basic of questions.  For instance, why should it be so difficult to find out how much specific medical services cost?  In no other industry are prices so infuriatingly inaccessible.  Treatment options are another subject of inscrutability.  There is no consensus among medical experts.  How is a patient supposed to know what information to believe, what path to follow, what direction to take?  Finally, why do health care professionals continue to rely on outdated modes of communication like faxes and written records when every other industry has switched to online or email transmissions? 

When I look out the window and see the unripe papayas still hanging on the tree, I see a simple plant with an unknown future to be determined by climate, weather and timing.  Like the papaya fruit, I’m in a holding pattern but without answers so simple or clear-cut.  

Hopefully, both there will be a sweet ending, a fruitful conclusion to an uncertain fate.

An island rises

In 2012, three turtles consider the emerging island of peat to be an excellent place to catch some rays on an April afternoon

Simply Living
April 9, 2012

An island is being born. I can see it from my kitchen window.

Beneath the shimmering surface of our 12-acre lake lie scattered mounds of peat left over from a mining process that ended a few years before we purchased the property. Some mounds are small. Others are big.

One of the broadest swaths of submerged soil sits smack in the center of the lake, only it isn't underwater anymore.

Day-by-rainless-day, the lake level gets lower and the island of peat becomes more and more visible. Last week I couldn't see the island at all. A mere seven days later it was large enough to support three turtles soaking up the midday rays. If the drought continues, it soon will be to the point it was 11 years ago when a pair of sandhill cranes chose the peat island for a nest site.

In 2001, water levels dropped so drastically it exposed a huge mid-lake island of peat. Although by then we had been living on the property for nine years, it was the first time we saw the peaty mass. Before, it had always been underwater.

We weren't the only ones to notice the change. The black mucky refuge attracted all kind of birds along with a variety of turtles, alligators and otters. Some came to perch, to hunt or to sun, but a pair of cranes staked a claim. They set about building a scrappy nest out of sticks and reeds and promptly filled it with two large brown speckled eggs. Predators arrived to case the situation but mama and papa crane were protective parents. They scared off or kept at bay any animal intent on devouring their offspring.

A family of sandhill cranes, one crow, an otter and a turtle took advantage of an exposed peat island in 2001.

As much as I worried about the low water level that year, I enjoyed the daily antics of the cranes and other critters. On one memorable day, I woke up to see not only the crane family (by then two babies had hatched) but also a crow, an otter and a turtle on the island.

It has been over a decade since the water level was that low but it seems to be happening all over again. I wake up in the morning and the first thing I do is look out the window. How big is the island today? What animals are on it? Will the cranes nest there again? If they do, will summer rains come and wash it away?

I have mixed feelings when I look out at the island.

On one hand, I want the rains to come. The drought is severe. Plants are suffering. Water levels have receded. We need rain to replenish our own supply as well as to satisfy the thirst of plants and animals.

On the other hand, wildlife is adapting. I see more turtles now than during wet periods and that means the otters probably will return to snatch easy meals. Previously submerged landmasses like our peat islands now provide safe harbor for birds. Plants are springing up in the recently exposed soil and more ospreys than usual have been hovering overhead in search of crowded fish in a decreasingly smaller pond.

Change is one of life's few givens. It happens whether we want it to or not. Rather than fret over possibilities beyond our control, it's sometimes best to accept the inevitable while focusing on the positives that accompany all situations.

It's not every day one is privy to the birth of an island. I'm excited to see what happens next.

Signs of spring

Mulberry trees are among the many plants that are responding to warm temperatures by sending out new leaves.

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel February 6, 2011)

It is only February, but the plants think it's spring.

The tips of the fig and mulberry trees have swollen with potential, as new leaves get ready to unfurl. Meanwhile, other deciduous trees have already completed the process. The tender, young leaves of maples and tupelos appeared weeks ago. They now cover the winter-bare branches with a blush of color.

Beneath the trees are weeds, those tenacious volunteers that thrive on neglect. Weeds have spread across brown lawns and bare patches of ground.

Plants are either extremely optimistic or very foolish. Don't they know it could still get cold?

Last year around this time, we had 10 days of chilling weather. Temperatures in the low 20s and high teens turned green leaves black and dashed the hopes of new buds that dared to emerge. That experience made me cautious. The plant world might be saying that spring has arrived, but I'm hesitant to believe.

Despite my hesitation, I was outside the other day pulling weeds, transplanting broccoli seedlings and planting pansies. It's hard to resist gardening with such beautiful weather, especially after an unusually cold winter.

Temperatures in the mid-60s to low 70s are enticing. Leaving my jacket on a hook in the hallway, I go for leisurely strolls, work in the garden or settle into a chair to absorb the day. Blue skies and bright greens herald the promise of spring. Even if the promise is broken, the pleasure of these lovely moments remains.

Back in December, our loquat trees were in full bloom. Clusters of lightly scented white flowers covered the branches. When winter arrived prematurely, the flowers withered. I couldn't help but wonder what would happen next. Would the trees recover? Would fruit ever set?

It is now February, the month when loquat fruit usually ripen. Clusters of flowers once again cover the branches. On some limbs, the flowers have already started to develop into small orbs of goodness. The crop will probably be later than normal, but there will be fruit. Unseasonable weather hasn't stopped the trees from doing what loquats do — flower, fruit and produce new seeds — just delayed it a bit.

I'm encouraged by how the loquat trees overcame the winter hardship. If another cold snap strikes this month, the same thing probably will happen again. The trees will respond with more flowers and an even later, smaller crop.

Plants handle adversity with amazing resilience. From my office window, I see the dead leaves of three kinds of gingers. At first glance, they look awful — all lifeless and limp — but upon closer inspection, I see new shoots emerge. The overall appearance is barren, but hope is afoot. Beneath the dead tops, new life has begun.

Maybe plants are neither optimistic nor foolish. They are growing organisms responding to internal triggers without the shackles of human thought. They go about their business without hesitation, without worry, without frustration. They simply live.

Weather is unpredictable, but plants are the essence of predictability and patience. No matter how extreme temperatures get, the plant kingdom responds with faith in the future. Spring will come. Plants will grow. They know it, and despite my hesitancy, I know it too.

Fancy name belies rose's hardy nature

The fragrant and carefree Louis Philippe rose blooms continually, even in cold weather

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel January 2, 2011)

The low-maintenance, disease-resistant and sweet-smelling Louis Philippe rose practically grows itself.

Unseasonably cold weather has wreaked havoc with my more tropical landscape plants. Several varieties of ginger have lost leaves, as have hibiscus bushes, cassias and even one of our golden rain trees.

Flower-studded ground covers such as wedelia, impatiens and zebrina (wandering Jew) also succumbed to the cold. Overnight they turned into soggy black mats, while colorful accent plants such as Mexican petunias morphed into skeletal images of their former selves.

One botanical bright light remains in my otherwise freeze-dulled landscape: an antique rose with a fancy name — Rosa "Louis Philippe." Even when frost blanketed the ground and icicles dangled from crape myrtle seedpods, this hardy bloomer remained unscathed. It continued to produce a headdress of ruby red flowers.

I've been growing this particular rose for more than 20 years, but it would be misleading to suggest that I was responsible for its success. Louis Philippe roses belong to the category of plants I like best – independent cultivars that don't require much attention.

Named in honor of Louis XVIII of France, the rose was introduced to North America in 1834. Lorenzo de Zavala, Mexico's minister to France and a Texas colonialist, received rose plants as a gift when his service ended. His wife, Emily, an avid gardener, planted the roses alongside the front porch of their home in Lynchburg, Texas.

I'm sure the flowers looked lovely next to Emily's house, and the heady fragrance must have perfumed the rooms, but I wouldn't want to copy her example. Like most roses, the Louis Philippe has thorns. It also spreads. Left alone, this sweet-smelling ever-bloomer expands annually until it eventually fills a 7- to 8-foot wide area. It also will grow upward.
Although not technically a climbing rose, this is one strong-willed, determined beauty. A few years back my son planted a cutting he had rooted (Louis Philippe roses are also extremely easy to propagate) beneath a pine tree. The rose now stretches up into the lower branches. It's at least 10 feet tall.

Although I have been growing this cultivar for two decades, I didn't learn its name until this past summer, when a customer at our bamboo nursery pointed it out.

"I love your Louis Philippe roses," the customer said, as she stood next to a sprawling specimen we had supposedly confined within a bamboo fence.

"Is that what it's called?" I asked. "I always assumed it was a knockout rose."

"Oh, no," she said. "It's an antique rose. Very fragrant. Very hardy. It's definitely a Louis Philippe."

My customer knew roses the way I know bamboos. I wrote down the name, and after she left I hurried to my office to look it up online.

Although my research confirmed her pronouncement, I quickly learned that one rose could have many names. Some people call it crown rose, while others know it as Florida rose, Florida cracker rose, cracker rose or antique china rose. Regardless of its label, Rosa "Louis Philippe" has been a popular addition to Southern landscapes for the same reasons I find it so endearing.

"It is considered a continuous bloomer because it produces flowers over such an extended period. It has a sweet fragrance and has good disease resistance," according to OnlinePlantGuide.com.

The website of Seminole Springs Antique Rose and Herb Farm in Eustis adds a culinary perspective: "The flowers of Louis Philippe are deliciously scented and are great to use in the kitchen for rose syrups, rose water or just as a cut flower."

It's easy to see why this bush rose receives so much praise — especially in Florida after an early winter freeze. Many flowers have qualities that make them appealing, but few have as many desirable attributes as this common rose with the fancy name.

Only fellow Floridians understand complaints about 'cold' weather

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel December 19, 2010)

It's cold!

The heat is on, but as I write this, I'm sitting in my house wearing several layers of clothing and fur-lined boots. I'm typing in the living room instead of my office because my office is far too frigid.

A large, single-pane picture window covers an entire wall in my usual writing space. Normally, I love that window because it provides great views of the garden and hillside, but when the temperature dives, so does its charm. Cold air seeps through the glass like water through a burst pipe.

Speaking of burst pipes, did you remember to leave your faucet running during the recent freeze? We Floridians become so accustomed to year-round warm weather that we forget to take basic preventive measures such as protecting water pipes from freezes.

We abandon many wintertime procedures when we settle in the Sunshine State, and we do so gladly. Who wants to wear layers of clothes, worry that the cold will kill our plants or create geysers out of barely buried water pipes? We didn't move south to sit by leaky windows or to cover our feet in anything except flip-flops.

But cold weather occasionally comes, and Floridians adapt. We also complain.

I'm telling you this because I know you'll understand. You live in Florida, too, and even though the weather probably will have warmed considerably between the time I'm writing this and the time you're reading it, most of you share my desire to live in a freeze-free zone.

That commonality enables us to commiserate with one another. We can start conversations with, "My gosh, it's cold," knowing that the people we're talking to will nod their heads and offer up a sympathetic reply.

That's not the case if the person we complain to lives out of state in, say, Rochester, N.Y. I made that mistake the other day. Ralph and I spent the night at La Veranda Bed and Breakfast in St. Petersburg. Before breakfast, we began loading up the car with our suitcase and gear. The car was a short distance away, so in typical Florida fashion, I didn't bother to bundle up before heading out. By the time I came inside to sit down at the table, I was chilled.

"Brrr," I said to the other guest who entered the dining room just after I came in. "It's cold out there!"

The man stared at me as if I was talking gobbledygook.

"I just came in from outside," I explained, thinking that would help.

"How cold is it?" he asked.

"Maybe in the low 30s," I said. "It's really cold."

He continued to stare.

A spark of awareness lit in my cold-dulled brain. "Where are you from?" I asked.

"Rochester, New York," he replied.

"Ah," I said. "Well, that explains your expression. Forgive my complaint, but to me it's cold. Not to you, no doubt, but we Floridians aren't used to such chilly weather."

The rest of our breakfast conversation was pleasant enough. We managed to avoid any weather-related topics and said our goodbyes with mutual respect.

The encounter reinforced a maxim I learned shortly after moving to the Sunshine State: If you want to complain about the weather in Florida, make sure the person you are complaining to lives in Florida, too. You'll get no sympathy from Northerners. They simply don't understand.

Osprey, one of nature's most impressive birds, returns

An adult osprey needs to catch and eat one to three fish everyday - more if it is supporting a family

Simply Living
(First appeared October 11, 2010)

The osprey is back! On the first cool day in October, after being absent during the hot summer months, a solitary osprey has returned to our lake. How consistent this bird has been. Ever since 2008, it has been a seasonal fixture, roosting on a mid-lake platform from October through May.

The white-chested fish hawk arrives before dusk to spend the night perched on a raised 3-foot-square platform in the middle of our lake. In the morning, shortly after dawn, the osprey flies away. I don't know if the 2-foot tall bird with the 4- to 6-foot wingspan goes far away or stays nearby because sometimes I see it during daylight hours sitting in one of the tall pine trees that grow along the shoreline or circling overhead in search of a meal.

Ever since Ralph built the platform and erected it in the middle of the lake, I've been hoping an osprey would nest there. Ospreys become sexually mature when they are 3 years old, which means if this bird arrived as a juvenile in 2008, 2010 might just be the year it is ready to mate. I'd be so excited if that happened.

Female ospreys tend to arrive about 10 days after the males. So far, I've only observed one bird, which I believe is a male. Although they look very similar, females are slightly larger than males and sport a "necklace" of mottled brown chest feathers. Once the female arrives, the male courts her with an aerial ballet. To impress his potential partner, the high-flying raptor performs a sky dance while carrying either a fish or nesting materials in his talons. If the female is sufficiently impressed by this winged display, the pair will mate and begin the process of nest building.

Nests are built atop tall trees or manmade platforms like the one in our lake. Usually, the birds choose a location close to water, where food is plentiful and the sharp-eyed raptors can survey their surroundings. As monogamous animals, once they've mated, ospreys stay together for life. They also return to the same nest year after year. It would fulfill one of my dreams if the nesting platform in our lake became the permanent home to a pair of ospreys.

Unlike eagles or hawks — whose diets include small animals as well as fish — ospreys dine almost entirely on live fish. An adult bird needs to catch and eat one to three fish every day to supply its own dietary needs, but that number increases dramatically once baby birds are born. Female ospreys lay an average of three eggs that both parents take turns incubating for the five- to six-week gestation period. How many of those hatchlings survive depends on the availability of food. An osprey family needs to consume six to eight fish a day. If fish are plentiful, survival rates will be high. If there are not enough fish, the last baby birds to hatch will be the least likely to live.

I don't know if our lake will support a family of ospreys or if the platform in the middle of the lake will work for anything other than a nighttime perch, but I hope in the weeks ahead to find out. In the wild, an osprey's lifespan is 13 to 16 years. This autumn marks the third year "my" osprey has been visiting our lake. Even if the solitary raptor doesn't decide to make a nest, I can at least look forward to many more years of seasonal visits by one of nature's most impressive birds.

London plane trees offer first sign autumn is near

The changing colors of the London plane tree leaves is one of the first signs in Central Florida that autumn is on the way

 
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel September 13, 2010)

My interest in London plane trees began during my childhood in Yardley, Pa. Huge London planes encircled a large house on my street, and I enjoyed picking up round seedpods from the ground and breaking them apart with my fingers. The symmetrical shape of those trees appealed to my developing sense of aesthetics, as did the trees' multicolored peeling bark.

I'm still interested in London plane trees, but over the years my reasons have changed. In Florida, this hybrid of the American sycamore and Oriental plane tree is one of the earliest signs of autumn. Of all the trees that grow in the central part of the Sunshine State, London planes are among the first to change color. Although sometimes a bit of yellow appears, most of the large, star-shaped leaves go directly from green to brown. It's not a showy display, but it's an obvious indication that summer is waning.

This year, the first leaves to change color weren't the ones on my own London plane trees but on a row of trees outlining a nearby building. Not far from my home is an industrial complex with several London plane trees. Plane trees are a popular choice in residential and commercial locations because, in addition to being fast-growing, they tolerate an extraordinary amount of abuse.

These 80- to 100-foot-tall behemoths can handle exposure to air pollution, reflected heat, smoke, dust, soot, wind and heavy pruning. They can even tolerate pavement covering their broad, spreading roots. The leaves on the trees in the industrial park turned brown several weeks before my own did. Soil and water conditions trigger leaf change, which means that trees in drier, less fertile soil tend to lose their leaves sooner than those growing in richer, moister conditions.

Despite its many favorable qualities, the London plane tree has negative characteristics as well. Many people consider it a "dirty" tree because so many large, leathery leaves litter the ground in the fall. The seedpods also create what some consider unattractive debris. Its height, while a positive feature in some situations, becomes a problem when it's planted in the wrong place, such as beneath utility wires. The tree's root system presents even more problems. The strong, broad roots can interfere with sewers, damage sidewalks and cause problems with building foundations.

A few years ago, when I was still infatuated with the tree's symmetrical shape, peeling bark and rapid growth, I made the mistake of planting a London plane tree about 15 feet from our house. In less than four years, the seedling, planted in rich, irrigated soil, grew 40 feet tall and almost as broad.

It was around that time my infatuation with London plane trees began to fade.

I grew tired of all the leaves it dropped every year. I didn't like the way the roots — many growing right at the surface — spread in every direction. They limited my use of the ground beneath the tree and grew perilously close to the house's foundation and walkways.

After some coaxing (after all, I had previously persuaded my husband to plant the tree there in the first place), we solved the problem by cutting the tree down. There's another London plane tree in our front yard, but it's farther away from the house and not as much of a bother.

Because I remember London plane trees from my youth, they will always have a place in my heart. But these days, instead of appreciating them as an element of the landscape, I like them for way they indicate seasonal shifts. The weather in Central Florida may still be hovering in the 80s, but by looking at the line of London plane trees growing down the road from my house, I know that autumn is almost here.

Rain in Florida never loses its power to surprise

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel July 19, 2010)

I like to watch rain. I like to sit on the porch, look out at the lake and watch raindrops make circles in the still water. I like listening to the tattoo of rain on a metal roof, and I'm especially fond of the way showers appear out of nowhere, only to disappear just as quickly.

The other day I experienced one of those sudden downpours in a most unusual way.

Ralph and I were taking a late-afternoon swim to cool off and relax. We were more than halfway across the lake, chatting amiably about the day's events and doing lazy breaststrokes through the still water. Ralph was midsentence when I interrupted him.

"Do you hear that?" I asked, somewhat anxiously. "I think it's about to rain on us."

No more than two minutes after Ralph turned his head to look where I was pointing, a wave of coolness swept over us. As the temperature dipped, the sky darkened and a noise not unlike the sound of oncoming traffic grew louder.

"It's either rain or a train heading our way," he replied.

Instinctively, we turned around and began swimming back home. The shore in front of our house seemed farther away than usual. As we increased the speed of our strokes, raindrops began to dot the water just south of where we were swimming.

"Here it comes," I said, pointing to the curtain of droplets quickly closing in on us.

Moments later, percussive pellets of water landed on our heads. The downpour had caught up with us.

"Good thing we're already wet," I said. "Otherwise, we'd be soaked."

Ralph smiled and looked my way. I could see that his glasses had begun to fog up. On the shore our towels were waiting, but by the time we reached the beach, I knew they'd be too wet to do us much good. We stopped talking and swam on. The noise of the falling rain would have made conversation impossible anyway.

Eventually we touched bottom, stood up and stepped out of the warm lake. Despite the rain, we'd been comfortable while swimming. But exposed to the air, our bodies felt chilled. We grabbed our wet towels and ran to the house.

Since I've been living in Florida, I've seen it rain on one side of a street and not on the other. I've watched dark walls of precipitation fall from distant clouds and rainbows appear after showers. I've driven through thunderstorms so intense that I had to pull over because my windshield wipers couldn't keep up. I've seen the dry soil soak up water like a sponge and large puddles evaporate in the summer sun. I've played in the rain with my children and bounced on the trampoline while rain splashed around us. But until recently, I had never experienced a rainstorm while swimming.

"I'm glad it was just a shower and not a thunderstorm," Ralph said, once we were back on land and toweled dry.

I couldn't have agreed more.

Sights and sounds of spring are all around us

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel April 26, 2010)

I've become aware over the last few weeks of a seasonal shift. Winter this year was especially harsh. Spring seemed in no hurry to make an entrance. March was colder than normal, with several false starts at warming temperatures, making it hard to believe that winter would ever end.

Then it happened. I flipped the calendar page to April, a month that in Florida has always meant ideal weather and, sure enough, I wasn't disappointed. Springtime took its time but finally arrived.

How do I know?

I know it is spring because every evening a whippoorwill sits on the irrigation spigot in the front yard to sing its repetitive tune. I hear its song through the open doors of the living room and bedroom. The doors are open because the weather is perfect.

I know it is spring because the mosquitoes think the weather is perfect too. Taking advantage of the warming weather and my open doors, they sneak inside during the day to torment me at night with their buzzes and bites.

I know it is spring because the loquat tree is full of fruit, and both white and black mulberries are ripe. Plump, juicy morsels of sweetness cover the limbs of the mulberry trees. What an amazing crop we have this year! It's too bad there won't be any left for us to enjoy.

I know it is spring because vast flocks of cedar waxwings have arrived, descending on the mulberry trees and devouring every berry in sight.

I know it is spring because plants are growing. The green leaves of passionflowers, rain lilies, amaryllis and other potential blooms are unfurling at a speedy rate.

I know it is spring because little black lubber grasshoppers are covering the leaves. The still soft, small bodies of these voracious eaters depend upon leafy food. In every chewed leaf they find nutrients needed to transform their half-inch selves into the 4-inch-long, thick-skinned pests they'll become by summer's end.

I know it is spring because the lawn has turned green. Nasty brown patches that looked dead a few months ago have responded to recent downpours with exuberant growth.

I know it is spring because the weeds have responded to downpours as well. Spiky stands of cow thistle dot the yard along with a tenacious assortment of weedy blooms. Some wildflowers are worth mowing around. Others are not.

I know it is spring because the lawn mower is busy keeping weeds and tall grasses at bay. The sound of its motor running competes with the whistles, trills and coos of songbirds in the trees.

I know it is spring because the smell of orange blossoms sweetens the air. Honeysuckle, brunfelsia and wisteria flowers infuse the atmosphere with a heady perfume.

I know it is spring because weird-looking stinkhorn mushrooms have popped up in the moist soil. When mistakenly kicked over, these red fungi have a notorious stench.

I know it is spring because animals are entering nesting mode. Carolina wrens, cardinals, little gray catbirds and even wild turkeys are showing signs of nest building.

I know it is spring because wasps and mud daubers also have begun building their nests … in the garage and under the house eaves.

Spring is a wonderful time of year. It's full of hope, potential, beauty and warmth, but even in this loveliest of seasons, downsides are inevitable. With every shift — seasonal or otherwise — come adjustments. With every attraction, there are distractions.

As I watch the cedar waxwings devour this year's crop of mulberries, I can't help but admire their beauty. As I exercise caution when walking by wasp nests, I find myself appreciating their house-building skills. While shooing away pesky mosquitoes, I marvel at their ability to zone in so effectively on potential meals. As I avoid kicking over stinkhorn mushrooms and spiky weeds, I find myself awed by nature's diversity.

I could get upset over the unpleasant parts of life, but what would be the point? By accepting the good with the bad, I am accepting life to the fullest. It's not always pleasant but it is definitely real, and I'm really glad to be along for the ride.

Learn to keep life's dangers in perspective

Simply Living

(First Appeared in Orlando Sentinel June 22, 2009)

During a recent medical appointment, my daughter and I sat in the waiting room while a large-screen TV tuned to Central Florida News 13 blasted the midday news.

"With these hot temperatures," the reporter began, "health officials are warning residents to be aware of amoebas, an invisible but potentially deadly organism found in bodies of fresh water."

"Great," I thought. "As if the news wasn't scary enough with wars in Iran and Afghanistan, nuclear testing in North Korea and swine flu cases reaching pandemic proportions, Central Florida News 13 has kindly given us one more thing to worry about -- invisible amoebas lurking in overheated freshwater lakes and under-chlorinated swimming pools. That's just lovely."

The report went on to quote an Orange County Health Department official who urged swimmers to take precautions. A local lakeside resident emphasized the importance of becoming educated about water dangers while a would-be boater decided to forgo an afternoon of family  fun on the water after hearing (probably from the reporter) about the potential presence in the lake of "deadly amoebas."

Come on now. Do amoebas actually pose a threat serious enough to keep boaters and swimmers out of the water when the thermometer hits the 90s? Is a report like the one my daughter and I watched necessary in these already overly anxious, tremulous times? Or is it just another example of the media overemphasizing uncommon risks because they're rare and therefore seem more newsworthy?

As with most threats, it's important to separate fact from fear. According to an information sheet produced by the University of South Florida for the Lake County Water Authority, Naegleria fowleri live in fresh water worldwide. Although the single-cell protozoan is common, infection is rare. In order for it to enter human anatomy, water containing the amoeba must be forced up the nose or ears.

That might happen during falls in a high-impact sport such as water skiing or when jumping or diving into water. The infection is not transmittable from person to person and cannot enter the system by swallowing water. The amoeba does not live in salt water. Preventive measures include staying out of stagnant water or poorly maintained swimming pools, wearing nose plugs and earplugs when submerged and avoiding underwater swimming entirely.

The federal Centers for Disease Control and Prevention illuminates further:

"Infections are very rare even though Naegleria is commonly found in freshwater. In the 10 years from 1998 to 2007, 33 infections were reported in the U.S. By comparison, during the ten years from 1996 to 2005, there were over 36,000 drowning deaths in the U.S."

Florida ranks third in unintentional drowning, according to the Florida Department of Health. Between 2001 and 2005, 2,327 people drowned in the Sunshine State, an average of 465 people a year.

Let's see if I have this straight: Over a 10-year period, an average of about 3 people per year nationwide were infected with a deadly amoeba while an average of 3,600 people per year (more than 1,000 times as many) drowned. If the media's objective is to inform the public, wouldn't it be more effective to increase water safety education instead of terrifying us with unlikely demons?

Life is dangerous business. In 2007, according to U.S. Coast Guard statistics, 75 Floridians died in boating accidents. The same year, automobile accidents claimed 3,221 lives, according to the state's Department of Highway Safety and Motor Vehicles. And the Florida Department of Health reported a whopping 41,956 deaths from heart disease.

Any life lost to disease or accident is a tragedy. We can take measures to minimize risks, but we can't avoid them all. To live a happy life, people must learn to analyze information, make educated decisions, apply precautions and, above all, keep things in perspective.

Unlike the boater interviewed by News 13, I intend to take full advantage of our lake during the hot summer months. Are there amoebas in my lake? Probably, but that doesn't mean they are out to get me. By taking safety measures -- keeping my head above water, avoiding high-impact water sports and wearing nose plugs when submerged -- the already slim risk of amoeba infection can be further decreased.

When the temperature goes up, I plan to cool down in the water. Anyone up for a swim?