Plough Monday…

Jack Frost loosened its grip on the Valley this week, packed up his fogbanks,  allowed the thermometer to shrug off an icicle or two, and thankfully went polar. Given the upper Midwest’s Arctic cold snap—forty-four below zero at International Falls, Minnesota, (by Jack London standards, that’s 76 degrees of frost, by the way), I guess I’d have to say Jack Frost’s was more a loose handshake than a “grip.”

For several days, however, I awoke to temperatures in the twenties; by day’s end, highs for the day were only in the mid-thirties. And fog clung to the Valley as if it were the setting for a Dickens’ novel. One morning the outside thermometer shivered at twenty-three degrees until early afternoon. That morning I awoke to find the kitchen window hummingbird feeder frozen solid. Not enough sugar anti-freeze at a 4:1 ratio to prevent the water from freezing. I had been bringing the feeder inside at night, rehanging it in the morning. (One cold morning  ice crystals formed in the feeder in less than an hour.) During the cold snap one of our resident Anna’s hummingbirds would roost in the maple tree, making sure there was no more than ten feet between her and her food source. (Somewhere I heard that because of its high metabolism a hummingbird can starve to death in an hour’s time if it can’t find food, a fact I can’t confirm, by the way.) I added a second feeder to the rotation and from time to time would switch out the frigid  feeder for the one I had warmed indoors. Day after day Anna huddled on the same twig and kept vigil over her bottle of syrup. Even though one of the feeders has a perch, she would hover as she fed, perhaps fearing her feet would freeze to the metal perch much like the kid who tongued the schoolyard  flagpole mid-winter. It may only be the end of January, but each time a perky little Anna’s busies itself at the feeder, there’s just the tiniest bit of summer in the air.

The sun came out today, so I took Gladys out for some welcome sunshine. I kicked her tires a couple times to wake her up and wheeled her out of the garage. Nearly a month since we’ve been on the road, but once you learn, you never forget to ride a bike, right? With the exception of routine activity at and around the dairy barns, the Valley still has its winter wraps on. The cornfields are wearing their green long johns, spring grass waiting for some thermal encouragement. A few changes, though: Rosario and crew have finished pruning and wrapping the blackberry canes northeast of Swiss Hall, a job that wasn’t finished my last visit.

In the communal corn patch I see a sign the New Year is creeping forward: a half burned Christmas tree in the middle of the field. The scorched icon reminds me my holiday lights are still swinging from the eaves; I had better take care of that. I don’t want the neighbors to think I’m rushing the season. Besides, Johnny Deck has me beaten anyway; but then he beat everyone else last year, too, come to think of it.

Just past Andy’s place and I ride up on Ginnifer Broers whose dog was taking her for jog. I pointed out a roosting bald eagle keeping an eagle’s eye out from the cottonwood along the river. “Better keep an eye on your dog,” I tease, nodding at the big bird. “The idea crossed my mind,”Ginnifer replies. “But maybe that would be a good thing?” I joke. She frowns and says, “I’m sure Ed wouldn’t mind!” Looks like Ginnifer and her canine companion are the new Mrs. Schmidt and Lucy in the Valley these days.

The flower man Song is taking advantage of the pleasant break in the weather. He’s covering a hoop house with plastic, hoping to jump start some early spring flowers, I imagine. Va, my dahlia friend, will be happy to know the thousand tulip bulbs she planted last fall have sprouted to a height of six or seven inches already. January, and while the big plow tractors hibernate in the equipment barns, a bit of farming has already begun. Now if  this were England two or three centuries ago, preparations for the season’s crop would also be underway. In fact Plough Monday would already be history for the New Year past.

                          Plough Monday, the next after Twelfthtide be past

                           Biddeth out with the Plough; the worst husband is last.

 

Plough Monday, the English farmer’s first farming feast of the New Year, falls the first Monday after Epiphany according to a book by Dorothy Hartley: Lost Country Life: How English country folk lived, worked, threshed, thatched, rolled fleece, milled corn, brewed mead… As luck would have it, the other day I took a box of books to the bookstore on Main Street, left behind a couple dozen and came away with Harley’s fascinating book. (I dare you to go into a bookstore and NOT leave without purchasing at least one book!)

According to Hartley, Plough Monday is a feast day nearly as old as the hand plough itself and the tradition continued until early twentieth century when farming became mechanized in rural England. According to the tradition, “ploughboys,” young ploughmen in training, would go out of their way to do chores, little odd jobs, for the farmers across the countryside. These menial tasks, were performed gratis, and after the job was completed, the apprentices would remind the recipients, “You’ll remember this on Plough Monday?”

What happened on the eve of Plough Monday is rather like our own Halloween. At dusk, the apprentices would blacken their faces, turn their jackets inside out, and dragging an old ploughshare, would visit the farms in the area demanding “largesses for the ploughboys.” Most farmers would distribute a few coins among the lads. If the farmers were generous, the boys would scratch a line across their drives and that would be that; they were not bothered again. If a farmer was stingy, however, Hartley described the consequence he suffered: “If the household was mean and did not subscribe, the lads would fairly plough up the ground before the door so that it was a sea of mud for weeks, treading dirt into the house and causing endless trouble.” Apparently outhouse-tipping had not come into fashion…and I’m sure eggs were far too dear to pelt a  farmhouse with. The apprentices usually gathered enough loot to purchase a hearty dinner at the local inn, the innkeepers having reserved special space for the occasion.

I was so inspired by the spring-like day and the story of the ploughboys, that I came home, unstrung the holiday lights, took up the rake and shovel and planted some raspberries. My “largesse?” Fresh air, sunshine, exercise, and the promise of  fresh, ripe Tulameen raspberries some months down the road.

I Don’t Do Windows…

Many years of dwelling in rental housing, most of it, by the way, spent in apartments, led us here to our one slim acre in the Valley. When we were looking for a building site, our criteria were simple: find property suitable for a home, enough left over for an expanse of lawn to landscape, rich soil to raise a vegetable and flower garden, space enough to accommodate a stand or two of honeybees—and plenty of exposure to sunlight. We looked at wooded properties and thought, “If we built here, we might as well build on the dark side of the moon.” Sunlight…open space…in this vale of rain, drizzle, fog, damp and SLD (“seasonal light disorder”), let the sunshine in was our top priority. And so we purchased our narrow little acre of pasture land. Not a tree or shrub on the place; only pasture grass waist high in summer. (Well, that’s where the sun doesn’t shine anyway.)

In 1979 our daughter joined us, and our cozy little rambler seemed crowded; we needed more elbowroom, so we added on our “sunroom,” as we called it because this space was pretty much enclosed by glass: two skylights, windows to the north and south, large floor to ceiling windows to the west. Let it shine, let the brightness in, capture what there is of the stingy winter light. This quest for light was and is fine and good, but onto all this glass a little darkness must fall.

Windows.  Glass. They seem to be magnets for speckles of dirt, composite film from day to day contact with the great out-of-doors, and whatever other airborne stuff  happens to brush up against the panes. Such accumulation can’t be allowed, of course: it isn’t tidy and flies in the face of the old saying about cleanliness. Twice a year—spring and fall—my wife  launches that old, familiar lament:“I have to do something about those windows!” There’s a saying in this household, and I claim modest credit for its origin. Come to think of it, I’m the only one who uses the phrase: “Low priority!” To be sure, we all have our priorities. The only time specks, spots, and smears are noticeable, to me at least, is when the afternoon sun highlights them as it gently sinks lower on  the horizon; in the morning hours those same windows are crystal clear. At least to this observer…. But when the afternoon sun backdrops those large plates of glass, it’s obvious the windows are “stained.”

In mid-October when the sun’s position in the western sky is at its optimum declination for show and tell,  my wife’s birthday rolls around. As the years churn by, it’s harder and harder to think of an appropriate gift to commemorate  the occasion. This year, however, when the first refrain of “I have to do something about those windows,”echoed in the autumn air, a wonderful idea came to me.“Why not gift the birthday girl with a window washing service!” Not only was the gift practical, but I wouldn’t have to wrap it!

Just a bit of internet research and the service was acquired. Brad of  Windowguy@jandBwindowwashing.com pulled into the driveway promptly at the appointed time. He began at once, removing ladders and equipment and set to work loosing the window screens and hosing them down.  Then he addressed the windows. Talk about a thorough job! When you’re paying for a service, you can’t help but look over your shoulder a time or two…you know, just to see if your money’s working as it was intended. As discreetly as possible, I went about my business, the entire time superintending Brad’s every move over my shoulder: the outside surfaces first, then inside for the indoor surfaces. Pretending to putter about in the garden, two or three times I watched Brad exit the house to redo the western plate glass windows (ah, yes…the west, that tattletale direction for dirt). “I’m not satisfied with that, “Brad muttered as once again he hauled his stepladder outside to remove some defiant speck of residue from the plate glass. Then up on the roof  he clambered to do battle with the skylights.

Just short of two hours Brad had the windows—excuse the cliché—“squeaky clean.” You would be hard pressed to find the slightest mote of dirt on any window inside or out. I sent Brad on his way with a hearty “thank-you” and a twenty dollar tip. Now with the glass “wrapped” in a sheen of clean, I could focus on baking the birthday cake. The wife was overwhelmed by her gift and the welcome reprieve from the squeegee, the trailing garden hose and the task of squirting the suds off the windows.

When you live in a farming community beside a busy state highway, dirt and grime are everywhere. You raise enough dust weekly yourself  just by mowing the lawn, tilling  the garden, and shaking out your farmin’ clothes on the deck. And the windows? They bear the dust brunt, it seems. Brad’s window service was so thorough the windows maintained their luster for a long time.

Four months have passed. Now spider webs trail across the glass and spider dribble trickles down the panes.  How unsightly! One feathered guest from the bird feeder out back dusted himself off on a western window, adding  a fossil-like bird print to the glass collage. How irritating! And just last week a starling with a fully loaded alimentary canal collided with a pane, leaving behind at least a pound and a half of spatter. How disgusting! But little handprints on a two hundred dollar window washing service….

 

                                                             Priceless!!!

Still Waxing Strong…

It’s better to light a candle than curse the darkness.

                                                          Eleanor Roosevelt

Back in the low traffic volume days, before the DOT turned right-of-way pit bulls, I used to sell my honey crop roadside in front of the house. Along with my honey sales, on occasion I had requests for beeswax, so many requests in fact that I was sure to include a block of wax among the jars of honey in my display. Of those who expressed an interest in beeswax, I always asked what uses they had for it. Their answers were always interesting. One customer wanted wax to make boot grease. He would add the melted beeswax to bear fat grease, mix the two together, and smear the concoction on his boots. I told him the smell alone would keep the water away. Beeswax, I discovered from an artist customer, was also used in batik dying, an Indonesian art form that enjoyed worldwide popularity. In batik art molten wax is dribbled in specific designs on cloth: t-shirts, scarves, and dresses. The batik method was also used to create prints for framing and wall hangings. Beeswax, because of its special cloying properties, was superior to paraffin which turned brittle when it hardened and tended to break free from the cloth. Others wanted smaller amounts of wax for thread and twine to stiffen and protect it. I had heard as well that beeswax was used to wax bowstrings and bind the individual strings into one strand. Just last fall Matt Frohning stopped by to pick up a pound of beeswax for his dad Tim who needed the ingredient in a healing concoction for his cows—some sort of balm for udder and teat, I assumed. And the gaskets used for seating your bathroom toilet? Another practical use for the honeybees’ byproduct.

Beeswax is used commercially in cosmetics, lipsticks, glosses, and lip balm. We’ve all seen the ubiquitous displays of “Burt’s Bees” products where beeswax creativity really waxes wild. According to The Hive and the Honey Bee (Dadant and Sons, Hamilton, Illinois, 4th printing, 1978) other “interesting minor uses” for this bee byproduct are:

…its inclusion as an ingredient in the composition of adhesives, crayons, chewing gum, inks, basketball molding, grafting wax, ski wax, ironing wax, and wax for thread and archers’ bow strings.

Interestingly, though, much of the beeswax produced in the U.S. goes right back into the beekeeping industry. This wax is purified and molded into foundation wax. Beeswax foundation are thin sheets of wax imprinted with hexagonal cells, most usually of the circumference used by the bees themselves when they construct worker bee cells.( Note: a thinner, lighter wax is used in the production of comb and chunk honey.) A special wax press roller does the imprinting. These beeswax sheets are then installed in the removable wooden frames used in the modern beehive and are “drawn out” as needed by the worker bees for brood rearing, honey and pollen storage.  These preformed sheets not only give the bees a head start on comb building but also encourage them to build worker cells instead of drone comb which would result in an excess of these freeloaders.

For you carpenters out there, when you’re working with hardwoods such as oak, rub a bit of beeswax on any screws you use to join pieces of wood together. The wax lubricates the screws, keeps them from shearing from the friction of metal twisting into hardwood.

                            *                    *                    *                    *

Many of the customers at my roadside stand wanted beeswax for candle making. In fact candle making is the second major use of  beeswax produced in this country, with the Catholic Church being a major consumer of candles which it uses in religious services. (I can’t confirm this fact but I heard somewhere that Church candles must contain at least 60 percent pure beeswax.)

No candle is lovelier than a natural beeswax taper or emits such a distinct, gentle fragrance. Beeswax has a low melting point of 147.9 degrees, a characteristic that allows a beeswax candle to burn with a constant, even flame. Whereas the harder paraffin candle has the tendency to droop in time, beeswax candles never seem to warp. I reserve my rendered wax cappings for candles; it is too valuable a resource to waste. A few years back I sold a few pounds to a bee supply outlet and only received a dollar per pound. I regret that poor business decision to this day.

A candle maker is called a “chandler” and this time of the year I become one. Most of my candles are molded tapers which I pour a half dozen at a time. The six candle mold is easy to use once you get the hang of threading the wicking through the six cylinders. Making sure the wicks are centered and taut is a bit more challenging. You want the wick to run through the center of the candle straight and true (or as true as one can eyeball it). A series of tugs and yanks on the wicking removes any excess and ensures the frugal use of material. A simple hairpin is used to center the wick at the base of  each candle and hold it firmly in place. This is the tricky part; you don’t want the wicking to slide either side of the tube and repositioning one hairpin after another is part of the procedure.  The pour is the next step. I melt the rendered and strained wax in a double boiler fashioned from a large coffee can that doubles as the exterior water-filled jacket. A pouring tankard with a spout contains the candle wax. When the wax is completely melted, I’m ready to pour.

 

The pouring process is pretty straightforward. Just be careful not to overfill. Once each cylinder is filled, you have to monitor the cooling process. The wicking absorbs wax, so some contraction occurs as the wax cools and more liquid wax must be added to each cylinder as needed to prevent hollow bases. Pre-made wax plugs can be inserted into the hot wax to fill the void or, as I do, continue filling until each base is completely covered.

After each tube is completely filled, I allow the wax to set. When it has hardened and cooled, the mold goes into the freezer for twenty-four hours. Even though I spray each cylinder with a silicon release aerosol, I’ve found the candles release easier after they’ve been frozen. In fact in many pours the frozen tapers pop out two and three at a time. First, I cut the wicking loops to separate the candles. Then the excess wax is pried from the bases of the tapers. Sometimes during this process the candles pop loose themselves.

 

 

 

 

Once the candles are released, I trim the excess wick and wax from the base of each taper and begin the finishing process.

 

 

 

These cold days are perfect for finishing candles. The mold is made from sheet metal tin and where the tin meets on each cylinder, there is a fine seam and as the wax sets, a slight ridge forms along this seam. Using a sharp jackknife, I sliver and smooth the ridge until it’s hardly noticeable. I keep the candles outside on a towel, and when I scrape along the waxen seam, the cold wax curls neatly away from the candle until the ridge is gone.

The finishing continues: I trim each wick to approximately three-eighths inch, remove excess wax from the base of each candle, and using a metal candle holder heated on the woodstove, round and smooth the butt of each taper. Using a pair of discarded pantyhose, I rub each candle to a high sheen finish. (Note: I try to do this either in private or at least when no one is looking.) I then wrap the finished tapers individually in a sheet of tissue paper I’ve saved from those used to separate sheets of foundation wax.                         

One is not a consummate chandler if he hasn’t made candles by the hand-dip method. Hand dipped candles require a substantial amount of beeswax, enough to fill your dipping tankard nearly to the brim if they’re to have any length. The dipping process is more time-consuming and like most artistic endeavors, requires a bit of technique. My tankard allows me to dip seven to eight inch tapers. There are a number of apparatuses that enable the chandler to produce multiple tapers at a single dipping. My setup is a simple wire frame which lets me dip one pair at a time.

While the double boiler melts your wax, measure your wicking so both wicks are the same length. To keep the wicks from floating free in the molten wax, tie a small bolt to the end of each string to weight them down plumb bob fashion.

Three or four dippings are sufficient to set the wicks and add enough weight to keep them from floating free when they are submerged. At this point you can remove the weights.

Tapering a hand-dipped candle requires a bit of technique. If you don’t employ the use of gravity, your candle will end up looking more like a cylinder or a stick than a taper. To prevent this “tubing” effect, gently dunk the wicks into the wax and then jerk them rapidly from the dipping tank. This allows the hot wax to flow quickly down the taper; as the wax at the tip is hotter, less adheres to this part of the shaft. More wax collects further down the shaft as it cools and sets, creating the tapering effect. Allow a half minute or so between dunkings to set the wax. (Again, these cold days are perfect for candle dipping.)

You can customize your hand-dipped tapers to fit the base of any candlestick; small, dainty tapers for smaller sticks; thicker bases for larger candleholders. And longer tapers, of course, if you use a deeper dipping tank.

Once my candles are finished, I set the wax by submersing the tapers  in the cold water of the rain barrel. Then, careful to look over my shoulder first, I give each a brisk rubbing with the pantyhose to finish it and my pair of tapers are complete. Even though hand dipping candles takes considerable time (thirty to forty dippings) and a bit of technique, the product is so satisfying.

                        My candle burns at both ends;

                       It will not last the night;

                       But ah, my foes,

                       And oh, my friends--

                      It gives a lovely light.

                                            Edna St. Vincent Millay

I hope your candle was paraffin, Edna.  Surely a poet knows better than to waste good beeswax!

None of Your Beeswax…

Unless you purchase it…or as in my case have your own beeswax factory. “Beeswax factory”: now that I think about it, that’s quite an appropriate term for a “colony” or “hive” of bees. after all what is a hive of bees, really, (excepting the wooden frame supports) but a “House built of Wax?” There are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of native bees, and of these to my knowledge, only the humble honeybee, Apis mellifera, manufactures beeswax. As you know, The Ripple is all about obtaining and presenting the straight up facts, so I thought I’d better research the subject more thoroughly. I consulted my bee scientist friend Don Rolfs and put the question to him (Don has been studying native bees for years and is currently working on a field guide for the native bees of Washington State.) It so happened I was in error. Don reminded me of the genus Bombus, the bumblebee, and continued to say that a bumblebee colony fashions “honeypots,”primitive cells compared to those of A. mellifera, from its own beeswax; however, and I think Don would agree, bumblebees, in keeping with their small numbers, produce only a minimal quantity of wax,  just enough for their needs…no more.

Beeswax. From this remarkable material honeybees fashion their living space: brood chambers, storage compartments for pollen and honey, wax buttresses for structural integrity. For the architecture of the hive, honeybees, as if they were imprinted by the geometry of Archimedes, fashion their wax into hexagons. Without throwing too much science your way, suffice it to say that as a geometric figure, the hexagon is the ideal shape for maximizing space while limiting the amount of building material. Because of the shortness of its sides, each wall of a hexagonal cell actually functions as two walls: first, for itself, and secondly for the adjoining cell, thus minimizing the amount of material used in construction. This attaching or piling on of one cell to another produces what in geometry is known as tessellations, a type of architecture known for its beauty and strength. Not only are honeybees marvels of geometry, but they are also in tune with the physics of gravity. Each waxen cell is fashioned at a slight upward tilt to the horizontal so  the uncured honey doesn’t drain or ooze from its container.

Scientists have analyzed the chemical composition of beeswax and found it to be a complex goulash of hydrocarbons, alcohols, and acids, but The Ripple prefers to set the science aside and focus instead on the wonder of beeswax. It is the very “sweat and blood” of the bee and is secreted by four pair of wax glands on the bee’s belly. These glands begin to form in the young honeybee at approximately two weeks of age and are active for only a certain period in the bee’s lifetime. By the time the bee becomes a field worker, the glands have basically disappeared. Beeswax itself is wonder enough but the real miracle is how the bees fashion it into comb. At this point I’ll defer to one Mr. Cheshire whose quaint description of the industrious comb fashioners I found quoted  in A.I. Root’s ABC and XYZ of Bee Culture:

The wax having been secreted, a single bee starts the first comb by attaching to the roof little masses of the plastic material, into which her scales are converted by prolonged chewing with secretion; others follow her example and the processes of scooping and thinning commence, the parts removed being always added to the edge of the work, so that in the darkness and between the bees grows downward that wonderful combination  of lightness and strength, grace and utility, which has so long provoked the wonder and awakened the speculation of the philosopher, the naturalist, and the mathematician.

The production of beeswax “waxes and wanes” according to a hive’s needs. The two activities in which a colony produces the maximum amount of wax are honey storage and swarm preparation. During a honey flow bees need additional storage space for the surplus nectar and ramp up wax production and comb building. As a hive prepares to swarm, the migrating bees gorge themselves with honey which they immediately begin to convert from sugar to wax. Because a swarm is homeless at its issue, once a suitable home is found, comb building is essential and immediate. If the new hive is to survive, the queen must begin laying eggs immediately, and she needs a place to “cradle” her young. For one wishing to observe these flakes or scales of beeswax, a swarm or recently hived swarm is the place to look. These scales are miniature works of beauty. Each is slightly pear-shaped, translucent, and excuse the melodrama but as white as “the driven snow.” My first encounter with these wax scales came a few years back after I had set a ladder under a swarm in our backyard apple tree. The ladder sat there until late afternoon until I was ready to shake the cluster into an empty box. When I dragged the box to the top of the ladder, I noticed dandruff-like scales, dainty white speckles, sprinkled on the top step of the ladder: beeswax, pure as the driven snow…the swarm was prepared to begin construction whenever and wherever immediately.

If a swarm clings for several days, it will begin comb building on the branch, fencepost—wherever it has settled—leaving  ridges of snow white comb behind whenever it leaves or is hived. In the rare chance a new home is not found for several days, the colony will attempt to build comb and establish a hive in the open air. Years ago I cut one such a colony free from the raspberry canes where it had swarmed and built several combs filled with brood, pollen, and honey. My intercession certainly saved the bees from wintering in the open, a winter they most likely would not have survived.

It is estimated that between seven to fifteen pounds of honey are necessary to produce a pound of beeswax. Experts have determined  honeybees must consume an average of 8.4 pounds to produce one  pound of beeswax. Thus by wax production the beekeeper loses honey but gains wax, another valuable and highly marketable product. Beeswax demand in the U.S.A. is twice what the industry produces, so it’s to the benefit of every beekeeper to save all the beeswax his apiary yields. These days pure beeswax, rendered and strained, commands a premium price of ten dollars a pound.

After the capping knife is cleaned and stored, the last drop of honey bottled, stainless steel equipment washed and put away, and the honey supers neatly stacked, there’s one task left for this beekeeper: rendering the season’s wax cappings into pure blocks of beeswax. As each beeswax cell is filled with cured nectar, the bees seal it over with a thin cap of pure wax which is removed during the extracting process. Cappings wax is of the finest and cleanest quality and yields a premium product, a pale yellow beeswax. (Wax can also be rendered from old dark brood combs, but it tends to be discolored because of countless brood cycles it has undergone.)

When I had fifty plus colonies here on the place, it took nearly the entire summer to melt the previous season’s cappings. In those days I used a solar wax melter and a hot summer’s day would yield one wax brick. By summer’s end all last year’s cappings, nearly pure beeswax, were stored in brick form. These days I use a double jacketed wax melter which functions as a double boiler. As the wax melts, it trickles out a spout into a small tub where it rises to the top of any excess honey and impurities the cappings contained.

Residue such as bee parts, pollen, propolis cling to the bottom of the crenelated pile and must be scraped free. The wax at this stage, however, still contains impurities, so on to the next step: I combine the wax with a quart or so of water and boil both together until the wax and water mingle and the wax is washed free of extraneous debris.

Step two: the boiling mixture is strained through old sweat shirt material. (By the way, this cloth is easily obtained in our household, especially when the wife mandates: “Don’t you dare wear that ragged, old thing in public again!” And out to the shed it goes…more straining material.)

The water/wax mixture is allowed to cool; the wax floats on the surface of the water and any residue adheres to the bottom of the block. Once again, I scrape away the scum. The more this process is repeated, the cleaner, the whiter, the wax becomes. I usually repeat the procedure twice which seems to be sufficient to render the blocks nearly free of impurities.

Now I have my beeswax, purified by the water bath method, so what’s next, you ask? Just what are you going to do with all that clean, fragrant wax? Well, it’s really none of your beeswax, is it…until the next post, that is.

From the Editor: I Hereby Resolve…Not to Resolve…

Aside from the fact the seasonal Christmas tree has been cast aside (it’s propped against the backyard hedge, refuge and feeding station for wintering birds) and the thermometer reads thirty-seven degrees, you don’t have to look at the calendar to know what time of the year it is. Just go to the mailbox. The last few days I’ve found numerous flyers from local fitness centers mingled with the other junk mail. That time of the year again when the health and fitness clubs hope to cash in on our holiday overindulgences, when the old body mass index (BMI) has gone frightfully askew from all the nonstop grazing. And don’t those athletically sculpted models in all their glossy glory make us ashamed of our recent, profligate behavior—how we’ve let ourselves go--and the fact those well-toned bodies and flat, rippling bellies might belong to Olympic athletes (Tell me those abs weren’t airbrushed in!), Iron Men or decathloners, doesn’t make us any less chastised. And Freddie’s? Add insult to injury: those shelves of holiday sugar plums have disappeared overnight and in their place are displays of exercise weights, stationary bikes, exer-cycles, treadmills, all those engines of torture to build your own home torture chamber.

What is it about the New Year that sends us into the makeover mode? All that stress of the holidays and now heaped on top of that angst, more stress, stress to reform, set goals, map out the New Year’s  future. Whatever happened to carpe diem; when the New Year comes booming in, now we feel the days, weeks, months are seizing us!  January 1st has become a formidable threat instead of a promise. Yes, I’m talking about New Year’s resolutions, when the tabula rasa (oh so much white space on that new calendar you picked up at the drugstore) beckons and seems to say, “Let’s not repeat all the previous year’s follies and failures.”

Resolutions. I gave on them up years ago. If I lose or gain a pound or two, so what. Is this the year I finally build a chicken coop and stock it with a few hens? Maybe. Maybe not. That garden shed? Not likely. And the daughter’s dollhouse I started twenty-five years ago? I probably won’t add a single shingle (besides, now I have a grandson, the pressure’s off!). Why set yourself up for disappointment? If you want to set a New Year’s goal, what’s so different about February 1st? March 1st… April? When New Year’s Day dawns, I say sit up in bed for a little retrospection and ask: “What all did I get done in the year that’s gone by?” (Let’s see: I scraped, primed, and painted the south side of the house, the carport as well. Planted and raised a garden and stored the produce, extracted thirteen gallons of honey, read a few books, tended The Ripple….).  As the New Year bursts in upon you and you feel pressured to make a resolution, here’s a suggestion. Resolve to get out of bed every morning and let the day take you where it will. If you busy yourself, you’re certain to have accomplished something, be a little bit ahead of the game. At the end of each day, you can ask, “Just what have I gotten done today?”

If the answer is “Nothing,” well, maybe you should have stayed in bed after all. Happy New Year!

A Christmas Confessional…

But, thinkin’ of the things yer’d like to see upon that tree,

Jest ‘fore Christmas be as good as yer kin be!

Eugene Fields

When I was eight or nine years old, our family attended a log church in a small Eastern Washington town. The structure had been there for so many years the first tier of pine logs above the footing, either because of decay or termites, was crumbling; wood pulp spilled from the core of the logs and spilled out on the lawn. That was the condition of the church when I knew it, and all the years I did know it, this deterioration seemed static and never seemed to worsen. The little church was nondenominational, a community church, and my parents most likely attended because  it was the closest fit to their Methodist comfort.

My vision of myself in those days derives from a black and white photograph, real or imagined. I am wearing a white shirt with those fifties’ style pointed collars. My hair is combed neatly, slicked down, I suppose, with tap water, my forelocks combed into a neat little wave breaking on my forehead. I am smiling in the picture. The smile does not look posed and appears to be the genuine smile of a happy kid. There may or may not be a few freckles marching toward my nose. My front teeth are small blocks of ivory, waiting for my mouth to grow into them. But there is something in the twinkle of those eyes that goes beyond boyish mischief, something, perhaps, akin to malice….

Do I know that kid? Because of the unspeakable thing he did during   that Christmas, I wonder if I even care to. “Whatever were you thinking then!” I question. But when you’re an eight year old, thinking is so new to you, you don’t do much—if any—of it. I saw a play recently that dredged up from memory the deplorable incident, and while I can offer no excuse for what I did that night, thanks to the production I attended, I think I can understand at last why I might have done it.

Mostly they’re called Christmas “pageants,” the little plays children in the congregation perform before and to the delight of their parents. I don’t believe my eight year old ears had ever heard the word “pageant” in those days. A“program” was what it was called in our church, and one evening the week before Christmas our mediocre talents were called upon to reenact the Christmas Story. In Book-It Theatre the other day I saw the performance of a play about such a  church Christmas program, and while I was greatly entertained, I came away with a bit more insight into an eight year old’s behavior-- my own.

Those who direct a church Christmas programs usually have a limited pool of talent from which to choose and this restriction often results in the little performers being typecast: last year’s Mary is again this year’s; cast as a shepherd or wise man once and the same little victim must reprise the role year after year, and that can lead to a mutiny among the talent. The play I saw was about just such a rebellion, the protest of a strong-willed little boy (Owen Meany) who refused to be the Angel of the Lord one more time. (It’s dark and scary up there,” Owen protests about his being winched up into the flys every year. The little mutineer wins out and is recast as the baby Jesus.) My insight did not come from Owen, however, but from his best friend Johnny. Johnny complains (to the audience only; to adults he is meek and obedient) he is tired of being cast as Joseph in pageant after pageant. His gripe? “Joseph never does anything. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t sing. He just stands silent throughout the entire play!”

Neither did the Joseph in our Christmas program. I should know—I was the program’s Joseph that year. Dutiful Joseph—Silent Joe. In the Christmas story about all you can say for Joseph, son of David, is he’s just there. The only thing he really does is follow God’s directions and then his wife, Mary. He asks no questions, doesn’t even “ponder” in his heart as Mary does. A follower, that’s what Joseph is. He doesn’t flap heavenly angel wings, carry a shepherd’s crook,  bear gifts of gold, frankincense, myrrh…. Joseph stands at Mary’s side as dumb as the gentle beasts that surround the manger.

In the previous year’s program I had had a singing part, stood before the audience and belted out the carol “The Gentle Beasts.” The following Christmas my Joseph just sat there next to a makeshift manger in which the baby Jesus, an “eyes open and close” doll, proxy for Our Savior the Lord and on loan from some little girl, lay in slumber. Now where’s the glory in that? And soon Joseph became so very bored. As the the program unfolded around him, Joseph of Nazareth reached into his robe pocket and discovered an eight penny nail ( to this day how the nail came to be there I have no idea), turned it over a time or two in his hands, and then proceeded to tap the head of the nail on the head of the baby Jesus: “Tap, tap, tappety tap” tapping throughout most of the program. That’s all I remember about the night’s performance. Who played Mary and why she didn’t come to the defense of the Son of God, (very unmotherly of Mary), I cannot say. Why the Angel of the Lord didn’t visit swift retribution upon my head remains a mystery still.

The year before, my rendition of “The Gentle Beasts” brought me praise and acclaim. My Joseph the next year earned this thespian quite the opposite: a severe scolding by two of the prominent church mothers, staid and proper ladies both (“You should be ashamed of yourself treating the Baby Jesus like that in front of the audience, in front of us! Shame, shame on you! Well, we never…!”). Strange, but I can’t recall being chastised by my mother who surely herself must have been chastised and embarrassed by the recalcitrant behavior of her son. To this day whenever I recall that  tongue lashing by those two avenging mothers, I feel my ears redden.

I was not among the cast of next year’s program. I was not asked to perform then, nor do I remember ever being asked again. Any subsequent participation was in the role of spectator. And it wasn’t until recently I realized just how steeped in irony my rude antics, shamefully involving a nail, must have appeared.

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The Ripple wishes one and all a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

An Out of Valley Experience: The Ripple Goes to the Big City…

I’m on the twenty-six floor of the Westin Hotel looking out a  panorama window at the Seattle nightscape. The Space Needle,  its annual Christmas tree ablaze, juts skyward. The glass faces of the skyscrapers remind me of crossword puzzles: darkened windows, the dark squares; glowing windows, the white. A huge crane named “Vulcan” is festooned with strands of blue lights. The navigation lights wink red off and on. In the Sound to the west, ferry boats twinkle light across the dark waters. Down below on Fifth Avenue headlights stream by…the evening commute. A glowing worm that is the monorail glides past beneath me. Even from this airy remove I hear Big City bustle: the throaty roar of diesel transit busses, the angry honking of car horns,  the shriek of sirens ( I hear them constantly but the flashing lights are lost in the canyons; I never see the vehicles from which they issue), the whine of jet engines overhead on approach to Sea-Tac.

This country boy is accustomed to daily visits to a Valley filled with pastures, cows and cornfields and to look out at the lightshow that is Seattle verges on culture shock. I’m reminded of a movie I saw as a kid: “Aaron Slick from Pumpkin Creek,” the main character in which is a poseur for a city slicker. As I look around our well-appointed hotel room (“suites,” I think they’re called) which is much more suited to a blue chip tycoon than someone who wears barn boots and shovels organic on his garden, I feel like Jed Clampett must have felt after rattling into Beverly Hills in his fender-flapping flivver.

The next two days we were in the thick of it, the ebb and flow of city life (a great deal more “flow” than “ebb), the crush of shoppers, my daily walk a blur of crosswalks, crossing signals, and dodging right hand turn traffic. I have never had so many aggravated assaults on my wallet in a two day period. Everyone and everything wanted a piece of it. By the end of the day the leather was  literally scorched from the friction of removing and restoring it to my back pocket . Street musicians, charity workers, and panhandlers all seemed to have claims on my folding money. (Note: after this country fellow’s visit to the Big City, the Valley might just have its very first panhandler! Look for an old man and a vintage girl’s bicycle standing on the corner by Swiss Hall “flying the sign.” “Folding money appreciated, please. Change is just extra freight…and ‘God Bless!’”)

Escalators. I remember the first one I ever saw frightened me. I was just a kid standing in terror on the brink of a stairs that jumped up out of the floor: “Step on a crack, and get thrown on your back…when to step, where to step…. Jed Clampett to Elly May: “ Elly, they’s these steps that do the up and down walkin’ for yer…saves a body a whole passel of shoe leather, don’t they!” In those days I believe the treads were made of hardwood. I read somewhere about the drunk who kept throwing himself down the escalator each time it returned him to the top: it was his experience that when you tumble down a flight of stairs, you ended up at the bottom and there you stayed. And there was the small trauma, too, at the end of the flight: how to disembark without falling on your face. These days, even a country boy is an old hand at escalators. Just step on a flat surface, grab the ascending handrail, trust to the ascent or descent, and hope the thing doesn’t break mid-trip.

Experience Christmas in the Big City, and you’re a child again. I stand in front of the Macy’s Christmas window, mouth agape, frozen in glee as the Christmas train makes its circuit across a winter wonderland, chugs through mountain tunnels only to appear again to my amazement. The Christmas tree in Westlake Square: a wonder of lights. Mac Mansions of gingerbread in the lobby of the Sheraton (this year’s theme: “animated movies”). A gigantic star four stories high illuminates one corner of  Macy’s (the old Fredrick and Nelson building), emitting enough lumens to summon all the wise men for miles around.

The sense that I’m out of my element never subsides. I can’t help but think I’ve left the turnip truck double parked somewhere. Somewhere…I have a poor sense of direction; if a store has more than one room, I become disoriented (I’ve been turned loose to fend for myself). Time and again it happens. I pass the same shoe display, march through the same “parfume” fragrance, trip past the same manikin (when one is lost, orienteers claim, he wanders in circles). A few particularly anxious minutes are spent in a Victoria’s Secret store. (It takes a certain modicum of courage for a seasoned male like me to enter such a store…a stranger in a strange, strange land. A new definition of a hero, perhaps?). Though my confusion probably lasted no more than five minutes, it seemed like a millennium. I pass the same young saleslady at least three times (nice boots, I can’t help but notice; by the way, ladies’ boots are the rage this season). A friendly smile my first circuit; the second, her smile is quizzical; the third, tentative, more suspicious if anything. “I have to get out of here before she calls the police,” I think in a near panic. Never before has this country boy seen so much lace, so much pink…so much intimacy on display. I feel like I’m adrift in a flamingo nightmare. At last I summon my wits, traipse my entrance backwards in memory, and discover the exit--through which I hastily bolt. Whew…now I know how a rat feels when it’s finally escasped a maze!

The panic returned at the hotel room the second night. In strange situations, I’m sure you’ll agree, it’s human curiosity to explore one’s new surroundings. As soon as we keyed entrance to what would be our new home for the next two days and nights, we set out on a quest of discovery. (“Wow, a flush toilet! This shower head is bigger than TWO breadboxes! One entire wall a flat screen t.v.! And a king-sized bed that would meet the approval of your Royal Highness from any kingdom. Amenities: pens, notepads and a pastel green bar of soap molded in the shape of a leaf, creams, lotions, shampoos. In the coffee bar Starbucks and Tazo teas…). And in corner a special curiosity: “The Refreshment Center.” Wonder what surprises it contains…. I open the cabinet doors and find a mini-fridge on the right, a little pantry on the left. Let’s explore the contents, shall we? In the pantry a large bottle of water, a bag of M & M peanuts, a Snickers bar (family size!), and a half bottle of wine (St. Michelle Cabernet Sauvignon). I pop open the fridge to see what refreshing “amenities” it contains. Cans of soda, regular and diet, a can of Red Bull, a half bottle of wine (St. Michelle again: Chardonnay). Next to it a can of Heineken beer. The door trays are a mini-bar. Miniature bottles of Jack Daniels, some brand of gin, and two dainty frosted bottles of vodka  "(“Why, Jethro! This dang thing’s plumb full of moonshine!”) On the bottom tray two cans of some sort of exotic libation and a Kit Kat bar. The last item—and closest to the door--one lonely Twix bar. Should we need refreshing, there was a variety of items by which we might be refreshed.

Our last night. My wife decides she’ll investigate the refreshment corner for herself. She popped open the fridge door and knelt down for a closer examination of the bottom shelf contents. After she shut the fridge, however, she noticed a small card taped to the front. “What’s the matter?” I asked after I hear a very audible gasp. “Did you read this note?” I hadn’t bothered. She read aloud: “Choose wisely. Anything you remove from the refreshment center will be charged to your hotel room.” This little warning caused us an instant rush of fiscal anxiety. (“Why, Granny, this here thing’s booby-trapped!) Apparently each item rested on some sort of weight sensor. Remove the weight and “wham” an electronic bill hit your charge card. For the next few minutes we wracked our memories in desperation, tried to recall what items we had lifted from the center…me, the bottle of water, the M & Ms (to entice my wife with her favorite candy), both bottles of wine…were all I could recall. My wife…the bottle of vodka, (just couldn’t resist the exotic frosted glass packaging). We stare at each other in disbelief. “Well!” my wife blurted indignantly. “If any of those are charged to our bill, they’re coming home with us!” We both felt we’d been scammed.

Sometime during the early hours of morning our bill was slipped under the door. I was the first to arise and found two neatly folded sheets lying there in the dark. I picked them up nervously--as if I’d just been served a subpoena--went into the bathroom, shut the door, and switched on the light. As if I were opening a letter bomb, I gingerly pried the sheets apart and peeked at their contents: “Room charge; State tax; Seattle Tourism surcharge; Occupancy Tax. Room charge… (we booked two nights)….”

Oh, and one last item: a Twix bar, four dollars and nineteen cents…plus tax, of course.  Well, it couldn’t hurt to have one extra stocking stuffer, now could it?