Panda Antivirus Internet Problems -- Dirty Deal

This past Spring I installed Panda Antivirus to replace Norton, with which my machine came originally, and which allowed a horrendous virus to infect Bernie's computer and which offered "solutions" that did not work in the teensiest least.

I liked Panda. I liked what I saw of its track record, and that it cleaned up my machine very nicely.

However, over the course of the last few months, I noticed that my computer wasn't keeping up with me in Photoshop -- hence the purchase of the new Big Graphics Machine -- and was getting slow on the Web. But I wasn't worried, until last week, when I was chatting with Filthy Pikers on AIM and found that I could no longer access the internet. No sites, no favorites, no links -- but I was still chatting away on AIM. Funny thing that, especially when the AOL links to news worked.

For the next three days, I fussed with my computer, trying to figure out what the hell was going on, unable to access the internet at all. The new computer worked fine. I tried using a network card for a backup wireless connection, I tried turning off the wireless router and cleaning it, I tried uninstalling and reinstalling and uninstalling and updating browsers ... nada. I was ready to take my laptop in to the computer store and have them pull it apart and look at the wireless hardware.

Okay, it wasn't Firefox after all, because after a short time, IE started doing the same thing. And then Trillian. And then AIM. But not at the same time ... they only failed when I started to use them to get internet connection. What on my computer was running all the time that could affect all those programs as I began to use them?

Why, Panda Antivirus.

I googled "Panda Antivirus Problem Internet" and promptly was directed to a gamers' site where some gamers had had exactly the same problem. There was even a solution there, with step-by-step instructions on how to customize Panda to allow access to the net.

Seems like in July, Panda's automatic updates included a feature that denies contact with the internet unless you specifically know how to go into its innards and change settings ... for every freakin' program that needs to communicate outside your office. Oh, and they didn't bother to tell their customers that.

After three tries, I was back on line, and my Firefox was reinstalled (God, I hate Internet Explorer, 7 or not) and I began to check into other antivirus products.

Now, did I say I charge $50/hr or $30? Either way, the amount of time I spent trying to track down the problem and fix it cost four times (minimum) what I paid for Panda.

Now that Panda is gone, my laptop is once again lightning-fast -- I didn't need to buy a faster computer after all.

Fine. Now I have two fast computers. And an antivirus that doesn't slow them up.

Let me make one last comment in computerese:

PANDA ANTIVIRUS SUX.

Look! Let's Go Fishing!

At long last, water garden!

We braved the heat when it was at its least in the morning and mortared in the first course of flat rocks around the pond's edge. They hold the liner in place, and hide the homely black rubber.

This first picture is the front of the pond. A brick holds in place two stones that ended up a little more sloped than we'd intended. Once the mortar was set, the brick disappeared.

Bernie had been toying with the idea of a waterfall (and still is) but thought that the pond needed the sound of water to make it more inviting. He rescued my chipped frog fountain from under a bush and hooked it up to the pump.
It made a perfect cascade out to the middle of the pond. If you scroll back a few entries, you can see that the frogwater is falling right into where I was digging the deepest part of the pond.

Finally, this is the view from the porch. We'll have a little table out there for cool morning breakfasts with the sound of water and the sight of fish. When this picture was taken, the fish weren't in there yet; they were still in their little fishpond in back of the house. Bernie transported them when the shade came around to the pond. They were unhappy about being moved, but this morning they were swimming around the big pond in a school.

Saturday we'll finish the second course of stones around the edge.

Incidentally, a smaller toad showed up in the swimming pool and was also subsequently plopped into the fishpond. He crawled out immediately and set off down the front lawn towards the trees. I guess if you can't have chlorinated water, there's not much in going swimming for a city toad.

Toy Time

I've been thinking about a new computer for a while now.

Not that my trusty laptop isn't "it" anymore ... I love my laptop, and intend to write more stories and articles and novels on it for quite a while. But I don't think it was ever intended to stay ON from 6am until 8pm or later, continuously. I have a fan under it, but still. It gets HOT and balky after a long day of work in Photoshop.

In spite of my best intentions, I end up using Photoshop a lot. I joined The Piker Press as a writer, in order to keep myself writing regularly. Alas! When not editing and uploading other people's work, I find myself spending time on photos and sketches and -- Photoshop concoctions.

Today I found a machine I could get cozy with, a Compaq Presario with a 200 gb hard drive, and an upgraded 1 mb RAM; plus a Pentium 4 processor and not too many extra bullshit programs loaded on for me to try to delete. I can load my photos directly from my camera's memory card; a little add-on has me connected with that machine to the wireless network in the house. It's quiet, an essential to me, and all that hard drive can store all my photos with ease.

It was a bit of a wrench to my heart to detach my old computer, a 4 gb Micron laptop, from the power source and monitor. After all, the Micron was my little workhorse for writing Time Traveler, and Character Assassin, and editing Dreamer. My friend Tedi Trindle sent it to me in the mail, back when I needed a second computer so that both Bernie and I could be online at the same time. I love that machine, not only because it was of sentimental value, but because it was so reliable. But it can't keep up with all the stuffz of Photoshop.

The new computer is sitting on my art table now, quiet and dark. I imagine it watching me, waiting to see if I will give it an honest job. My laptop, on the other hand, is grinning widely. It's having a drink with me, and admitting frankly, "I'm a writing machine, not an artist."

Tomorrow, the new toy starts its Honest Job.

A Toad in Hand

There is no picture of the toad today, because I didn't have a camera in the pool with me.

109 degrees, and I was just getting out of the tepid pool to return to what would feel like an icy 78, when I spotted something swimming along beside me. Yes, it was the toad. I waded through the chest-deep water towards the toad, thinking it would see the monolithic predator approaching, turn tail and swim like mad in the opposite direction. The toad swam towards me instead, so I held out my hand, and the toad swam to it, climbed onto it, and relaxed.

I stood there a while, thinking captions and lines for the scenes.

"Yup, just went swimmin' with ma toad."
"Sand Swims With Toads."
"Sand and Toad Together."
"The Toad Whisperer."
"Toady In The Water."
"How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love the Toad."
"Someone is going to come out of the house and think I like this toad."

Eh. What's not to like about a toad who manages to traverse 80 feet of overgrown shrubs, a papyrus labyrinth, a patio cluttered with chairs and barbecue stuff -- and find the swimming pool again? This is a toad with guts. When the heat wave breaks, I may relocate Toad to the river; if I can catch the little toad, I may try to convince him (God, I hope it's a him, I don't want toadspawn in the pool -- yechh!) once again to live by the water garden out front. Maybe by then the water lily will be in there. I could even make a little toad house on the shady side of the pond...

Before the heat got ugly this morning, I was out at the ranch to clean the horse's paddock and take him for a 40-minute hack through the orchards. By the time we got back, the sun was up and hitting the fenceline.

The people who own the ranch planted a "perennial morning glory" on the fence. I've watched it grow, wondering how long they would tolerate the invasive and exponential growth of the beautiful but damnable plant. They don't seem to mind.

Interestingly enough, the color that you see in the digital photograph -- a lovely blue -- is not what the flowers look like. They're purple. Deep, royal purple.

Is that something in the nature of photography that I don't know about, like how I can never get a good focus on bright, bright reds?

I played with Photoshop and color enhancements until I got a pic that looked more like what I saw ... that would be the second photo.

The plant is called ipomoea indica, by the way. If you have a space in your temperate garden that needs everything else for fifty feet covered up and killed, this is the plant for you.

Looks nice on Carol's fence, though.

The Toad and I

This morning, I took Howie outside, and noticed a toad swimming in the pool.

I fished it out and put it in the garden. An hour later I was back outside, and the toad was back in the pool, this time sitting on my pink inflatable raft.

This is probably the fifth time this year I've hauled the toad out of the swimming pool. Today I thought I had a solution, though: take the toad on a journey to the new water garden in the front of the house!

The toad leaped out of the dishtowel in which I had caught it, right into the new pool. It swam across the little pond into a water plant. See? Doesn't that look much more natural? Apparently "natural" not what the toad wanted, because it left the pond in about 15 minutes. I don't know where it went; I'm hoping that the toad is not carrying a GPS with the swimming pool's coordinates on it.

The New Pond

The hole was dug, the cal-
cula-
tions made, and the pond liner purchased.

We waited until the shade of the big eucalyptus in the front yard had reached the pond area, and dragged the huge pond liner to the hole. (See a previous blog entry, named The Making of a Goldfish Pond.)

While the pool filled, I stood in the hole and arranged pleats and tugged at the liner. Probably it was a shitty job, but hey, I never did this before. In hardly any time at all, the pool was filled, and Fourmyle (that cat in the pic above) simply had to sample the rubber-scented water.

When I looked at this picture, I wondered what the heck was the grid that looked like tiling below the water line. Duhh, it was the double reflection from our front windows. Weird.

The rounded rocks are all going to be placed on the right side of the pool. We'll mortar in some select flagstone pieces around the other edges. Then the excess liner will be trimmed.

We're done for the day. Looking from the front porch, we can see Fourmyle still sipping from the pond, lots of ugly rubber liner still exposed, and the patient, brilliant
Bernie lecturing Howie on why you should not nudge the arm connected to the hand that holds a highball glass of Muvver's wine.

Good work done today, and this weekend, we celebrate Bernie's 53rd birthday. He is my love, and may he have at least 53 more happy years ... with me.

Learning To Be The DOG

Sitting still for photographs is the most boring thing in the world, as Howie can plainly tell you.

He looked cute before I snapped the picture, catching him in a gaping yawn. Of course, he had his reasons for being less than interested in a photo-shoot: a PG&E man came to the door to do a routine checklist on our electric meter, and Howie was the one who had to bark madly at him. Howie even managed a deeper "big dog" bark along with his tenor "boo-woo-woo-woo." So he was the Tough Protector, and it wore him out.

The camera was out because I've been trying to catch a picture of Howie with his butt-hackles up to show fellow Piker Wendy what butt-hackles look like. The last time I tried to catch his puffy butt (he was after a stray cat trail in our yard) all I got was his tail as he growled past. Today, he was just too mellow after his resounding bellow at the meter man. Nothing I said could rile him up again.

So after his yawn, I told him he was a good boy, and got this pretty pose from him. He's such a cutie.

In addition to telling off the man at the door, Howie notified me when the washing machine unbalanced and began to thump, when my phone rang, when the kitchen timer went off, and when a catfight occurred in the yard next door. And when I turned off my computer this morning, he came diving into the studio -- having learned recently that when I am done with my machine, I'm likely to go do something with The Dog.

Two Tomato Plants

This afternoon I figured I ought to go have a look and see if any more tomatoes had ripened, as I plan to make bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches for the evening meal tomorrow.

There were a few. I have two Roma tomato plants in between the shrubs beside the driveway; this year I managed to drum up some gumption and put in an extension from my drip line right to my tomatoes. Apparently the plants liked it.

You will of course have noticed that not all the 'maters are red. I tend to pick them just as they begin to color (they turn red almost overnight anyway) because if I leave them until they're red, the ants get after them. Few things of summer aggravate me more than reaching for a beautiful red tomato and finding the entire back of it devoured and covered by ants.

I grow Romas for their hardiness, bushy habit, and prolific fruiting. But for flavor, I normally buy Better Boy plants. This year, some volunteer plants sprung up from last year's ant casualties among the Better Boys, and on a whim, I let them grow. They are producing a medium-sized fruit on leggy vines ... the first one was ripe today, and I had it for lunch. Heavenly flavor. I could smell "TOMATO!" as soon as I cut the first slice.

Chicken Little said, "The Sky Looks Funny!"

When I looked out the front window this after- noon, I saw that the light was -- how shall I say it -- "funny-looking."

The sunlight on the loosestrife seemed more mellow than I expect at noon; high summer in California makes a lot of colors look washed out in the brightest part of the day.

When I went outside to see, there was a reason for the change in light -- smoke in the sky. The haze that clouded us over was from the Del Puerto Canyon wildfire to the southwest.

The fire started on Sunday evening, and continues to burn. I woke tasting smoke on Monday morning, and today as well. I hope they get it out soon.

In the meantime, I'll enjoy the intensification of color in the yard. These roses were doomed to removal last spring, but we didn't get the roots dug out in time, and of course, now we can't bear to rip out such a beauty. A reprieve in the smoky air.

The Making of a Goldfish Pond

We had a little water garden just off the front porch.

There were some variously-colored fish in it, still small (Wal-Mart fish), and a water lily. A modest little half-barrel of water.

It was so charming that we became incensed and set out to make a larger, free-form pond for our fish to roam in. We took turns digging. Howie got his turn, too, and in this picture, you can see him begging for another chance to dig. He was very helpful in breaking up the dense layer of compacted clay.
While us diggers took needed ice water rests, Lillian tested the depth by climbing down into the hole. Not so dangerous; the soil is so clayey that there's no chance of the sides falling in. To expand the hole, we had to shave slices off with our shovels.

Howie still thinks he should be digging.

Behind Lil can be seen the beginnings of a shelf for water plants to reside in pots. We're thinking the water lily, a zebra rush, a tule reed, and a small-leafed spreading thing that is cute but I didn't take time to learn the name of.

This radically forshortened image of me was taken as I was slicing down to reach the requisite 2.5 feet. I look like I should be playing for the Steelers, and my feet look
teensy. I still have another foot deeper to go.

*Also note the hat so that my shorn head does not sunburn.

We hope to work on the pond some more this weekend, but the temps are predicted to rise into the 100's ... the fish are safe out back in a temporary pond in the shade. They may have to wait another week.

A Visit to the River

On Monday morning, Bernie and I decided to take a walk.

We hadn't been down to the levee along the Stanislaus River since the flooding of the golf course. Jack Tone Golf is now dry, but in a sorry state; the flooding left a large portion of the grass dead. They've been reseeding and tending, but what a mess!

By the east side of the golf course, we spotted these birds. The one on the top branch was obviously a juvenile, still squealing at a parent bird for food. When we got back from our walk, we checked our bird book, but were unable to make a decisive identification.

Howie was lagging behind us, sniffing at a fenceline when we spotted a large turtle. We called How, wondering what he would think of the creature.

He trotted briskly to catch up and then pass us, and only when he was within a foot of the turtle did he realize that what he must have thought was a rock -- was alive! He leaped into the air in startlement. (Bernie and I couldn't help but laugh, shame on us.)

Howie circled the creature suspiciously, backed away, and predictably, came to me and sat down behind me, where he knew he would be safe.

I sent him back to "Go see!" and he did, sneaking up on the turtle while I took this photo. The turtle released a stream of fluid. Eww. After that, Howie treated every stone in the road with caution.

The river has returned to normal levels, but the little coves and beaches are quite different, with big trees felled by the flood waters and the sandy soil eroded away from banks. The levee breach that allowed the flooding of the golf course was too far downstream for us to find without venturing into the thick woods of the wildlife refuge.

Keeping Busy

I've been trying to get back to digging in the soil a little.

I planted impatiens in pots, and had them under a tree beside the patio. I used to grow roses in that spot, but then it got too shady when the tree grew. I took the roses out, and put potted impatiens there. They did fine for two years, but now the tree is much bigger, the fir pines we planted on the south side of the patio are huge, and there is simply not enough light there for the impatiens to bloom. Fortunately there's a little recess in the brick barbecue, and they look nice there.

Then there was the big green pot, in which alstromeria had resided, looking lush and beautiful this past wet spring. I'd thought they died. Well, apparently that was their habit, because after their first bloom, they disappeared again. The heck with that. I bought a New Guinea impatien, and some white ones to keep it company. The pot is getting too shady for sun-loving flowers anyway.

It's a start. I've neglected the back yard for a couple years -- ever since we had to cut down our huge eucalyptus that ensured our privacy in our pool. Everything seems so ... well, exposed, of course. But I did find that now that the shrubs along the fence have grown up, there is a nice corner of the pool that is visible from NO neighbor's yard. That's encouraging.

Today flew by, and I didn't get to walk with Howie in the morning. I'd intended to play with him in the pool all afternoon, but I went out to lunch with Bernie (our last weekday lunch!) instead. The wind kicked up and it wasn't feeling much like a lounge in the pool late afternoon, but I did get in and throw the ball for Howie. He decides when he's had enough, and goes to the patio to be dried off.

Here he is, mostly dry, happy to have been playing, with his ball at his feet ... keeping an eye on me in case I decide to throw the ball one more time.

We still get sudden "blue" fits, missing Babe, but we're adjusting.

We're looking forward to a four-day weekend -- barbecuing, a movie, and some writing exercise. And camping out in the tent!

Cheers!

Time Change

Bernie may be seeing a few more of these soon.

Through a fluke in the system, and possibly more than a little prayer, Bernie is unexpectedly going to be able to move to the first shift of operation at his plant.

What does this mean? Well, it means that instead of getting home from work at 4am, he has to leave for work at 4am. It means that instead of sleeping through sunrises and working through sunsets, he'll see the sun rise on his way to work, and watch sunsets from home -- with me.

It means family dinners again. And warm snuggles at night.

Now granted, it does mean getting up at 3:30 in the morning. But being a middle-aged woman, that's not uncommon for me, anyway. Once he's off to work, I'll likely write or edit. I might end up napping at mid-morning, but who knows?

The tricky part is going to be suppertime. I haven't eaten much food at night for a long, long time. But Bernie will be ravenous when he gets home, so good meals will be in order. I'm going to have to learn to take tiny portions, and then EAT EVERYTHING LEFT OVER AT LUNCHTIME THE NEXT DAY!!!! (Bwah-ha-ha!)

I'm cautiously awaiting, and trying not to be too excited over this change.

Look at the Tomatoes on That One!

It's tomato season again.

My Roma tomatoes have been encouraged by the hot weather to ripen. I picked a dozen on Sunday, and another eight yesterday. Monday I was possessed by an urge to fix my sprinkler system, which I did, and then extended it to reach the tomatoes in the front of the house. Fatten those maters right up, automatically! I love the smell of tomato vines, and rustling through their leaves and stems for ripe tomatoes is as good as any Easter egg hunt I ever went to as a child.

Heat Wave

There was a song, a long time ago, called "Heat Wave."

The song made it out that a heat wave was groovy, perhaps even ginchy, in the vernacular of the time. Or maybe it didn't. I never listened to the song with more than half an ear, to be honest. As a kid, I was a linguistic snob, and if I couldn't clearly understand the lyrics to a song, I dismissed it. Did the song even have a melody?

Well, we're in a true "heat wave" now, and the breeze is like standing in front of Hell's exhaust fans. You can feel your skin shrivel after a few minutes.

The indigenous people of this area are frequently shown in old drawings as wearing no clothing. I can understand why. How did they survive without air conditioning? Why, they betook themselves to the river, which, fed by the meltoff of last winter's snow, is still one chilly watercourse even in the hottest bit of the summer.

We were guests at a lovely party today, but the air conditioning was iffy and the nearest swimming pool was warmish.

No clothes and a nearby river would have been preferable.

One Foot In Front of Another

Howie finally ate his bowl of dog food today.

It was the first time since the day before Babe's death that he voluntarily ate anything besides a tablespoon of cottage cheese in the mornings; I was able to tempt him Tuesday with an egg sprinkled with queso cotija, but that was all. Now this is not to say that my little striped sausage couldn't afford to drop the weight -- he does look nicely slim now. But it is to say that Howie has been grieving, too. Babe was his boss, and he took his orders and his tone from Babe.

This evening something wonderful happened. All five people of the family were in the living room once Alex got home from work; even the cat was there. Granddaughter Lillian was throwing a tennis ball for Howie, when he was suddenly possessed of the wild-eyed gallops. He raced from the back door to the front door, and every time he passed a person he leaped in the air and roared. He was grinning like a crazy dog, and attacked Bernie's feet, then John's, then zoomed to Lillian's bedroom and back and almost leaped over the back of the couch. He barked at the cat, and the cat cuffed him vehemently with both paws on the face! He chased the cat around the room and under the entertainment center! In the five years Howie has been with us, this is the first time he was allowed to play loudly and crazily -- Babe simply would not permit it.

It will be interesting to see how Howie develops in days to come. He's always been The Puppy. Now he's The Dog.

He's got a goodly portion of herding genes in his makeup, and I did notice that during his manic spree he was doing his growly roar right beside the rumps of the family members. He is part Queensland Heeler. I hope he's not going to decide to become an ass-nipper. That kind of humor gets old really fast.

I was glad to see him play.

In Memoriam

Babe is gone.

The vet and I looked at his chest x-rays together; she pointed out the mottling that covered most of his lungs. In light of the fact that he'd fallen facefirst into the pool a couple weeks ago (playfully trying to attack me as I swam), we figured the old fellow had pneumonia. A robust round of antibiotics and he might pull through.

His breathing had gotten loud and short over night, not quite panting. The doctor took a blood sample, too, and we were on our way with some hope. Until we were about to leave, and Babe coughed blood onto the floor. Everything slowed down and seemed to stop. I called a vet assistant, and she came and picked up the blood and went to get the vet again. She talked with me for a few more minutes.

She was right twice over. She told me that dogs that are to the point of coughing blood frequently go downhill fast. She told me that there was a strong possibility that he had cancer.

The next day the worst was confirmed. The blood showed numerous cancerous cells, and by evening, Babe had stopped eating and was just lying in his corner, puffing, each short breath counting down the hours.

Today we said goodbye to Babe as he left peacefully, the vet, the vet's assistant, Bernie and I -- all of us crying. The vet has known Babe for 11 years, too.

It was the right thing to do. Nothing makes it easy to have a pet euthanized, though. We let them so deeply into our hearts -- maybe because their love in return is so trusting, so unconditional.

My memories of Babe are pretty much all good. His first run on a long line with Bernie, who underestimated the speed and power of a year-old German Shepherd -- and ended up face-plowing as Babe dragged him off his feet. Babe helping to dig holes for shrubs in the yard, his huge yellow feet moving soil faster than my shovel could. His face wistfully set on the kitchen table as he hoped for a "cute" factor to gain him a tidbit or two. His unflagging optimism.

He was my sweet honey-bunkins.

Bad News

Babe is failing.

The great German Shepherd Dog, who in his prime weighed a lean 100 pounds, has been withdrawing from us, and losing weight and appetite and interest. He wants to sleep almost all the time, and sleeps so deeply that he doesn't notice someone coming to pet him.

Tomorrow I'll make a vet appointment for him; but I think his end is near. It's hard. I remember him best as the tireless ball-player, The Great Communicator who could tell us that he wanted clean water, or dog cookies, or cottage cheese from the fridge, or just Out.

Maybe he'll rally, again. I don't know.

Just so you know, if you didn't read the Press a few years ago, this is Babe's personal song:

Baby, baby,
You're so sweet
You're like the alligator
With the yellow feet!

Baby, baby,
You're so cute
You're like the crocodile
In the fur suit!

We'll see how he is in the morning.

Did I mention that it's hard?

Cheryl Made Me Look Like a Dunce

Cheryl gave me a whack this past week.

She wrote this poem, and it was sexy and strangely alluring, yet disturbing. I was reminded of long, long past boyfriends and of fictitious male characters in my books. We were chatting online, and after I'd complimented her on the poem, she asked me, "Did you know what it was about?"

Deer in the headlights moment.

What it was about? Uhh, wasn't it about some tall seductive person? Wasn't that obvious? Wait, Cheryl is never obvious! Crap! I missed something really important!

I called up the poem and re-read it. Sexxxay, as dear Josh would say, and quite readable ... still, it was obvious I was missing something.

Opting for the deer in the headlights reaction, I just basically said, "Hi! Is there somebody there?"

Pow.

I was run over by Cheryl's tongue-in-cheek semi: The poem was about too-high-heeled shoes.

Me = Road Kill when it comes to analysis of writing, or parodies, or analogies, or whatever the hell people call them when what is written isn't really what it means.

Well, except when I do it, of course.

Stinking Cheryl. Just wait and see if I don't prod people to "Write Fiction Like Cheryl" for a contest again this summer.

Pomegranate Thoughts

Pomegranates.

When I was a little child, my mother told me about the exotic fruit called "pomegranate." At Christmastime, she told me, her mother would buy a pomegranate for the kids to share. She tried to describe the taste of the fruit, and how it looked. I wished I could see one and taste one, her wistfulness was so evident.

But we lived then in a very rural Central Pennsylvania, and pomegranates were a fable, a rumor, a fictitious vegetable.

I was sixteen and daringly going alone to the supermarket to do the shopping when I spotted my first pomegranate. On impulse, I bought one, and Mother was not critical of the purchase when I brought it home. (I wasn't buying groceries on my own money at that point, having no income of my own!)

Breaking into the heavy-rinded fruit was a lesson in itself: we carefully tore back the skin from the blossom-end, exposing gradually the garnet-colored seed-drops in the interior. The taste was less acerbic than cranberries, but more tart than cherries. It was a flavor of foreign lands, of harvests more improbable than peaches or cucumbers. When I went away to college, at Christmas I would buy a pomegranate -- to remind me of my heritage, to savor the vivid flavor that laughed in the face of icy winter.

Globalization brought pomegranates into Pennsylvania stores regularly in the years that followed. We enjoyed every one we bought.

It was only after moving to California that I was able to have a pomegranate tree of my own, and I lost no time in doing so. That orange blossom above is a pomegranate bloom, and the photo below is a fertilized blossom.

Last year, the weather at this time of year was so chill that none of the blossoms set. This year, we're hoping for a few blessed treats when November and December roll around.

By then, the pomegranates will be as big around as large apples, and we'll have a big bowl of pomegranate to challenge the cranberries at Thanksgiving and Christmas.