From Here: Observing the Natural World

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Back to the Bin ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Something happens when Paul announces, "We're ready to start composting again."

The world shifts. Soon I will be gardening and shopping at farmers’ markets and farm stands. I’ll be cooking with local and seasonal foods. I’ll be picking flowers from my beds.  

And when I find a moment, I’ll be sitting on the porch, reading.

I will be in my happy season.

We take our fruit and vegetable scraps and store them in a metal bucket designed for that purpose. When it’s full, we bring it out to the wooden bins Paul built years ago. They don’t get full sun, so they don’t make for an optimal compost-producing operation, but they do provide enough product to keep most of our beds nourished.

Composting isn’t just about the end result, though that is important. If you want to grow organically, which we have always done, there’s nothing better to enrich your soil than your own rotted lemon peels and potato parings.

Meanwhile, food waste is a real problem. It’s the single largest type of material in U.S. landfills. When it rots there, it produces methane, which is a greenhouse gas.

When I compost, I do feel I’m doing the right thing, environmentally speaking. But I also enjoy the process. Turning food waste into fertilizer makes me feel a bit like a magician. And I prefer, for hygienic reasons, to bring food scraps outside rather than throwing them in the kitchen trash container.

When I was growing up, my parents had a metal container with a lid buried in the yard. My mother would put the “swill,” as she called it, into it. Somebody—I’m not sure I ever saw him—would come by and take it away, to feed it to pigs.

It pleases me to think that my parents, in this way, were more ecologically correct than me.

Composting is easy. Save your scraps. Add garden debris and fallen leaves to your bins. Mix it up and let it sit. Soon you will have a rich, crumbly mixture that will make your plants grow tall and strong without chemical additives.

In fact, the scraps already start percolating while they’re still in the house. When I pick up the container to add more swill, I can feel the heat.

It’s exciting, but I don’t take a deep breath, for obvious reasons. I do smile. I know that from a brown banana peel, a scooped-out grapefruit, a few moldy peas, my happiness will grow.

_______ 

 

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

From Here: Observing the Natural World

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Splish-Splash—It’s Spring ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A robin flapped its wings in the birdbath. She stuck her head into the water, splashed some more. Flapped those wings around. Splish-splash!

It was March 30th, and I had seen a few robins around town. But this was the first one to appear in our yard. The robin, of course, is a harbinger of spring. But a robin taking a bath—well, that is reason to rejoice.

We provide water for our backyard critters all year round. In the winter, Paul is in charge of setting up “The Bluebird Cafe,” a heated birdbath. Sparrows and chickadees enjoy drinking from it regularly, along with the squirrels. Sometimes our resident cardinals and blue jays also pop in.

They drink, sometimes heartily. But they never, ever bathe.

It’s a different story in the warm weather. We have three warm-weather baths in the backyard: a standard pedestal model, a shallow leaf-shaped receptacle that lies on the ground, and the Zen birdbath.

The latter is a squat square block of concrete and the birds love it. It only stands about a foot off the ground, but sometimes in midsummer there’s a line waiting to get in. The birds splash around, then hop on the rim and preen. They can be quite vigorous. If no one swoops in to take their spot, they may head back in for a second round.

The robin had the place to herself. She took her time, and made sure she was squeaky clean.

It was a pleasant day for March. The sun was out. But it was still March, gray and brown with a bite to the breeze. The calendar said spring had arrived, but it didn’t feel like it.

Until I saw that robin. That robin, taking a bath.

_______ 

 

 I welcome email at lizzie621@icloud.com

Review: "Murder on Charity Lane," Jo Nichols

Golda Barkofsky, 82, the sharp-eyed fairy godmother who owns the Marigold Cottages in Santa Barbara, California, is back. So are her energetic and eclectic tenants.

Murder is not far behind.

In The Marigold Cottages Murder Collective, the tenants of the quaint bungalow court reluctantly teamed up to solve a case. Now they’re a solid band of crime-fighting buddies—with, to put it euphemistically, a flexible moral compass.

They solve cases their way.

It all starts off so innocently. Mrs. B brings CJ into the group, in hopes that she’ll hit it off with tenant Ocean, an artist and mother to Riley and Miles. CJ helps Mrs. B fasten her bra after water aerobics class at the Y. Now there’s an endorsement! CJ works as an assistant to the fabulously wealthy Frank DeYoung. The elderly man lives with his wife Karina in an amazing house on Charity Lane in swanky Hope Ranch.

Learning this, Mrs. B has another idea. She gets CJ to invite tenants Sophie, recently promoted to development director at the New Vic Theatre, and Nicholas, a city planner (they’re now a couple and living together) to a party at the DeYoungs' house. Maybe Sophie can rustle up some donations.

Instead, Sophie and Nicholas witness a horrible event. Frank DeYoung is killed when he falls down the stairs. And his wife claims CJ pushed him.

CJ, who has just moved into Sophie’s old cottage.

Detective Sergeant Vernon Enible is not amused that the Murder Collective is involved with another possible murder. But he can’t stop them. The whole gang is involved. 

Lily-Ann brings her organizational skills (and knowledge of the wealthy, and exquisite fashion sense). Anthony contributes his physical strength and knowledge of the seedier side of life (he’s an ex-con).

Hamilton, who serves kombucha at Collective meetings and never leaves the house except for medical appointments, extracts information from a police officer through favors on the online fantasy game Realm of Rangers, which they both play.

The stakes soar when Mrs. B uses the Marigold as collateral to get CJ out of jail. Then CJ disappears. Then there’s a second murder…

In between the non-stop action, the members of the Collective try to communicate via group chat (Anthony can’t type, which leads to amusing spell-check corrections) and take risks even they know they shouldn’t be taking.

In the end, they tie up all the loose ends in their own inimitable style. Detective Enible is happy to take the win.

I enjoyed the humor in this book, the sparkling “SoCal” setting, and the warmth of the relationships among the characters. The story is told in alternating viewpoints by various characters, who are all so different, but all dedicated to their shared vision of justice. They also truly care about each other.

Spoiler alert: Many mentions are made to the events in The Marigold Cottages Murder Collective. That’s necessary because the characters are still grappling, to varying degrees, with how they handled the situations in the first book.

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I received an advance e-copy of Murder on Charity Lane from NetGalley. It will be published on August 18, 2026.

Review: "A Field Guide to Murder," Michelle L. Cullen

Harry Lancaster, 69, has traded world travel for a condo on the deceptively peaceful Lakeside Lane in Columbus, Ohio. He’s a retired anthropologist who once traveled the world with his wife, Mags, working for aid organizations.

Now Mags is gone and Harry has fractured his hip. Help has arrived in the form of a young nurse, Emma Stockton. She’s burned out from her former work in critical care, and is giving caregiving a try.

Harry is frustrated by his limited mobility and entertains himself by keeping an eye on the neigborhood with his high-powered binoculars. But his boredom is soon alleviated when his neighbor Sue calls. She’s in distress. Harry and Emma rush over (as best he can with his cane), but Sue is dead when they arrive.

The police decide Sue accidentally ate a poison fungi—she liked to forage. But Harry isn’t convinced. He’s noticed strange goings-on. His previously genial neighbors are acting suspiciously. Nobody seemed to like Sue, so suspects abound.

When a second neighbor is attacked, Harry is devastated, but knows he’s on the right track.

Emma is reluctant at first to join Harry in his sleuthing, but she can’t very well let him charge around on his own. Besides, she’s feeling at loose ends with her career move, and she’s having qualms about her upcoming marriage to Blake, a handsome doctor who seems to be a Prince Charming.

Harry has lived a life of adventure and loves exotic foods. Emma’s idea of a perfect meal is a pepperoni and pineapple pizza at her favorite restaurant. But they learn from each other. Harry starts thinking about life after recovery—and he’s also determined to get Emma out of her rut.

A real pleasure of A Field Guide to Murder is the relationship between this mismatched pair. Harry — adventurous, cosmopolitan, a devoted eater of Indian, French, and Ethiopian cuisine — is bemused by Emma’s devotion to pepperoni-and-pineapple pizza. They needle each other, learn from each other, and slowly draw each other out of their respective ruts. 

The supporting cast of neighbors-with-secrets keeps things lively, and the setting is attractive: Harry can walk, cane and all, from his seemingly idyllic street straight into a bustling commercial district. I enjoy food descriptions in my mysteries, and this one features several, including a yummy afternoon tea scene.

This cozy mystery is warm, engaging and well-plotted. I finished it with a smile—and a snack.