Friday, July 30, 2010

Plant disease

When I first started dating Iris she told me about a softball team she once battled named Plant Disease. Great name, really.

She was a college student in those days (it was a UC Berkeley intramural team), so maybe it didn't strike terror into her heart the way it might of, had she been a gardener.

I am a gardener, as you may have gathered. And I have a diseased plant on my hands. Or, rather, I should say, I used to have a diseased plant on my hands. I had to perform euthanasia. Honestly, I can't swear it was a "good death" for the tomato plant in question, and, in fact, I fear it may have been a bad one.

I did a Google search (what else?) on "plant disease" and found a wealth of agricultural extension pages with photographic resources. I was able to identify the culprit: Phytophthora infestans.

It turns out that this evil mold is the very same one that caused the Irish Potato Famine of the 1840's. It gives me pause to think my dear little garden plants are in an life and death struggle with such a fearsome foe.

Here's the story: "The fungus develops during periods of cool wet weather...[especially] if the crop is being grown near large areas of tomato relatives (Solanaceous weeds, potatoes)." Just so! We've had days and days of chilly, foggy mornings, and the affected plant had been near my front potato bed.

I took a chance this year with heirloom tomato plants instead of getting the hybrids from Berkeley Hort that are especially tuned to our foggy Berkeley summers. Every gray morning, I look out with worry on my two remaining tomato plants. One is the same variety as the ill-fated plant, and all I can think about when I look at it are dire warnings against monoculture. The Cautionary Tale of the Lumper Potato.

So far, my potato crop has remained untouched by this blight. The potatoes are battling their own Berkeley challenge, in form of snails and slugs.

I should clarify that I did not tempt fate by planting the infamous lumpers. The handsome pile to the left are my Purple Vikings.

Needless to say, I am not a subsistence gardener. In fact, I can walk three blocks and be at Monterey Market, one of the Bay Area's best produce markets.

And, Iris and I are both still gainfully employed, despite the condition our State's condition is in. So, with any luck, our garden will not be ground zero for the Berkeley Tomato (or Potato) Famine of 2010.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

On doing something new

One of the most striking things about learning to shoot a gun is the sheer newness of this experience. When I was driving to Chabot Gun Club the first time two weeks ago, I was taken by how I was about to do something completely different from anything I'd ever done before. I'd be meeting people I'd never met before, and it was likely that there would be more than several degrees of separation between me and these folks. I'd be rubbing elbows with members of the NRA, and, in fact, I would be allowing one of these these people to be my teacher for the morning.

These places where I go to shoot guns feel miles away from Berkeley. In some ways, they are.

I can feel myself stretching.

Last weekend, I had an unexpected realization. Iris and I went to the movies on Saturday--we saw Inception--and all of a sudden I realized that scenes with guns have changed for me. Gun scenes used to be entirely fantasy scenes for me. I didn't have any kind of connection to them at all. But now I have shot a pistol, and I have shot a rifle. I know what that feels like. When I saw the characters in the movie shooting, I could imagine what they felt like. It has changed my appreciation, or maybe it's my apprehension, just a little bit.

I don't have a big conclusion to this, just a kind of awe that I can be this open to such a wild new thing.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Report from Chabot Gun Club

On Saturday, the 10th, I spent my morning at Chabot Gun Club for the Junior Light Rifle training. This is an open class, with a pre-announced limit of seventeen. On Saturday, they actually took twenty of us. It costs only $7.00, plus $3.00 for eye protection if you don't bring your own. This is much cheaper than any other training or course anywhere else around here, and it's one of the two places where you can get instruction and practice if you don't own your own gun (the other being Target Master, where I went in March).

The Club is located inside Chabot Regional Park, which is part of the East Bay Regional Park system. To get to it, I wound my way back into the park, 6 miles past Skyline Boulevard on Redwood Road. I felt like I was pretty much out in the country by the time I saw the turn off.

What I liked immediately was the mix of people. There were women, men, kids, and teenagers, and people had come from all over the East Bay. I asked the woman who was shooting next to me why she had come, or what her interest was, and she said she was there because she was afraid of guns. She thought the training would help her overcome her fear.

The class started with all us of getting our equipment: a rug to lay on (we would be shooting prone, or laying down), sand bags, our rifles, and ammunition. Then, we put targets on the target stands, which were set up at 25 yards for the first half of the session. Later, we could move them to 50 yards if we wanted to. Here's a photo of what the targets look like on the range.

Then we had a safety briefing. Our guide through all of this was a fellow named Dwight, from El Cerrito. Dwight told us how to hold the rifle safely when walking around, how and where to stand at various times, and so forth. I realized I would need to hear these things several more times before I had them memorized. I just don't memorize things as easily as I used to.

Then we started shooting "rounds." A round is one shot. My first shot missed the target entirely. I pointed this out to Dwight, and he asked me if I had used all 3 of the sights on the gun. I thought there were only 2! Once I learned there was a third, suddenly I was doing pretty well. I began to get all my shots on the targets, closer and closer together.

We were shooting 22s, just like I shot at Target Master, only this time I had a bolt-action rifle. Before I had used a semi-automatic. What this meant was that I had to load my gun each time I wanted to shoot. And, my gun never jammed. (The semi-automatic rifle I used in Milpitas jammed over and over.) I liked this gun much better than the semi-automatic.

Dwight told me to count to 3 before removing my finger from the trigger, and also to try not to close my eyes after I pull the trigger. This is not easy to do, because of the BANG! But when I tried his approach, I saw some improvement. I hit my first bulls-eye. By the way, I found out the black circle is called a "bull."

After a shot, you smell the same smell that fireworks make: gunpowder. I've liked that smell since I was a little girl watching the Fourth of July displays over Lake Ellyn, in Glen Ellyn, Illinois.

So, I like it. Dwight asked me to come again and I think I will.

Friday, July 9, 2010

Green menace

Last week, I regaled you with the challenges we have in getting along with another mammal. And now comes the beast in a botanic form...

I refer of course to that monster of the raised bed: Zucchini. Does that strike the same summer terror in your hearts as it does in mine?

Here is my story. When I leave home on these mornings, I very often observe a small squash on the plant, as shown here. In my mind, I am thinking: it looks a little immature. I say to myself, "I'll let it go one more day, and then it will be just right for a stir fry."

My friends, it's as if those giant flowers are actually ears listening in to my thoughts. Zucchini is plotting, is planning, in response to my culinary notions. It puts on the gas, as it were.

Because by the time I get home from work, instead of a summer squash, I am faced with, well, a Zeppelin.

I experience this as a kind of vegetable threat. A woody weapon poised over my head. Act now! After all, who wants to cook an airship? So I'm now pre-emptively harvesting. I spy a small squash and I grab it.

This brings to mind a dinner guest of ours from some years ago. It was another summer, and another year of battling against the onslaught of produce. Our guest happened to be a fellow gardener, and she commiserated with my plight. She asked, memorably, "How can there be world hunger and zucchini?" We all chuckled, but of course we did not have the answer. No signs of intelligent design here...

So, I plod along from summer to summer, idiotically re-planting the source of this problem, because, despite my complaining, I'm hooked on the thrill of a bumper crop. There: I've admitted it.

Friday, July 2, 2010

Pack Animal

Iris and I are the kind of people who boldly live with another species. Most of the time, of course, we don't think of it this way.

But the fact is, we live in close quarters with a non-human. The species we live with is the one that has been camping right along side our crazy mixed up Neanderthal-loving selves for as long as we've been tossing out tidbits beyond the fire circle. That is to say, we have a dog.

Canis lupus familiaris.

The subject in question is pictured to the right. She looks innocent enough, I admit. Hardly big enough to qualify for that wild middle name. But day in and day out, she employs all that cuteness in the service of a hidden agenda.

And that agenda, according to dog experts, is twofold: food and safety. Dogs pursue this agenda by adhering to a military-like code. In their dreams, they run in packs, and in their waking hours, they apparently feel safest when they Live the Dream.

So, they turn any group into a pack. And, they must know who is the pack leader, the Top Dog. They must understand exactly their hierarchical relationship to that dog. And--here's the kicker--if the presumed Top Dog is not behaving Top Doggishly, they will make regime changing moves. They can't help themselves.

Meanwhile, back at our Cave Woman campfire, Iris and I are melting marshmellows and making S'Mores. Our idea of what we want to do with our little lupus is cuddle and play. We are not "into" discipline. That is to say, compared to our dog, Iris and I are pinko commie egalitarians. We think this is all fun and games, but it turns out that, with our every move, we have been confusing and confounding the pack-minded pup in our midst.

This has become abundantly clear to us, because she has been acting out. Making her moves, in other words. I'm going to spare you the details.

So this week, we've been all about asserting our Top Doggitude. We are Up and she is Down. Up and Down. At first, she was bugged. But, now, she's calm and peaceful. Which means we are actually living with a creature that likes being put in her place.

After all, she is a dog. We have to treat her like a dog, indeed, the lowest dog in the pack, in order to make her feel safe. And, of course, we want her to feel safe.

This is just about when I really notice how weird it is to be living with another species. What were we thinking?
 

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