Every Day Is Earth Day

Trying to live life each day as Earth Day.

Because 'tis true that every day is an earth day, and I try to live my life accordingly. But on this particular Earth Day, there were some extra nice encounters.

At the Harlem Meer, a blue heron! ...

...Turtles! 

...A butterfly!

En route to Central Park, a playground that honored some of the world's major rivers.

At the Conservatory Gardens, tulips galore! The last of the magnolias. Live birds splashing alongside sculptural birds in a birdbath. Squirrels.

Back closer to home in Carl Schurz Park, the cherry blossom arbor in peak bloom!

Even in our little island urban jungle, Mother Nature is all around to remind us that beneath the concrete is earth - her domain.

[Edited to complete photos December 13, 2024.]

Mid-April Convergence

National Gardening Day, followed by Tax Day.

Yesterday was apparently National Gardening Day. Today is Tax Day. What does it say that these two dates connected to how I spend so many of my hours follow each other so closely on the calendar? It's like my own little life slice of the month/year.

I did spend Gardening Day in the garden, assessing, daydreaming, easing into the gardening season. The tulips survived and are finally coming into their own - very yellow - matching the warmth of the day (don't mind the shiso seed heads and skeletons that I haven't yet managed to remove). The balmy weather prompted me to bring the jasmine and the Thai lime outside - after I defoliated them of their dry, crispy leaves; the jasmine leaves I crushed by hand so the plant could mulch itself, ...

...while the Thai lime leaves got collected for future use (the dried are not as fragrant as the fresh leaves, but I have seasoned rice with it, seen recipes calling for the fresh in soups and stews - which should rehydrate the dried, maybe?). Let's see how much the lime tree bounces back; it seems the new growth happens where the wood is still green, which isn't very much of the little tree.

I never did start the tomato seedlings over Winter (even as everyone else out in Instagram gardening world were starting from back in January or February, I sat with the guilt and the cloud of non-accomplishment and inertia), so we're going to try some direct sowing this year. I have more seeds that I collected and may attempt some very late eggshell seedlings, too, as insurance - a hedge against the direct sows not germinating. In the meantime, there are rainy days ahead, so I wanted to capitalize and get some lazy growing going by sprinkling seeds from these shriveled fruit (insect eaten, or split, or starting to mold post-last harvest, so they weren't consumed), then burying the dried fruit. We'll see if anything emerges.

On that note, the two survivors of the one-time Maple Triplets are leafing at very different rates; oddly, the bigger one is more stunted in leaf than the medium one, while the smallest just seems dead.

Also emergent, in one of the large nursery pots where a seed tomato was sown, a sugar snap pea - finally! I was afraid none would germinate. It's surrounded by chickweed, though, so I'll need to give it some breathing and growing room.

All that gardening (mostly garden contemplation) was really just procrastination on filing my tax returns (and tending to other dreaded household tasks). Even those of us in tax-centered fields can dread the actual exercise of preparing an income tax return.... All I did was buy myself some time, hopefully to be picked up and done once and for all sooner rather than later.

So my metaphysical small sliver of the calendar: Gardening Day (passion, fun, love), then Tax Day (work, drudgery, responsibility) represents the struggle between distraction versus duty that has always been present in my life, from my earliest childhood schooldays. It's like my chronological analog to the Greek drama masks depicting comedy and tragedy.

Syracuse Series Summation

Revisiting Syracuse - mostly good, with a few disappointments, for mostly serenity, sprinkled with one sorry state (of affairs).

Eclipse aside, Syracuse fulfilled Papa Rooster's wish to revisit his past places - that being our first Stateside home and the start of our family's American journey. He is in that phase of his life (our trip to Vietnam last Fall was in part for the same purpose); I don't really believe it is his last time for doing anything, given how physically vigorous he is for his age, but, of course, actuarially, I know the statistics. I know how fortunate we are. So, we sought out the places in the old, grainy film photos carefully arranged in the old albums.

There were snowy '70s photos by Chittenango Falls. Happily, no snow the day before the eclipse. Indeed, a rainbow, and pleasantly, surprisingly accessible path to the falls from the parking lot for Mama Hen. This site aged well!

There were sunny summer '70s photos at Green Lake. Last Sunday, so many people were out enjoying sunshine, and new playgrounds on the shores, and modern wooden chaises by the lakeside. We partook with the masses, kicking back as Mama Hen and Papa Rooster walked to find their preferred picnic spot from decades ago.

I always associate Green Lake with one of the pivotal stories of our lives. Papa Rooster and Mama Hen arrived without credentials. She had a background in a different law system, in a language not spoken in her new homeland, and she had two children under 14 months when she left, with no grandparent support anywhere near - she was restricted by all the factors generally restricting women's professional advancement in that era, and more. So Papa Rooster's career was the one they would invest in. Without credentials, he began as a technician, making just below the salary level to qualify our family for some government assistance - carefully calibrated by our sponsors. But he and we had time to go to Green Lake regularly, to socialize with the few other Vietnamese families in the area, for him to play tennis almost every weekend. Life was secure and leisurely; he was content. But Mama Hen insisted that she had married a professional, that her girls would not grow up dependent on the whims of their father's parsimonious employer - she insisted that he return to school, qualify for his license. And that was why we moved away from Syracuse after a year and a half or so, to the nearest university participating in a special program to accepting "certified" (by the memory of former Vietnamese professors) refugee dentists without bachelor degrees into dental school.

And why we moved away from our Syracuse house - the one the landlady offered to sell for $8,000. The star attraction was supposed to be the old house in which we rented a lower level apartment. Not everything aged as gracefully as the parks we used to visit; the little house has seen better days. The neighborhood was always a more affordable part of town - that's how we landed there as penniless refugees, guided by our sponsors. But it wasn't quite as downtrodden as it appears today. The house used to be a blue-grey, with white trim; the landlady lived next door, keeping an eye on her investment and tenants. The house is now white, with red trim - like a faded celebrity using too much powder to hide blemishes, heavy makeup to distract. Except the smoke damage by the attic and plywood coverings to keep out squatters were hard to ignore. As we stood on the steps to take some photos, a fight spilled out from the convenience store next door, and we walked quickly back to the car (Mama Hen trying with her arthritic knee), all of us alert to the possibility of gun violence - another sign of modern times. We mourned a little for the loss of the humble, but solid, house of the old film photos. Papa Rooster mused a bit on whether our fates would have declined, like the house, had we stayed. But, of course, life isn't static - we would have acted seeing the decline around us; he would have moved us, Mama Hen would have insisted.

The current house appears last above, but it was the first place we visited - after trying some 'Cuse cuisine on arrival at the end of the long drive from New York City.

Since the old folks like what they like, we tracked down a Vietnamese place, set in some conjoined houses in a residential neighborhood - like going to someone's home for food, if they ran a restaurant out of their house. Back in the day when we lived in the city (before 'Lil Bro), they would have given anything for a Vietnamese eatery. They talked about driving an hour just to get to a supermarket that carried any Asian ingredients; Mama Hen described it as akin to the "International" aisle so ubiquitous today. She had to learn to prepare the dishes she longed for and to make do with what she found. Today's Syracuse, with its multiple Vietnamese options, and a Vietnamese Buddhist temple not far from where we ate, is a very different city from the one they settled into, aching for the lost country they fled abruptly. 2024 Syracuse is, in part, the result of a people who set down roots over the last 49 years.

Of course, we needed to sample the "local" dishes, too. The online guides and food shows listed riggies, so we got chicken, in addition to other pasta, at a fun space in a warehouse district. Many cities these days have reinvigorated themselves by repurposing their former industrial areas, and Syracuse has joined that trend. This was our last Syracuse meal, hoping to buy some time for the post-eclipse traffic to clear.

Clear roads were wishful thinking. Even taking the supposedly clearer road, we sat in stop and go traffic. It was my day to drive. And I got tired of not moving, and went rogue... onto small country lanes, heading in the general direction of west to east interstate 86 - I saw the alternative options on the GPS, fuzzy and faint compared to the interstates, repeatedly enlarging the electronic map on my phone while paralyzed among the exodus of vehicles. I knew there was a way, and just needed to GO. Perhaps middle of the night was not the most reassuring time for an uncharted adventure; granting fully that a blown tire or engine would have been a safety issue (one doesn't go knocking on rural doors for assistance in the middle of the night in hunting country). I nearly missed plowing down two raccoons. Happily, Papa Rooster fell asleep, or I would have HEARD it. Instead, Lil' Bro and Sissy navigated in highly agitated and moderately panicked tones; Mama Hen observing the route on her own phone, occasionally making factual statements of our status in quiet, matter of fact tones, resigned, staying informed. I don't know if we actually saved time on the small, winding roads - but I needed to try, and DO something, having cursorily assessed the manageable risks. I suppose I am my father's daughter - leading the family out of a tough spot. And the rest of the family fell into the roles we've had - cajoled along, in key supporting and partnering roles. We survived, came out... seven hours to get to Manhattan, compared to the four hours departing for Syracuse.

So in summation, the nature baths, the eclipse, the walking tour of 2024's downtown Syracuse, our marginally nerve racking (but somewhat exhilarating) successful extrication from eclipse exodus traffic - those washed away some of the pity I felt for the poor Syracuse house, and on balance made for a net positive trip down memory lane.