Put A Bird On It

January 28, 2023January 29, 2023 / Susan Romanenghi / Leave a comment

Washington State is the first in the country to legalize human composting.

It started pre-Covid, with a non-profit organization called the Urban Death Project. The name was changed to Recompose, a public benefit corporation.

Hmmm…Recompose. I like the sound of that. Do I get a chance to be more composed in the next life?

The Recompose business is an alternative to the existing disposal options of burial and cremation. The process takes about 30 days as human bodies are converted into soil through “natural organic reduction.”

Essentially, human composting.

Wait…

Human composting? Gives me the shivers.

Do I want to be turned over to loved ones in a dirt bag? Should I worry that I will come back as a beefsteak tomato or a radish?

What happens when we pass on?

Do we all just “drop our bodies” — our human shells — and leave our human spirits behind on Mother Earth?

A great mystery.

I first heard about dropping our bodies from the Ram Dass Here And Now podcast.

Ram Dass dropped his body shortly before the covid pandemic.

Listening to Ram Dass, I shiver less and laugh more about the whole death conundrum.

Ram Dass, Jack Kornfield, and Thich Nhat Hanh’s Zen words reassure: no one is alone, no one is separate from Mother Earth.

Although it is not easy to drop our bodies, everyone will.

There is poetry in old, gated cemeteries. Historic Graceland Cemetery in Chicago with its elaborate monuments and headstones has always fascinated me.

But how are we being good stewards of land for future generations?

Recently I attended a Catholic church service to hear the priest say he felt sad that parishioners were choosing cremation over burial.

Really?

I cannot imagine this priest would go for composting.

But what’s that to me? We all have free will. We all must turn inward to our own heart, mind, and body for the answer.

It is not easy.

And if we are worm food for birds?

Make mine a robin.

Hope Springs Eternal.

Turf Wars

October 30, 2021 / Susan Romanenghi / Leave a comment

animal behavior, birds, Humor, squirrels

We have a chestnut tree in our back yard. Chestnuts and leaves blanket the lawn. The squirrels are in fat city. They scamper and scratch holes in the grass. They bury their treasure in the rockery.

But this year, the blue jays, who have a nest in our mountain ash tree, are in on the action too. I witness a chestnut battle.

One of the Blues descends from the mountain ash. Soon, a nut is in his beak. He returns to a branch with his prize.

Squirrel stands erect and looks distressed. He is frozen and perplexed by Blue. His tiny front paws fold over his chest. Discouraged? No. He darts to the lawn for more chestnuts.

He hops around, stores a nut in his cheek, and eventually scratches a hole to bury it. Squirrels bury an average of 10,000 nuts a year and end up eating only about 4,000.

Is it greed? Since the Blue jays have been showing up, is he hiding more of his booty?

Enter Squirrel #2. He leaps toward Squirrel #1 who scoots into the rockery.

More Blue jays descend.

Blue jays are carnivores known to rob baby squirrels from nests and prey on juvenile squirrels.

Squirrel #2 has intimidated Squirrel #1 who darts away to a more distant cranny in the rocks.

He scratches and inspects a burrow, stands on his hind legs, and looks distraught. Has Squirrel #2 confiscated a nut from Squirrel #1’s domain?

“Where’d my nut go?” he seems to be saying. Squirrel #1 is hyper, scampers to a tree, circles around its trunk, and then disappears into the tree canopy.

I imagine a squirrel conversation in the canopy:

“Betty. Sid just moved in on my turf. He’s the greediest squirrel in our berg. Even worse, the bluebirds must have a nest around here. They’re bogarting our chestnuts. Do we have enough nuts for Thanksgiving? Check the pantry.”

“Oh, Lenny. You know that I do.” Betty opens the tree pantry. Empty shells spill out.

Lenny is panicked. “OMG. Who got to them? Was it the blue jays or that greedy Sid?”

Betty shrugs. “Suck it up. We’ll get by.”

“Young Sammy will have to help. Where is the boy?”

“Last time I saw Sammy he was chasing his tail,” says Betty

“What? I thought only dogs chased their tails.”

“Chalk it up to adolescence, Lenny. Let it go.”

Okay, this may not have been the scenario in the tree canopy. And there may be no juvie squirrel named Sammy. But if there is, he should watch his back. The blue jays may move up the food chain and prey on him.

Skulduggery

October 23, 2020 / Susan Romanenghi / 1 Comment

It is a Halloween like no other.

Skeletons love nothing more than to wave at us as we take walks, drive by, or ride bikes. Skeletons wave from Adirondack chairs, Barcaloungers, hammocks.

Skeleton families group together in rockeries. Mama Skeleton holds Baby Skeleton on her lap. Papa Skeleton digs out skeleton hands from the earth. Junior Skeleton hangs out with Doggie Skeleton who holds a bone in his mouth.

Skeleton sporting shades leans back in a chair holding a red drink. Kool-Aid? Somehow, I don’t think so. I sense this is Alcoholic Skeleton. Perhaps family life got to him? Maybe he needed Al-Anon?

Solo Skeleton swings from a tree swing wearing an Audubon cap.

Skeleton on porch holds a pair of binoculars: “The better to see you with, My Dear.”

Skeletons hang from rooftops, climb trees, drape themselves around lamp posts. Skeletons pirate a ship on a lawn. Skeletons dance on porches.

Skeletons, skeletons, skeletons.

Where do all these skeletons come from? Are people buying them on Amazon or do they have skeletons in the closet?

I try to hop on the skeleton bandwagon, but brick and mortar stores are sold out.

Clearly, a case of skulduggery.

Witches, ghosts, and vampires? Sorry, guys, but you are passe this year. Skeletons rule in Halloween 2020.

And rightly so: it seems the Grim Reaper has never shadowed our world so close with COVID, race riots, environmental meltdowns, United States presidential election turmoil.

As for the masks…I won’t go there.

Watch your back. And rest in peace.

Orwellian

June 18, 2020 / Susan Romanenghi / 2 Comments

FlyingPig

George Orwell penned a fable, a tale called Animal Farm;
hogs rebelled against Farmer Jones, much to his alarm.
Though this is only fiction, I could almost suspend disbelief
when I read news of Corona, and its effect on the world’s beasts.

The unpeopled streets of Paris have attracted wild boars.
They root and grunt for food, but cafes have shut their doors.
Rats replace the revelers on silenced Bourbon Street;
perhaps they will host a Mardi Gras where humans do not meet.

Starved monkeys battle in Thailand, they fight over yogurt cups.
Corona has emptied Thai tourist squares; the primates now erupt.
Let’s not forget Welsh mountain goats who migrate into towns
they frolic and munch on hedges and play like a troop of clowns.

Beasts emboldened by Corona try out new behaviors
while we observe a brave new world, six feet away from neighbors.
What if the animal kingdom continues to revolt?
How do we know that pigs won’t fly? Or pick at our dead bolts?

But take a look at Venice – its canals are crystal clear.
Is Corona all that bad? Do we have so much to fear?
Cruise ships retreat from Venice while Gondolas skim with swans.
Perhaps our plague has benefits for us to ponder on.

We hear that COVID 19 is cleaning up our air;
from China to Los Angeles, the ozone might repair.
The noise pollution’s dwindled, bird songs are loud and clear.
Humans are more awake to birds – more silence helps us hear.

Life is stranger than fiction; of this I have no doubt.
If pigs could fly or pillage homes, I’ll give you all a shout.
George Orwell’s tale is curious, he had wild imagination.
What would he make of the deer in Japan who wander the subway stations?

Just Another Day in West Seattle

April 18, 2020April 22, 2020 / Susan Romanenghi / Leave a comment

medieval-doctor-plague-mask

My 2019 encounter in the grocery store with a young man wearing a Venetian plague mask is so uncanny. Here we are in 2020 and I shop for groceries wearing a plague mask. Hand-sewn, for COVID19. It’s all funny in 2020. I wonder if Venetian plague masks are on-line for ordering? Here’s my sketch of the incident last year:

April 2019:

It is a lovely spring day. As I approach Metropolitan Market, I spot girl students wearing sandwich board signs to Save the Wolves. They want to add me to a list to endorse their cause. I smile, desist from lecturing that wolves like to deceive girls such as them and belong in fairy tales.

A tall, slender youth strides by. He wears a long, black leather coat, black boots with spurs. His face is hidden by a Venetian Plague Mask. It covers his entire head.

Huh?

Why the mask? What or who is he hiding from?

This is West Seattle, not Venice. The 21^st century, not the Dark Ages.

Oh wait: maybe I’ve got that wrong.

He walks past the Save The Wolves girls into Met Market.

“Unusual, eh?” I call out to the girls.

“Maybe he is in a school play or something,” one of them says.

“Hadn’t thought of that.”

I had not thought of that.

No. My first thought, as I enter Met Market: is this guy packin’?

We live in strange times and what is this guy trying to say or prove with the Venetian Plague Mask, the dark leather coat, the boots? It’s not Halloween. Does he have a concealed weapon underneath the costume? Should I even go into the store?

Maybe I need to lighten up.

I grab a grocery cart, brave going into the store.

Plague Mask peers at me from over a pile of fruit as I squeeze an avocodo. He turns and walks down another aisle. The echo of his boots rings in my ears.

Now I have been to Venice but have never been to their carnivals where 16^th century Plague Masks are part of the festivities. To my knowledge, Venetians would not be wearing them to grocery stores.

Again, I wonder: is this guy packin’? Will he pull out an AK47 and start shooting?

I better find the store manager.

“There’s a guy walking around here wearing a long, leather coat and a Plague Mask.”

The manager looks at me like I am daft. “A plague mask?”

“You know. Venice. Plague masks. Carnivals.”

“And?”

“Well, it’s weird. Kind of wonder about him. Hiding behind a mask. And his long coat. Maybe he has a concealed weapon. Just thinking about safety, community.”

“Maybe he’s an actor.”

“That’s what the wolf girls think.”

“The wolf girls?”

“Yeah. The ones that are outside the store.”

The manager shakes his head. “Lady. Is that the guy?” He points to the espresso stand.

The young man has removed the Plague Mask. He holds it in his hand as he chats with the barrista.

“Huh. OK. Just another day in West Seattle.” I smile at the manager and exit.

“Fairy tales,” I declare to the Save the Wolves girls. “That’s where wolves belong.”

Spooked

October 15, 2019October 15, 2019 / Susan Romanenghi / 9 Comments

Well rattle my bones and shiver my spine,
‘tis Halloween and the witches are flyin’.
They cackle and hasten to mount their brooms,
ride high over rooftops and leaning old tombs.

Ghosts haunt at night and jack o’lanterns wink,
bats fly by radar, watchful owls never blink.
Werewolves and mummies and even giraffes
trick-or-treat on doorsteps; costumed kids have laughs.

But who’s to say, when the full moon beams bright,
that vampires don’t search for a neck to bite.
So please listen up if you hear a wolf howl,
it could be Count Dracula out on the prowl.

If I’ve scared you, I’m sorry, but it’s All Hallow’s Eve,
when souls rise from graves to tug at your sleeve.
For when I was young, my basket filled with treats,
goblins clamored to grab me for a dance on their street.

Saga of an Urban Gardener

July 25, 2019 / Susan Romanenghi / 3 Comments

chicken2

Our saga continues…

Day 2

Is growing a veggie garden worth it? We have two excellent grocery stores within walking distance of our home: Puget Consumers Co-Op (aka PCC) and Metropolitan Market.

And why add the extra step of building a cloche for protecting veggie starts when we could just throw them in the soil and forget about it?

Or pave the entire yard with cement.

Such are my rat-scratching doubts on this overcast Saturday.

I bid Blake Goth adieu and walk over to Marguerite’s house. Marguerite is a neighbor and master gardener who offers gardening consultations.

Marguerite’s prize-winning fowl, Betty, is outside her chicken coop pecking at feed. Marguerite not only raises egg-hatching chickens, she is also a bee keeper and sells honey locally.

“Do we need to bother with a cloche?” I ask her.

“Not necessarily. I do it to keep veggies starts from getting battered by rain, keeping them warm.” She advises me to wait until the weather is warmer to plant things and just to rotate veggies every year.

“I use a sharp, steel hoe”, she says. “It makes all the difference in garden work. I sharpen it with a mill bastard file.”

“A ‘lil bastard?”

Betty, her prize chicken, clucks and admonishes me.

Marguerite laughs. “No. A mill bastard. To file. To sharpen.”

I invite Marguerite over. She surveys our back yard. “Someone’s been busy digging up sod.”

“That would be Blake Goth.”

“Blake Goth?”

Ooops. No one knows my husband’s pseudonym. “Uhhh…I’m keeping a journal. I call us Jane and Blake Goth.”

“I see.” Marguerite squints as if she doesn’t see. She probably thinks I’m crazy.

Before she leaves, Marguerite again advises me to wait until it is warmer to plant what I want and to add chicken manure to the soil.

When I go inside, Blake Goth is in the kitchen unpacking groceries from PCC. I mention my conversation with Marguerite and how we’ll need to buy chicken manure.

BG shakes his head, says Marguerite’s chickens are kinda cute and that you had to hand it to her for raising honey bees. “But I’m sure as hell never wearing a bee suit.”

Did I ever tell him to?

Does he need to cluck at me?

The saga will continue…

Saga of An Urban Gardener

June 30, 2019July 24, 2019 / Susan Romanenghi / 1 Comment

Rat-A-Touille Anyone?

A few years ago I visualized a veggie garden for our back yard.

I imagined early girl tomatoes, garlic, strawberry fields forever. I fancied myself as Mother Earth. I would plant shallot bulbs, scatter arugula seeds. Our Lady of Perpetual Garlic would not only provide bountiful salads, but ward off vampires.

We would call this our “kitchen garden,” just a short step from our culinary center. Even better — I would keep a journal of our experience. I gave us the pseudonyms of Jane and Blake Goth, aging yet steadfast farmers straight out of Grant Wood’s American Gothic.

What follows are some of my journal entries:

Day 1.

Cloudy, looks like rain moving in. Blake Goth is digging out the grass. I just read tips on seed packets. Some, not too promising:

Beans are subject to numerous diseases.
Beets are prone to scab. Make sure the pH level is neutral.
Flea beetle damage reduces radish growth rate.
Beware of carrot fly maggots. Control by covering rows with insect barrier fabric at time of planting.

We’ll nix the beans, beets, radishes, carrots. Wonder what the insect barriers are about?

Discover in Sunset Western Garden book that insect barrier fabrics are used to make cloches.

Hmmm…I think Marguerite down the street has a cloche.

I hear Blake Goth tossing clumps of grass into yard waste bin. He has filled up the entire container.

The drizzle outside is turning into a downpour. Good thing Blake Goth wears his GoreTex.

I have doubts. Is all this work worth it? We have excellent produce at the grocery co-op up the street.

The other day I bumped into our neighbor Pam. She mentioned finding holes near the foundation of her house. Thinks there are rats in the hood.

I told her it’s a good thing house foundations are cement. The rats would have to be pretty toothsome to chew through that.

Then I told her how we are planting a veggie garden out back. Mistake. She said “Ewww…E-coli.”

I asked her “How So? ”

She went on about the rats, stray cats, raccoons. How critters could wander into our veggie plot and poop.

Great.

Her warnings from a few days ago still loop in my head. “The only thing to fear is fear itself,” I tell myself. “You don’t think produce growers across the world encounter pests?” the voice or reason chimes in.

Blake Goth comes in out of the rain, done digging for the day. “I don’t understand what you have against grass,” he says.

I don’t have the heart to tell him about E Coli and to undo his work and put the grass back in place.

The saga will continue …

Of Robots and Radishes

May 31, 2019 / Susan Romanenghi / 3 Comments

My attempt at growing radishes. Some day this could be us.

Lately my husband and I have been discussing health care directives and disposal of our remains once we leave this wacky planet.

I ask him who in their right mind would want a robot taking care of them in their decrepitude? I tell him about some old guy in England who uses a Skype on Wheels with a television monitor for virtual visits from friends, family, and healthcare professionals. Loved ones phone your robot to check in on you.

His take on it? Might be easier to get along with a bot than with family.

Did he forget Hal from 2001, A Space Odyssey? Mutinous robots seem scarier to me than mutinous humans – even my Mother, God rest her soul.

In the 21^st century we have robots performing surgery in hospitals and robots used in prototypes for self-driving cars.

And how about this? — servant and playmate robots for the elderly. The internet is sprinkled with such scenes: robots serving breakfast, robots lifting person to couch, robots smooched by an old man, robots carrying magazines while an elderly person lounges, robots playing computer card game with old lady.

The human being is the next frontier for the robot. In fact, some robots look like humans.

But they’re NOT.

We move on to discuss the disposal of our remains. Specifically, human composting.

He doesn’t flinch.

Me? I am mortified to read that Washington State is the first state in the U.S. to legalize human composting. By 2020 we could have a human composting facility five miles from our house.

Do I want to end up in some feed bag for a stranger’s garden? Do I come back as a radish or beefsteak tomato?

Does he like this idea better than cremation or burial?

He nixes the burial idea, says it is selfish for the dead to take up land in cemeteries and that the world is crowded enough.

He has a point there. But when it comes to deciding between burial, burning, or composting, I am like “Bartleby the Scrivener”: I would prefer not to.

As for the robots? I am not ready to play canasta with them. Beam me up, Elon!

How do you folks feel about these topics?

RomanWink Galleries

Creative words and images by Susan Romanenghi

Humor

Put A Bird On It

Turf Wars

Skulduggery

Orwellian

Just Another Day in West Seattle

Spooked

Saga of an Urban Gardener

Saga of An Urban Gardener

Of Robots and Radishes

Do I want to end up in some feed bag for a stranger’s garden? Do I come back as a radish or beefsteak tomato?

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Do I want to end up in some feed bag for a stranger’s garden? Do I come back as a radish or beefsteak tomato?

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