Herbal Remedies by Nannette Croce

We gratitude gals love our herbs.

I don’t buy mine at a nursery but at one of the annual sales the Philadelphia Herbal Society regularly holds in my area. They sell unusual herbs and hybrids you can’t find in your, pardon the pun, “garden variety” home store.

Purchasing the desired herbs is a bit like getting on the choice rides at Disney World. The line begins forming an hour before opening. Strangers make conversation while scanning the alphabetical lay-out from a distance to estimate the location of their “must-haves.”

My first stop is always the lemon grass that grows as a beautiful fountain-like spray in the middle of my garden and flavors many Asian dishes. Next I hit the nasturtiums as PHS always offers new and unusual colors. Finally I move to the zinnias (they sell flowers as well) and work backwards, checking for any new flavors or hybrids along the way, like parcel––a cross between parsley and celery that saves buying a whole head when you need just one stalk. Along the way I buy the standard stuff, sage, rosemary, and end at the sweet basil which is always well-stocked so I can get there last.

My purpose is to purchase herbs, but despite what usually turns out to be bad weather, the most pleasurable part is standing in line for the opening and the cashiers, meeting people with whom I share a common interest, comparing prior sales, and always, always laughing. No one seems to grump when a box falls apart or someone else grabs the last spiced basil. You win some; you lose some. It’s all part of the game.

Traditions come in big and small. This small one means a lot to me.

Sounds of Silence by Nannette Croce

Those who live with man made sounds all around them may long for the silence of nature, but nature is rarely silent. The sounds are merely drowned out by all the manufactured noise.

Thirty-odd years ago when I first moved to this ex-urb of Philadelphia, warm, moonless nights brought blackness beyond my window screen, but not silence. In spring it was the peepers, later in summer, the crickets. During August summer days the cicadas. Some nights a barking fox would tease my dog, starting up each time he quieted down. Then there were the owls, hooting the same rhythm over and over. In the mornings the two-toned cluck of a pheasant under the bush and, of course, the birds waking with the sun. In winter the rustling of a skunk or raccoon snuggling up against the house to keep warm.

These sounds haven’t disappeared, not all of them anyway, but most of them are lost under the constant swoosh of traffic on the nearby highway, sirens––police, fire, ambulance–-at all hours. Planes, trains, and automobiles. The new noises expand exponentially, but so gradually that we don’t even realize what is happening and forget the underlying sounds ever existed.

But sitting on my patio on summer nights, sometimes if I concentrate very hard, I hear them again. Not over the man-made noise but beneath it. These are the sounds that really matter. These are the sounds of life and new beginnings.

Unlike the newcomers, I know they are there, and I’m grateful for that knowing, because it makes me remember to listen.