There are Gators in Those Hills

Mike, Nala and Gator

Who would ever dream that gators lurk in the rolling foothills of Pennsylvania? You can find them wedged in between the Allegheny Mountains on the western horizon and the Appalachian Mountains in the East.   And, who would have thought that a tiki bar could be found in that same geographic area far from any beach, lake or tropical destination? Believe me, both gators and tiki bars can be found in the rural Perkiomen Valley. You can find them wedged in between the Allegheny Mountains on the western horizon and the Appalachian Mountains in the East.   And, who would have thought that a tiki bar could be found in that same geographic area far from any beach, lake or tropical destination? Believe me, both gators and tiki bars can be found in the rural Perkiomen Valley.

The same arthroscopic surgery that slowed Imagine’s refit progress gave me bonus time to visit my daughter Suzanne and husband Mike.  They recently purchased a 10-acre horse farm in Upper Frederick Township, Montgomery County.

The farm came with seven barn cats led by “Howard” a debonair black and white tuxedo cat who insists on jumping into cars just because he can.  The former owner of the farm, a veterinarian, made sure that all the cats were neutered and spayed. 

With an army of cats brushing against my legs as I hobbled towards the bam, I spotted the first gator of the weekend. It was a big green one with an open roof and cargo area.  It’s used for feeding the horses and getting around on the farm.  The John Deere utility vehicle is used with a drag to smooth the riding arena and pull weeds from the stone pathways that crisscross the farm.  I rode while Suzanne hauled gardening supplies and cruised around the property.  Each time the gator begins humming the horses begin to flick their tails make way to their paddocks where they look for some attention.  How can you not stop, get out, and pet all five of the horses.  That green gator is one supercharged vehicle.  Capable of going 35 mph, the green machine allowed me to explore the entire farm without having to hobble very far.

Assorted chickens have free run on the farm and seem to love to play dodge the gator.  The hens love to roll in the dust behind the front porch and peck at bugs in the manure pile.  A peacock from a nearby farm screams each morning making up for the missing wake up crow of a rooster.   The previous rooster became chicken potpie when it drew blood and began chasing children. 

Speaking of chicken, I would soon learn that gator tastes like chicken.  Not the green gator that works on the farm, but the scaly one that can be found in the swamps and backyards of Florida and the bayous of Louisiana.  Along with sister-in-laws Nancy and Gwyneth, who visited Suzanne on their way to a birthday party near Wilkes Barre, we decided to go to a well-known tiki bar for dinner.   I was skeptical of a tiki bar located at a small ski resort.  There were no palm trees or turquoise water, but there were alligator kabobs.  What Suzanne failed to tell us is that patrons have to cook their own dinner, or that we would be leaning in our chairs on the side of a hill with a ski lift as a backdrop. 

The bar waiter took our order for tropical drinks and explained that we could proceed to the deli-esque counter to order and pay for our food.   From there patrons move to the grilling pit to cook and season food with a myriad of spices.  Along with various kabobs and cuts of meat, fish, or chicken comes a pre-baked potato and a garden salad.  The waiter recommended the alligator kabobs.  Nancy, a one-time resident of Louisiana, pipes up, “Tastes like chicken.”   The counter staff also pushed the alligator kabobs with, “You’ll love it. It tastes just like chicken.”

Since I had no idea how to grill gator, or how well done it needed to be cooked, I elected to choose a shrimp kabob.  At the communal grill pit, a dozen or so patrons flipped steaks and turned kabobs.  They opened the foil of pre-baked potatoes adding cheese, chives and other condiments before reheating the spud over the grill.  While there were a lot of gator kabobs in the counter, I didn’t spot any on the grill.   I’m guessing that gator meat must be more of a novelty than a popular delicacy this far north.

While the joint didn’t quite fit my definition for a tiki bar, it was a great business concept.   Overhead must be low… no waitresses or cooks to pay.   Putting together kabobs and placing some meat entrees into a display case doesn’t take talent.  Bar waiters take drink orders and can cover triple the customers.   A bartender or two make the drinks.  Patrons pay for all food in advance for the experience of grilling it themselves.  They also eat outside sitting on inexpensive plastic furniture leaning into a slope.  No floors to maintain.  It’s a good way to bring revenue to a ski resort in the off-season.

It was a cool brisk weekend in the foothills.  I watched as Suzanne put mulch around newly planted mums.  Fall is right around the corner.  As I sat in the green gator with the wind brushing my hair, one of the farm chickens chased behind.  Hmmm, I wonder if the other gator really does taste like chicken?  Maybe next time I’ll give it a try.

Summer's Balancing Act

       This summer I hate boating!  In reality it’s not the boating I loathe, but the work involved repairing, upgrading and preparing for one more year sailing off into the sunset.  In our experience sailing off into the sunset should be rephrased to sailing into the sunrise, as the crew of Imagine is usually up before dawn ready to sail as soon as we can see the anchor in the predawn murkiness.  But that won’t be happening for another month or more. 

Working on head

A detour with a torn meniscus followed by arthroscopic surgery has slowed the summer’s refit progress.  Days of rain, and days of rain, and more days of rain have slowed it even more. As work commences I reminisce selling our perfectly good and much newer 36-foot boat No Bad Days for Imagine back in 2004.  That decision eventually led to a massive refit that lasted nearly three years as we tore up and put down new decks, bow and cabin top on our leaky teaky. 

At the time I didn’t want to spend the nearly $75,000 estimate to have professionals fix the boat. Neither did my husband Ed, Mr. Frugal.  Both the price and principle drove us into a false sense of “it would be a piece of cake.”  NOT!  Perseverance, a few cuss words, and many hours later we began to see a light at the end of the tunnel.  During the long process family and friends dubbed the boat as the USS Neversail and Mr. Frugal became Captain Go Nowhere.  We did however save $69,000.

On the last day of October in 2009, Imagine sailed away.  Skies were heavy with gray, spitting intermittent rain that followed us down the Chesapeake Bay for the next three days.  It didn’t dampen our spirits as we began our travels on a road not paved.  It would be a wet one marked with buoys, day makers, waypoints and lighthouses.  This fall we begin our fifth year spending our time upon the water.

Living on a boat takes its toll.  Maintenance is ongoing.  Some things can be put off for a while, while others such as a new bilge pump can mean life or death if a boat begins taking on water.   We replaced the main bilge that failed this spring as well as a shower bilge that failed a year ago.   The shower drain was bypassed into our main bilge that seemed to work until the odor began.   A bilge pump does not remove a hundred percent of standing water. Some shower water lingered and created a stench of rotten meat.  Dead skin cells mixed with soap scum and salty water can get pungent overnight.  That won’t be a problem anymore!  

The head now has a new floor with ceramic tile, a new stand for the head, a rebuilt head, new head hoses, a re-glassed holding tank, plus a newly painted head and shower.  Both the previous head stand and floor was deteriorating. The old head hoses were cemented with mineral deposits that adhered to the inside of the hose over the years leaving less than a half inch of partly occluded space for waste to pass. 

The overhead has yet to be taken down so that the cabin top deck hardware can be re-bedded.  The porthole frames are in the process of being removed and re-bedded as well as the outer deck hardware.  And of course the bright work will need more varnish.  Ed has been working on the shaft and will be replacing a loose cutlass bearing. 

Boat Blisters

The biggest challenge, and most disheartening, which makes me hate boating are the blisters above the waterline on the hull.  Nearly 400 of the little blisters had to be opened sanded, filled and sealed.   I call them age spots.   These little blisters are common on classic plastic boats like Imagine.  Usually they appear on the bottom due to osmosis in places where miniscule air pockets formed between the laminate and gel coating during the boat building process.  Working on scaffolding and ladders with full-face respirators and protective white jumpsuits make for uncomfortable summer work. 

After much sanding, fairing and taping, two coats of primer went on rather easily.  Sanding between coats did not.  Did I say I hate sanding? Unfortunately the priming highlighted several areas where shallow bumps appear.  The fairing wasn’t perfect. In the interest of sailing again this millennium, we decided to move on with the imperfections.   Did I mention that with marine paint you should only work between 9 and 4 a.m. on days when humidity is 85 percent or under?  Also make sure there is no rain forecast for several hours after painting.

In the midst of all I feel like a rope in a unending game of tug of war being pulled from all directions.  I want to spend time with grandchildren, friends and family.  I have to take care of myself as well as work on the boat.  I love sailing and the carefree live we lead upon the water, the work to maintain that lifestyle, not so much.   Taking time for myself and getting non boat stuff done has helped get me through a summer of feeling angry that we have this level of boat work to do.

I’ll feel great when it is done.  The money saved by doing the work ourselves will pay for at least another year of cruising.  It’s about sacrifice and balance.  Year five looms and decisions will be made as to whether it will be our final year or a jump off time to go back into a land based world of work and status quo.  Here’s to decisions, balance and sunny days.

A Garden Grows in Sharptown

Beautiful exotic flowering plants or farm fresh produce might come to mind when one thinks of a garden.  In reality a garden offers so much more.  A garden is a lesson in history, economics and science.  A garden teaches patience and offers rewards.  It heals the soul and provides a means of expression. For many a garden brings nostalgia and serves as a reminder of the heritage that so many have shared.

A Sharptown Garden

Golden sunflowers reaching towards heaven, orderly rows of corn standing at attention, tomato vines clinging on supports, along with peppers, lima beans and other assorted vegetables have thrived in Jim Sparks’ Sharptown garden more than 60 years.  Those who regularly drive down County House Road in Salem County may have noticed that the garden contours have moved from year to year but each spring Dad’s 1946 cherry red Farmall Cub tractor chugs on. 

The antique tractor was the smallest tractor manufactured by International Harvester in Louisville, Kentucky from the late 1940’s through 1981.  Today International Harvester has become part of Case IH.  Dad explained once that J. P. Morgan merged the Morgan Harvesting Machine Company with the Deering Harvesting Company and some other smaller companies to form International Harvester at the turn of the 20^th century.  Jerome Case began his Chicago Company in 1863 and introduced the first steam engine tractor.  Case purchased International Harvester a little over a century later in 1985.

Jim and Tom Cleary Planting

At 82, the quintessential gardener walks among the rows somewhat thinner and a little more stooped than in years past.  Up at dawn he heads out to the garden that has beckoned him for as long as I can remember. One of my earliest memories was of Dad showing me how to train the fragile shoots of lima bean vines around the baling twine and cedar pole supports.  The poles are now permanent iron pipes and the twine has given away to a heavy gauge steel wire.

 Last week I arrived to find Dad kneeling with a five gallon bucket picking burp-less cucumbers and tomatoes.  He had pulled a few weeds that were threatening to take over after the copious amounts of rain earlier this summer.  The weeds competed with Dad’s precious crops for nutrients and water.   As we moved down the row of cucumbers clinging upright on poles that gave way to the lima beans, I bent on the opposite side of the row and began pulling weeds from the moist wet soil.   The sun kissed our faces and backs as we slowly moved down the row shaking and beating excess soil from the roots of the weeds as Dad taught me as a child.   “You have to get all the dirt off so the plant will die and not get a second life,” he explained as he did so many years ago. 

Towards the end of the row Purple Martins chattered and scolded as we moved closer to their home above our heads.  “The babies are flying and they are ready to go,” Dad told me.  “It’s time.”  Dad knows his birds.  In the spring he will say the “Martins,” will be back any day now.  A week later I stopped by to pick some Silver Queen corn. The garden was quiet.  The graceful swooping birds that, according to Dad, eat their weight in mosquitoes every day were heading south again.

I hated pulling weeds when I was young.  Most mornings Mom would send us out after breakfast to clear the weeds before Dad came home from work.  Today, as I weeded down memory lane alongside my father, I realized that Dad’s garden now offers a healing balm to stresses he faces as he becomes more and more of a caregiver to his wife.  The garden is his oasis where worries can disappear for a little while. It takes him to a world that he knows and challenges that he understands.  He has solutions for the bean beetles and potato bugs.  The weeds he can eradicate.   He can make his garden grow and share the bounty with his children, neighbors and church family, but he can’t stop his wife’s gradual and steady loss of memory.

Grandson Sam and  Great Granpa Sparks

The garden nurtured us as children.  We learned to wait the 85 or so days it took from the time some seeds germinated until produce was ready for harvest.  We sold strawberries for vacation money when we were younger.   In winter we enjoyed tomato sauces, strawberries, lima beans, corn, green beans, pickles and other vegetables that we shucked, peeled, stemmed, cut or sieved under the summer sun.   Vegetables were either canned or went directly to the freezer. 

From early on we could identify a weed from a plant.  I know that dandelions are a bear to eradicate because you have to get the entire tap root.  I know my chickweed from the common mallow and the plantain from the sorrel.  Crab grass and clover are tricky to pull as they send out trailers and are rooted in several places.   Thistle is never easy to pull.  Morning glory, purslane and lambs quarters also seem to show up in a garden.  If nothing else, weeds teach patience.  They never go away. It is a battle to be won each day.

Dad’s Sharptown garden will never leave me.  The smell of fresh turned soil, or the unique smell of the tomato and the lima bean vine with its leaves that stick like Velcro will take me immediately to that place.  Walking along a Bahamian road, I spotted corn growing in clumps among a soil too rocky to toil.  I couldn’t help returning to the place of my childhood and to the lessons in science, history and life that I learned in a little garden off the beaten path.