Sunflower

She bloomed anyway...how apropos.

The big pumpkin is oranging. Is that a word? I wonder what the odds are of the pumpkin stayin in my yard until Halloween. What do you think the chances are that one of the neighborhood kids that swarm my house will give in to the temptation to steal it?

I can't seem to get a good picture of this oh so lovely cannas. The flash washes out the bright yellow. I'm really feeling the need for a new camera. Sigh.

Tragedy

Something horrible happened at my house. I got up around 7:00am, made my coffee, straightened up the kitchen and the family room after my boys' later evening escapades. I went outside and found that the waterfall had slowed to a not so steady drip, and determined that it was time to clean the pump filter. About 45 minutes later, remembering my coffee, I went back inside to retrieve it, along with my camera, to take my usual morning pictures.

I snapped a few of the sweet beans doing quite well along the fence by the fish pond.

I took a shapshot of the smaller pumpkin growing in the weeds I call my lawn.

I crouched to capture the bigger pumpkin,

turned eagerly to see how the sunflower was progressing, and found this.


I audibly gasped in horror and stumbled back a step as if I had been struck. My face crumbled as I cradled the flower bud in my hand.

Quickly, I removed it from the tendril attaching it to the stem and rushed into the house. With my handy dandy kitchen shears, I snipped off the lower leaves, snipped off the end of the stem and plunged the flower into a vase of lukewarm water, with a little sugar. I let you know how she fares over the next few days. With any luck, she’ll bloom anyway.

With a heavy heart, I went back out to the garden to survey the scene of the carnage. Nothing else seemed to be damaged. It could have been my rambunctious children and their friends who had inadvertently tousled the flower, or it could have been a critter, perhaps the same critter who had been enjoying a feast of pumpkin blossoms.

I looked at the sadly singular stem. My eyes widened in surprise and I bent a little closer. Look at what I saw.
Three little flower buds, grown overnight, and the flower fights for survival and continuation of the species.

I smiled, in spite of myself. My flowers are so much like me…or perhaps I am so much like my flowers.

Later in the day, as I sat at my desk, I clicked on Yahoo Personals. Perhaps it was time to give that site another swing. I met Magic Man on that site, as well as SAHD-Guy and MWR-Guy, three of the most important men in my life, outside of my sons. I met several other interesting people, too, on that site, which I will someday chronicle in my memoir, Diary of a Middle Aged Sex Goddess. I revised my profile, but for some reason, I can’t paste it here. You’ll have to go to the site to see it for yourself. I’d welcome any suggestions to improve it.

Just since posting it, 56 men have reviewed it and five have emailed me.

I wonder what will have to happen for me to actually bite the bullet and subscribe…

Perseverence

How is it possible to feel so lonely around so many? I went to a church client today to observe their internal controls over the collection of cash after the offertory. It is a National Baptist church, so the congregation is primarily African American. They sang a song with the lyrics “Hold on, don’t give up.” They sang those same words many, many times, as the gospel tradition directs and I thought about them, thought about perseverance. I thought about being deep inside the tight tunnel of the cave last weekend, talking myself out of panicking, pushing myself out of the discomfort . I thought about my garden, about the weeds that grow despite my best efforts to dissuade them. Not just the weeds, though, my flowers are persistent, too. I need to take lesson from them, from the flowers and the weeds and the people surrounding me at the church service.

These weeds decided that they needed to grow and made the best of a less than perfect situation.

These dandelions were pulled a month ago, and yet, here they are, still growing, forgetting the pain and suffering of beheading, the choking sensation of Roundup and pushing forth regardless of their chances at ever blooming.

The word, perseverance, was invented, I think, to describe dandelions.

Or perhaps to describe the people around me at the church service; all different shades of brown. I was the only bright beige person there. There was no dozing done around me, most everyone was up and down, clapping, or applauding, or giving voice to their affirmation of the words of the sermon. Sermons at an African American church are different than at the vanilla churches I have attended. The speaker addresses real life issues; gambling, money management, alcoholism, chemical addictions, sexual addictions. Vanilla churches usually discuss problems with society instead of personal ones. Sin comes in many forms, I’ve heard from the pulpit, some sins are of society, some of our own decisions. But they makes us lonely, in whatever form, and God/Goddess/Universe is the answer to lifting that loneliness.

I sure hope so.

I know he’s out there, I know it’s just a matter of perseverance. I imagine him waiting for me, searching the faces at the grocery store and the line at the movie theatre, just as I do. I wonder if he smiles tentatively at strangers, eyes darting to the left hand, head cocked in a question.

I rescued a plant growing inadvertently in my stone flower garden a month or so ago. I transplanted it and it almost died, wilting to the point of almost blackness, staying that way for a day or two before finally reviving.

See it snuggled up against the lily? It's the one with the scrawney stem and the insect nibbled leaves.

It didn’t look like any of the weeds with which I was familiar, but I was still skeptical that it was actually a flower, either. I watched it, took it’s picture periodically.

It turns out that the plant is a sunflower, just getting ready to bloom.

How did a sunflower get in my yard? A bird dropped it, or pooped it, like so many other of my random plants? Did one fall from Kevin’s baseball uniform, landing on fertile soil at just the right time? Did someone throw it from their passing car?

It doesn’t really matter how it got here, it’s here and it’s mine and it’s about to blossom.

I’m hoping this flower story is a metaphor for romance…in my life.

I look at this robin and listen to his hopeful song and I know I won't be lonely forever.

Will I?

I sip my morning coffee by the fishpond and gratitude for my life, just as it is, is sometimes overwhelming. I want the euphoria of being happy by myself to return.

The swallowtails showed up today...a yellow one...

and a black one.

The black one was a little shy, but here is his sillouette behind a leaf.

Sigh. How can I be sad when I bury my garbage and the universe sends me cantalope?

I mean, seriously.

Cave Softly

A blood red moon hung in the horizon as we crested the hill at the turnoff point to the Great Salt Petre Cave; site of the twentieth annual Karst O’Rama or KOR as it was commonly called. KOR often attracts over 600 people, strongly disproportionately male and many in my age range.

Heidi and I gasped as we gazed and I scrambled to find a place to pull over so that I could take this picture. We had been giggling the entire 3 hour trip, stopping only once to run through McDonalds to grab a sandwich and fries, and to peruse the convenience store when we stopped for gas. I had forgotten to pack spare batteries , so I bought some and while we were there, I decided to remember the boy scout motto and purchased condoms. Because I’m an optimist, I bought some XXL, and because I’m a realist, I also bought some extra thin because any lover I was likely to meet would probably be over the age of 50.

I didn’t need the condoms.

I was, as usual, attracted to the two most unavailable men out of the 450 that were there. One of them, lean and lanky with a lazy smile and strikingly blue eyes, with a life force so strong it was almost tangible, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Magic Man, was married within the past month to a lovely and sweet woman who I enjoyed getting to know. The second one, tall, dark, Russian accent, was painfully shy and could not possibly have been less interested in my attentions.

I had a great time anyway.

Caver folks are notoriously friendly, free spirited, tree huggers who religiously recycle, pick up other folks’ litter, and honor nature. They are respectful of others and constantly offer to lend a helping hand. I was in good company, albeit alone in a crowd, but I’m getting used to that whole concept.

I missed my first caving expedition at 10:00 because I didn’t pay attention, and partook of the 2:00pm lantern tour of the Great Salt Petre Cave instead.

Seven of us sauntered down the wide caverns, admiring the ages old cave scrawlings and the remnants of the gunpowder mining that occurred two centuries before. I saw salamanders and cave crickets and some interesting rock formations.



The next day, my real caving adventure began. I was signed up for a trip to the Climax Cave along with seven other people with varied caving experience. This was my first “real” expedition, so I listened attentively and tried very hard to do what I was told. We crawled into the cave, which should have been my first clue because I ended up doing a lot of crawling over the next three hours. Crawling, in my opinion, means that you are on your hands and knees, ambulating thus, over the terrain. In caving terminology, crawling also means creeping, or sliding on your belly, propelled forward by your feet pushing against the dirt and by your forearms, grasping at the earth, pulling your body along.

I did a lot of creeping through Climax cave.

There was one passage called the birth canal. The guy ahead of me, about 5’10 and 170 pounds, eased through it, and encouraged me to try. I looked down at my forty-nine year old momma’s body, the peasant stock hips and queried our fearless leader.

“Are you sure I’ll fit?”

“Yes, I’m sure you’ll fit. Lie down on your right side, and pull yourself forward.”

I moved in a few feet.

“I’m not so sure.”

“You’ll fit. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.”

“One foot? I can’t even feel my feet, much less move them.”

By that time, I was wedged into a rock formation closely resembling my nether regions, curving and twisting, about two feet tall and a foot and a half high. Halfway through, I felt the first pangs of hysteria.

“I’m not going to fit.”

“Yes, you are, you are almost all the way through. Just keep at it.”

I tried to calm myself. I took a deep breathe, which considering the constrictures all around me, might not have been a good idea. MWR-Guy had given me a coverall. The first one I tried on, made of course, for a man, would not fit over my ample hips. The one I was wearing was considerably larger, and longer. The hem of the pant leg was stuck under my right boot so that every time I pushed with my feet, the coverall caught and tried to pull my right arm back. Simultaneously, I was trying to push my right arm forward so that I could pull my body on through the tiny tunnel.

I wasn’t going anywhere. I couldn’t move. My arm was immobilized underneath me, pushing with my feet made it worse.

I started to panic again. I cursed MWR-Guy, my caver buddy, a man I trusted with my very soul. That scoundrel had talked me into caving, had assured me I would love it, but all I was loving right now was the thought of throttling him. What the hell was he thinking! What the hell was I thinking! What the hell was I doing, crouched in this tube of stone.

My helmet slipped over my eyes, but I couldn’t move my arms or my legs and was helpless to do anything to adjust it. Panic bubbled again.

“I don’t know what to do” I whispered to the guide, hunched in an alcove about ten feet away from me. “I can’t move my right arm because it is stuck under me and I can’t seem to move my feet.”

“Can you move your left arm?” he queried logically.

“Yeah, I guess I can.”

“Push your pack and your camera ahead of you with your left arm, then see if you can grasp the rocks above you and pull yourself up slightly, just enough to loosen your right arm.”

I let out my breath, did what he said, kicked the coverall away from my boots so that I could get some traction in the gritty bottom of the cave tube and pushed myself another six inches forward. The tube widened ever so slightly and I was able to partially extricate my right arm. I did the same thing another couple times and tumbled into the alcove where he was waiting.

Without missing a beat, knowing somehow, that he would have to keep me moving or I’d lose my resolve, which much to my dismay, involved another ten feet of tubular cave tunnel. I followed him, hiking up the coveralls so that I wouldn’t repeat the paralyzing problem I’d encountered in the prior portion of the cave.

The tube opened into a wide, cavernous room. I expected a gush of amniotic fluid as I slid headfirst onto the rocks, understanding exactly why they called it the “birth canal”. Everyone else made it through as well and after resting for ten minutes, we soldiered forward through the rest of the cave.


A bat to match the henna tatoo on my ankle.


I have never been so tired in all my life than I was when I got back to camp. I was tired and hungry and euphoric. I’d made it through the cave in one piece (or should I say “peace”?) and was so fucking proud of myself. I sat in a camp chair for three hours afterwards, letting other campers get me food, bring me a drink, paint a bat shaped hemp stain on my ankle. I drank a coke for the first time in months, thinking I needed the caffeine to keep me awake for the drive home.

The next day, every muscle in my body hurt. I hobbled around at home, headed for a client, worked for a few hours, made my excuses and hauled my ass back home. Chemistry Guy called to confirm our dinner plans for Wednesday and listened sympathetically to my tale of discomfort, offering me the services of his Jacuzzi bathtub and nimble fingers.

I thought long and hard on that one.

I wasn’t dating anyone. I was in great pain. It was the week after my period. I was lonely. I liked him. I went.

I felt much better afterwards.

I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on my caving experience. While I was down in the cave, on my hands and knees or on my belly, mud squishing around me, water dripping on my head, claustrophobic panic bubbling up my spine, I vowed never to allow myself in that position again. But after I was out, after the adrenaline subsided, after I could breathe the sweet air of freedom, I was exhilarated. I couldn’t wait to get back in there, to overcome adversity, to conquer my fear.

After all, isn’t that the whole point of being on this earth, to conquer our fears?

Standing outside the cave, pulling off our muddy coveralls and boots, shucking our gloves and our hardhats, one of the cavers pulled out from his pack all of the cave trash he’d collected while we were down under. Cans and wrappers and plastic bags spilled from his pack into a trash bag.

I hadn’t seen any of that stuff while I was in the throes of survival down in the cave. The more experienced cavers such as this guy, see more and seek to keep the caves as natural as possible. They say to cave softly…

and leave only footprints.

Epi-pen

A friend of mine, deathly allergic to nuts, accidentally ate a cashew and took herself immediately to the hospital as her throat began to swell, being astute enough to inject herself with her epi-pen before getting into her car. She’s fine now. No permanent damage, other than an increased fear of protein based seed food products, which for her, are not food, but poison.

I heard her story and wished that there was an epi-pen for heartache. For loneliness. Something you can take when a memory triggers longing. The rock project has unearthed so many remnants of past lives; lives when I was the mother of toddlers instead of teenagers, lives when my belly was full of burgeoning baby instead of body fat, lives when five people lived in this house instead of just four, lives before babies, when my focus was on my house and my dogs and my husband, and when so much of what it means to be an adult was ahead of me. Twenty two years of growing up, of learning about Betty and how she responds to adversity, of what brings her joy. I have found joy in unexpected places; unexpected at least to that young woman who toiled over the rocks two decades ago.

Rexford didn’t understand why I needed to do the rock project, and I’m not sure I understand why I did it then or why I’m doing it now. I remember wanting to grow grass on the hill, and wanting a green path along the walkway to the side part of the back yard. I thought I needed to separate the rocks from the soil so that grass would grow.

I still want a green path.

I’m just having trouble finding it. It turns out that the green path takes more than just removal of stone pebbles. The right amount of sunlight, succulent seeds, timely watering, fertile soil and timing are just as important as impediment free dirt.

So now I’m on my knees almost every night, sorting through, sifting out, smoothing and loving and longing. When I’m done, I’ll show you pictures, although I have to confess right now. I forgot to take pictures at the beginning. You will see only the job halfway through to the end.

I used to think that only the end product mattered, now I understand how important the journey is. I’m trying very hard not to rush this, not to hurry as I eye a mountain of dirt and rocks, feeling a little overwhelmed. Every time I clear an area, I momentarily forget that after an hour or two, the mountain disappears because I move one rock, then another, then two at once, sometimes I grab three at a time, and then, and then, the rocks are gone…and I move on to scraping and raking and digging and making another mountain, which seems insurmountable.

But it never is.

I have to keep remembering that.

And when loneliness checks in at the hormone hotel, I’ll remind myself that although an epi-pen for those moments would be nice, all I have to do, really, is just keep moving those rocks.

I loved this picture.

Not much longer for the lilies, but oh, isn't this lovely.

Did I mention that I'm growing pumpkins?

The elephant ears in full glory.

The fishpond in July.

And still, they bloom magnificently...a dahlia a day.

A Chocolate Flavored Day

I've been showing my garden to my friends this week; friends who also garden, who understand the effort involved in growing green things. All have commented on how happy my garden appears, how joyful the flowers seem. I saw on a billboard for a garden store the following slogan: "Flowers are nature's way of smiling. Come in and have a few giggles."

My garden is such a tremendous source of delight to me this summer. The picture taking is an attempt to freeze a few moments of this joy to peruse in the cold winter months. I worry about what I will do when the heather turns, when the garden browns and snuggles down for a slumber. I have plans to do some significant spring flower bulb planting in October/November, but December through March looms as an empty void ahead of me. I work harder in those months, which will fill some of the time void, but what will bring me joy and soul saticfaction during those months?

The garden serves as a companion to me, especially in the morning, but thoughts of her often keep me company during the day as well. The evenings not occupied with social or business obligations are also spent in her company, usually doing something to make her more comfortable: weeding or transplanting or watering. I'm also doing landscaping projects inthe evening as well, enhance her beauty and order.

About three weeks ago, after I finished the woodchip project, I started a rock project. I had done this same project twenty two years earlier, the summer Rexford and I moved into the house. The project consists of digging up round walnut sized pebbles which are embedded in dirt and separating the stones from the dirt. The dirt is moved to a place for flowers, the rocks are returned to the area around the house, sans the dirt, to catch water that falls from my gutterless roof.

This project has, to date, consumed about 25 hours of my time. I would never pay someone to do this work. The benefit would never be worth the cost. But I get a feeling of zen peacefulness and accomplishment from doing this tedious job myself. It gives me the chance to sift through my memories over the past twenty years, moving the dirt to more fertile areas, cleaning off the nuggets, restoring them to their original purpose.

So, why do I need chocolate, you ask?

Because remembering is sometimes painful, sometimes full of contradictions of what one remembers, and what one now knows to be true.

They say chocolate provides the next best feeling to being loved.

So, I'm feeling a need for chocolate this evening.

A dahlia a day.

Pretty in purple.

The pumpkin grows bigger every day. I've noticed a couple others, but I'll be keeping a special eye on this one.

Are you ready for some PESTO!!??
or
"It's time to make the pesto." as I stick out my gut, don my baker's hat and trudge out the door.

This one is lovely...but it's starting to brown around the edges. Sometimes I feel like I am browning around the edges...

A dahlia a day. Did you know that if you cut a dahlia, it will not bloom any more fully?

Bedazzled.

A poppy on the sidelines waiting for her cue.

Her sister, on stage, singing her heart out.

An unknown weed that sprouted in my stone flower box. I actually transplanted it and worried about it when it initially wilted after the transplant. It's budding up with something, though, so who knows.

A pumpkin on the way...110 days til Halloween!

And maybe more if this bee has anything to say about it.

All three blooming at the same time. Nature has impeccable timing at times.

Garden Sentry

Hormones

It’s the last three days of my hormonal cycle…at least it’s supposed to be the last three days. Now that I’m 49, all of my systems seem to be out of whack. Nothing works the way it used to; not my shoulders, not my knees, not my wrists. Hell, even my right thumb knuckle is swollen and tender to the touch. Anyway, it’s the last three days of my hormonal cycle and I’m feeling way out of sorts. Edgy. Nervous. Anxious.

I’m almost never edgy, nervous or anxious. I don’t like it. I have two audits that I need to have out the door by next Tuesday, and although I’m a little behind schedule, I’m not worried about making the deadline. Then, over the next three weeks, I’ll have two more audits to get out the door, but that’s plenty of time…so why the sense of impending doom?

I’m worried about my oldest son. But I’ve been worried about him since he was two. Financially things are good. I have no relationship worries at the moment, no one tugging at my heartstrings causing me angst. But I also have no one I look forward to seeing romantically, either, and perhaps that is the cause for some of my concern.

I have an idea for a new novel. I think it’s a good idea. I want to write it. I want to drop everything, sit down at the computer for a month and compose for ten hours a day. I can’t do that. Too many other obligations. Perhaps that is what has my panties in a wad.

Perhaps it is lack of sex.

It’s been two months now, and the chances are pretty good that it may very well be another two months. I’m simply not looking and if you aren’t looking, the chances of being found decrease substantially.

So, hormonally edgy.

I snapped at Mountain Man yesterday. Not for any good reason, but perhaps just misplaced anger. I’m angry at myself, actually, for not being able to follow through with him. I haven’t changed my mind. Just the opposite. The past few months have convinced me beyond any shadow of a doubt that Mountain Man was not the man for me. But I wanted him to be, and I feel bad for hurting him.

The pictures I took this morning didn’t turn out as I had hoped, either. Some mornings, the pictures are spectacular and I sit at the computer beaming with pride as they slide across my screen. Not today. Perhaps the camera can feel my hormones acting up.

I hear from Rexford almost every day now. I don’t like it. I don’t like thinking about him. We are not interacting in any kind of friendly way, either. It’s either all business or all acrimony. I usually feel sick to my stomach after hearing a voice mail message or reading an email. It’s not about him per se, it’s about the constant conflict. Perhaps he thrives on it. I don’t. I’d rather not hear from him at all. I’d rather try to forget he even exists, if this kind of communication is my only other option.

I fell in front of my youngest son’s baseball team about two weeks ago. I wasn’t watching where I was going, was ogling some flowers growing wildly next to the field, and tripped over an uneven piece of concrete. Not a graceful fall, but one of those arm flinging, struggle for balance, dancing with feet askew and almost, almost correcting the misstep before heaving head first into the pavement, big butt waving to the crowd. While I managed to keep my face upright, skinning my elbow slightly, my knee lost an inch and a half square of skin.

I quickly arose, assured the nearby mothers and fathers that I was quite alright, limped to the car, apologized to my son for the embarrassment. No permanent damage was done to anything but my pride. My elbow healed without a hitch. My knee scabbed over quickly, throbbed intermittently over the next few days, but after a week, began to itch and flake off. The last chunk came off while I was gardening, down on my hands and knees pulling weeds, and probably dislodged a little too soon because although it didn’t bleed, the thin, angry red skin underneath swelled like a blister and rescabbed.

That’s what it feels like to interact with Rexford.

I wonder when that damn wound will heal completely, or at least scar over with scar accompanying numbness. I’m ready for that stage. I’d like a relationship with him based on some kind of composite of the last twenty five years of shared history, not just the last four years of discord.

I doubt if that’s possible.

A dahlia a day

New poppies!

The last of the mutant lilies

Mid summer fish pond

Summer’s Embrace

The warm, humid blanket of the summer’s day embrace enveloped me in peace as I arrived at the Quaker meeting house. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, and I welcomed the chance to still my busy mind in quiet contemplation. So many jumbled thoughts in need of untangling vied for my attention. Rexford and I are attempting, for the first time in four years, to work together to help my oldest son resolve some of his more pressing issues. This attempt has required more direct communication between the two of us than the entire four years previously, combined. It has not been communication without recrimination, but has been less conflict focused than I would have ever thought possible. It is bittersweet. When I go for months without speaking to him, it’s easier to keep memories in the faded haze of the past. Now, so many have rushed to the fore.

I’ve had a couple dates recently. I like them both, and they seem to both like me. Like is the operative word. My heart is not beating faster for either of them, but I enjoy their company. What’s a woman to do, except give it a little time and see what happens.

Even more than I’ve liked the dates, though, I’ve liked the alone time. No need to check the settings on your computer, this really is Betty saying she’s enjoying being alone. I bought two plump, juicy tuna steaks, knowing that none of my children would want any, looking forward to an opportunity to grill them, serve them to myself with some rice, grilled veggies and a nice chardonnay. I’m looking forward to a meal by myself, printed pages and a hardcover to keep me company.

It may not happen for awhile. Despite not doing much dating, my social calendar has never been fuller. I’m cultivating a few more female friendships and entertaining more in my home, which I am thoroughly enjoying, now that the back yard is cleaned up and the house is in reasonably good repair.

This morning, though, when I walked up the drive, and the universe seemed to be hugging me, all my cares, my concerns, my worries, evaporated in the morning mist. Dappled sun illuminated the flowers and the weeds alike.

Just as it does in my life.


I have tried to take a decent picture of the hosta blossoms for weeks...only to have every single shot a white blur...until today, until this shot.

My son ran over the part of the pumpkin that had grown into the lawn.

It doesn't seem to be much worse for the wear. Check out this picture, too. Between the two of them, I bet there are a hundred blossoms still to come. Each blossom is about five inches in diameter. Two for the price of one...


Purple profusion...

Bachelor buttons...blue and pink, go figure.

Pretty pink zinnia...grown from seed.

Stick your nose down there and take a whiff...white phlox is as fragrant as it is beautiful.

I guess this is why they call it butterfly weed.

Double day lilies...are these a freak of nature, or a lucky find?

White Rose of Sharon...a very prolific bush that is difficult to control, but oh, such pretty flowers. I hope I haven't chopped down all the purple ones. I'll keep you posted.

and for a climactic finish, the dahlia for the day. This flower spans at least eight inches.

Ok, I couldn't resist showing off the yellow one.

And the three colors together...I have dozens of buds on the fifteen plants in my garden. I'm thinking the show is still in the previews....

Weeds

May 25, 2008

I have been spending all of my spare time gardening; digging and planting seeds, anticipating baby plants, pulling weeds. I have learned so many important lessons while I’ve gardened; patience compassion, strength through adversity, as I transplant flowers growing in the cracks of my concrete sidewalk.

A few weeks ago, I noticed a plant growing right next to one of my flowers…a plant I didn’t recognize, with two sisters growing haphazardly nearby. I almost pulled them, thinking they were weeds, but something about their unusual foliage gave me pause and I left them be. Yesterday, breathtakingly beautiful purple flowers emerged from long, graceful spikes. I’m so glad I let the sisters grow.

I wonder how many people, with vivid colors inside waiting to bloom, have I dismissed, thinking that they were weeds.


A dahlia a day

Tools of the Trade

My gardening serves not only as a creative outlet, but also as a means of getting exercise, for pushing my body to as many limits as I can. For that reason, I have scoffed at using machines designed to make the job easier. I have, in the back of my shed, a small rototiller


for which I paid $200 about fifteen years ago, before I developed my deep and meaningful physical relationship with Larry the Elliptical. I used it the first season or two, then stashed it where it lives today. Instead, I prefer the forearm strengthening power of these:


























And these:

I also have not one, but two electric hedge trimmers.

Other people have used those hedge trimmers, and when we had hedges instead of gardens surrounding our house a decade ago, those machines came in really handy. Now that I have only a few of those hedge monstrosities left, I use these:

They are hard on my shoulders, but make for some nice biceps.

I have two leaf blowers, too. When my boys help me rake leaves, which they do grudgingly every year, they like to use the leaf blowers.


But me, I’d rather breathe more heavily and use the twin engine power of these puppies:
























Also residing in the back of the shed is the snow blower we inherited from Rexford’s father. (I won't show a picture in case that would be considered an invasion of Rexford's privacy). I prefer to use this:


























I have a weed whacker, in fact, I have two of them, and the boys have attempted to use them when they cut the grass.
























I even have one still in the box that I bought in April. I just haven’t been able to bother myself with figuring out how to use it because I prefer these:


For weeds and other distractions from lovely flowers, I eschew herbicides of almost all kinds, preferring the hard pulling action of these tools:

While it is true that the right tool makes the job easier, easier isn't always what I'm searching for. Easier isn't always what's best for the environment. Easier isn't always what's best for me. Sometimes, the right tool of the trade is the one that fits right in the palm of your hand.

A dahlia a day

You Know What Bugs Me?

Insects rule the world, so they say, and nowhere is this more true than in the garden. Here are a few of my six legged friends.

Something took a bite out of this one, but it doesn't seem to have phased her.

Hmmm. Have I been spending too much time sleeping alone, or does this bumblebee look like he's doing what I think he looks like he's doing?

Must be a guy bumblebee. Got his fill, now he's gone.




And this picture of the white dinnerplate dahlia...seemed almost ethereal.

Time

I’ve been reading a book called “Einstein’s Dreams” that someone either gave me as a gift, or suggested that I read. It’s a fictitious account of dreams the author imagines the Einstein may have had during the months that he was developing his theory of relativity.

I have my own ideas about time, or rather, how I mark the passage of it. The turning of the page on the calendar doesn’t mean much to me, nor does the tic tock-ing of the kitchen clock or the sweep of the second hand on my non-existent watch. I notice the passage of time by when I replace things. I think about the previous week when I switch out clean towels for the ones I seek to launder. I wonder at the state of my life every night as I smooth on the creations meant to keep my skin young looking, wondering how much longer I can keep up the charade. I’ve come to the conclusion, through my nightly ministrations, that I’m not beautiful and perhaps not even pretty, as I once thought I was. And I’m ok with that.

I think about time, and its passing every time I replace the dishwasher detergent kept under the sink in the kitchen, and every time I need a new tube of toothpaste. As I slip under the covers, between the sheets, as I adjust the alarm, and slip my hands into carpel tunnel braces, as I tighten and smooth the sheets and covers and lean my head back into the soft down of my pillow, I think about what I’ll do tomorrow, and what I accomplished today. I smile as I slide into slumber and pat myself on the proverbial back because honestly, how many people do that? How many people consistently smile to themselves as they slip into sleep, happy with who they are and what they’ve accomplished?

As willingly as I deadhead the flowers in my garden, it is difficult for me to actually cut any to bring inside. I feel as though I am robbing the neighbors of the enjoyment of each blossom, despite the fact that logically, I know that the more I cut, the more that will bloom.

I make an exception if people are coming over for dinner, and I make an exception for my mother, who whiles away her time in a nursing home and is overjoyed whenever I bring her a bouquet.

But inside my house? Only cuttings intended to grow roots, or unlucky flowers caught in the heat of deadheading.

It’s funny. I don’t mark the passage of time by anything in my garden. Not by the changing positions of the sun or by the projects I have to do or the progress of the blossoms. We each have our own way of noting our passage on this earth.

It turns out that I’m not growing zucchini in my garden after all. I’m growing pumpkins. I became concerned when the two plants began aggressively pushing their way past the flowers in front of them and branching out into the lawn.

At the wedding party I went to on Saturday, the owners had a lovely garden, and were growing zucchini, which, while similar, had distinctly different leaves and blossoms. Last night, I googled pumpkin plants and saw a picture of this:

With leaves that matched my plants exactly. I still don’t see any pumpkins, but as you can see, there's a bee inside the flower so I know that they are being pollinated.

Next year, I’m going to try to grow a few more food plants. Perhaps not pumpkins, but maybe some lettuce, or some root vegetables and maybe some beans. I want to grow food that I will actually eat. Who knows how much time any of us has left, and with so much time on our hands, I might as well put it to good use, instead of just trying to create beauty.

Reblooming

I had an event filled weekend, occupied not just by gardening and landscape projects, as one might think from my pictures, but spent also in the company of good friends, doing amazing things. Thursday evening starts my weekend, as I try very hard to refrain from office visits on Fridays. A client of mine was being toasted/roasted as part of a fundraiser benefiting the Over The Rhine Chamber Foundation. I laughed so hard my tummy hurt as the emcees exaggerated all of my clients delightful idiosyncrasies, followed, of course, by heartfelt appreciation for the work that she does.

Friday, I fulfilled my backbreaking woodchip fantasy. I lifted pitchforkfulls of steaming woodchips and dumped them into my wheelbarrow, breathing deeply the pungent earthyness. I have this thing about gardening, by the way. I like to wear as little as possible when I’m communing with nature. I never wear a bra, I try to wear sandals instead of boots or sneakers. I am always make-up free and my hair doesn’t see a comb until after I’m finished outside. When I was about halfway through the mountain of woodchips, I hurried into the house. Kevin’s friend, Denny, was lounging with him in front of the television.

“Kevin, Denny, come quick!”

Denny hurries up. Someone else’s mother telling him to come quick means something. My son was not so eager. Slowly he rises.

“This way!” I exclaim and head towards the front door.

“Mom,” Kevin says warily. “I don’t think Denny came over here to work.”

“Don’t be silly, Kevin. I’m not going to ask him to work. I want to show the two of you something.”

We reach the woodchip pile and I plunge the pitchfork into the belly of the pile, lifting a woodchip chunk and depositing it into the wheelbarrow, standing nearby at attention. Smoke wafts from the indentation I’ve made, and the chips below are gray.

“Check it out,” I say proudly. “Spontaneous combustion.”

Their brows furrow in confusion.

“As the woodchips decay, they release energy and raise the temperature of the woodchips. These woodchips are smoldering. Kevin, remember that mulch pile that was on fire back in October when we were driving home from Nick’s wedding? That’s what happened there, only the heat was so intense, it caught fire.”

“Wow,” they both exclaim.

“Feel it,” I coax them.

They each reach over to touch the steaming woodchips. The warmth from the pile can be felt three feet away.

“That’s so cool,” Denny says and Kevin grunts agreement, grudgingly.

“Spontaneous combustion. And remember, you heard it here, first.”

After raking the last few chips into place, I went drumming with a friend. My carpel tunnel was acting up, so I didn’t get quite as into it as I normally would, but I still very much enjoyed meeting the people and closing my eyes to listen to the rhythms.

Saturday, SAHD-Guy took me to a Hoedown Wedding Party in the middle of nowhere around Waynesville. The farm was awesome. There were flowers everywhere. They had roasted a pig, had mountains of fresh veggies, tubs of sweet potato casserole, plates of cheese and crackers, and several kinds of cupcakes and tiny berry tarts. For entertainment, we were amazed by a tarot reader, astounded by a magician and mesmerized by a flame dancer. There was rousing music from a Blue Grass band, a s'mores bar by the bonfire, wine and beer and lots and lots of laughter. The bride and groom were married in Alaska nine months ago and came home to have a party for their relatives.

Sunday, I finished my final five bags of mulch, weeded the back patio, which is now ready for use as an entertainment facility, made an apricot pie from apricots obtained from the tree behind Community Friends meeting house. The tree bears fruit only about every five years, and this was the year for a bumper crop.

I also made two batches of pesto. The first batch, I stuck to Magic Man’s recipe. The second batch, I did some experimenting, throwing in a few sprigs of spearmint and peppermint as well as some rosemary from my garden. I had my boys taste test them both, and although there was not a hugely discernable difference, we determined that we were purists when it comes to pesto, and chose the first batch as our favorite.

To make the pesto, I harvested basil and parsley from my garden. The scent of the basil took me back to the first time I tasted pesto, at Magic Man’s house, about four years ago. He told me it was “food of the gods” before offering me a forkful. I’ve never tasted anything so delightfully different and delicious before or since.

This morning, as I perused my flowers with my morning coffee, I took these pictures of flowers that I cut back, way back, over the past two or three weeks.

They are all blooming again.


Even the magnolia

The cutting back awakened something in them, something primal, the internal drumbeat that urges them forward towards that eternal marching order to carry on the species.

I wonder if that is what’s happening to me? Am I reblooming?

Or is the heat I feel so powerfully at certain times of the month the same spontaneous combustion as my woodchips...