Gardening

I think spring has finally arrived.  I know….bold statement for me to make since I trust no weather, but at last, the feeling that long cold snaps have passed is there.  A couple of weeks ago, I went to the garden center and purchased a pallet of river rock so we never have to mulch again and while there I eyed the plants…oh, how I eyed them, but left without, yearning and unsettled for leaving seven months of brown behind, and springing into riots of colors.

Now, at last, I feel it’s time to make my decisions on what to plant.  Last fall, we changed the house color from a dusky green to a pale blue with bright white trim and a cobalt blue front door.

I’m thinking a Monet palette would be in order - yellows, pinks, whites, lavenders.  Tom is a huge fan of George Meis’ Greek photos comprised of mainly blue and white with red accents, and this one hangs in the powder room off the kitchen.

Because of that, I am planning on painting the ceramic planters on the front “porch” a cheerful cherry red and getting more to sit on the rock where mulch and rabbits used to live.  Since we had the painter also paint the trim in the back the same bright white, I want to carry the theme to the newly enlarged deck, but therein it gets tricky.  100% southern exposure with little to no shade – cactus have died out there, and I’m not the most attentive of plant mothers.  I used to be.  I suppose with determination I could be again.  Isn't that what women of a certain age are supposed to like - wide brimmed hats, flowing shirts, gloved hands, and fully feeling the Earth Mother vibe as we dig into potting soil?

I need to immerse myself into the world of container plants and figure out what would work best in the vastly different conditions between the front of the house and the back.  I know that somewhere there will be black eyed Susans since they are the closest I’ll get to sunflowers (my favorite of all flowers), but after that, I’m at a loss.  Even plants on my northern exposure porch have to be watered twice daily in the summer, but I love the color variety and the lushness of double impatiens, as delicate as they are.  We have a dead dwarf spruce by the porch (thank you ever so much Mr. DuPont and your imprelis) that I’ve been trying to get the hubby or son to cut down for months.  There are 4 or 5 bags of river rock piled up on the porch waiting to take it’s place.  I think I need to attire myself in long sleeves and gloves, find a saw, and do it myself.  Timberrrrrrrrrrrr.

I also need to find out where the men-folk put my tins of bird seed, and fill the feeders in the back yard.  I need my goldfinch buddies when I’m on the deck.  

The much beloved Tupelo tree is no more after a windstorm last year, and now there is a void in the back yard that was once full of waxy, beautiful leaves.  I need to get something into that spot also, but it took the Tupelo over 10 years to achieve its majesty, and I’m not willing to wait that long.  In ten years, I plan on being in a ranch house with no…count them….zero stairs.

I’d like to finish the landscaping around the sides and back of the house – put pavers with Irish moss between them under the deck.  Need to find the original landscape blueprint from 15 years ago.  All I remember are dwarf lilacs.  Then again, this is all probably for naught this year, as I was warned that this might be the summer we need to replace the air conditioner (last fall was a new furnace and water heater.)  Why must houses get old? As soon as I save enough money for a nice vacation, it goes back into the house.

I have an entire summer worth of yard labor with no concrete ideas planned.  Anyone game? 

Men, Baseball Home Opener, and Beer

So.  Tom went to the Royals home opener yesterday.  When he and his friends tailgate for the Chiefs, Tom is up at 6, grilling, wrapping stuff in foil, keeping it hot in an enameled cast iron casserole with cover, icing down beer, sodas, etc.  Trying to figure out what to do for baseball tailgating since they'd all be leaving from work, Joe told Tom, “I got it.  Don’t worry about it.”   Tom should have known better.  Joe was the guy who during the ‘get up and tell a funny story about Bob’ portion of his memorial service last Saturday, told about how they compared the number of ex-wives they had.  (Joe’s a great guy, but his brain obviously has no filter.)

Well, he got home after 8 last night, and came upstairs where I was watching Tab Benoit videos (since I sacrificed his concert last night for the home opener annual male ritual.  Still had his coat on and hands in its pockets. (It was cold with a capital C yesterday.)  He was grinning.  Of course he was.  Royals won the home opener.  Good omen for the season.

“Joe brought a case of beer for before the game.”  Tom just smiled that 'boy, do I have a story to tell' smile of his.

“Coors Light or do they now have Coors Light Light?” I groaned (Joe is not known for his stellar taste in beer.)

“He brought a case of Bud Light,” said Tom, slowly bringing his left hand out of his pocket.  There was something in his hand, but it was small and I couldn’t see thru the fingers clutching it.  “A case of twelve.”

“Twelve?  They make twelve packs these days?”  (My favorite brew comes in a four-pack, so what do I know? Big plug here for Tallgrass Brewery and Buffalo Sweat Oatmeal Cream Stout.)

  

“Yup, a twelve pack.  For all of us.  Before the game,” answered the mister.

“Still,” I replied, “That’s good.  It’s not like you were out there for hours beforehand, like at a Chiefs game.  That’s probably all y’all really needed.”

That’s when he held out the contents of his hand.  A Bud Light mini can.  I mean mini.  Like his hand was able to conceal the entire can like it was a tube of Chapstick.  Twelve of them.  For the group.  I started laughing hysterically.

“We went in the gate early.”

Time and Impatience

Have you ever noticed how much of an impatient society we have become?  How much we don’t like to wait for anything?  This week I realized it greatly when after a visit to the ophthalmologist, I was given two sets of eye drops to administer 15 minutes apart (one twice a day, one four times a day….four..four times!), and after each one, I was to press the inner corner of my eyelids closed for 2 minutes.  The waiting drove me insane.  Me.  A person who can sit for hours reading or watching the birds, and doing nothing at all.  It drove me up a wall!  I started using the time to analyze just how impatient I and others have been, and I confess I plead guilty to all of the below except driving at the speed of light and picking up my child two blocks away (but only because we lived two blocks away and it’s my driveway the lazy parents are blocking.)

You’re on the freeway doing the speed limit or just above, and some joker comes up behind you at the speed of light, rides your bumper until he/she can pass, then gives you the one fingered wave.  Maybe you’re cruising along in heavy traffic at 5 miles over the limit, get behind someone driving exactly the limit and you become impatient, muttering, “c’mon gramps, get with it.”

Does anyone wait for the microwave to count down the last 10 seconds, or does everyone open it up, grab their lunch, and slam the door?  I rarely saw the microwave at work or see the one at home sitting there with the actual time of day displayed instead of 11 or fewer seconds.  Seriously?  We can no longer wait five seconds for something?

Raise your hand if you get cranky when the website you are accessing on the internet doesn’t pop up instantaneously.

Confess if you ask your spouse or kids to do something and they don’t hop to it immediately, thereby ticking you off.

How many times have you turned the burner or oven up a little higher than recommended because it was taking too long, and who hasn’t taken damp clothes out of the dryer and hung them up to finish drying because it was just taking too damned long.

When you head to the drive-thu fast food/coffee place, if there’s a long line, do you keep on driving?  Do you find it excruciating to wait for a long train to pass at a crossing?  If you pick up your children from school, do you wait in the pick up line like a proper parent, or do you park a block or two away and have your offspring walk to you in rain/hail/sleet/snow because it’s faster and you can play on your phone longer and not have to constantly keep inching your vehicle forward?

Do you hold the elevator door open for someone you see headed for it, or do you push the close button repeatedly, hoping to just get going and not have to stop at every floor before yours?  When your spouse, significant other, child, parent, sibling, friend, co-worker is talking are your listening, formulating your rebuttal, checking off your to-do list, or are your thinking “Lord, make him/her get to the point and shut up?”

We have all become so used to instant access to everything, most of us are unwilling to wait for much of anything.  Why?  What difference does that 10 seconds or 10 minutes really make?  Will it really change your life?  Is it really that important?  Does it really matter?  In ten years will you triumphantly recall the time you saved six seconds in nuking your lunch or that time you got to your destination 5 minutes early?

We all need to take a page from the playbook from before 20^th century technology sped us up, and just slow down and wait.  I’d be willing to bet there’d be less high blood pressure, less depression, less anxiety, fewer fights, fewer grumpy people, and a lot more smiles, and less stress in our daily lives.

It could be a motto for living….Wait a Minute….Get Healthy.

Bob

We lost my husband’s brother yesterday. It was unexpected in nature, yet after a month in ICU with no physician being able to really give us a definitive answer as to why, it was not all that unexpected. My ramblings today are not about doctors, hospitals, nurses, or family, but random thoughts about Bob after knowing him since 1976 when I first went to work for his father.

Bob was Bob. If you knew him, you’re probably grinning after that statement and know exactly what I am saying. He was an extremely unique individual. He was in his early 20’s when I first met him, and honestly, I had no idea how to read him. He could be funny. He could be maddening. He could be irresponsible. He could be the one you counted on when the chips were down. No matter what he could be, he was always fiercely loyal to his family, and an ardent protector of his brother and sisters.

He doodled little German helmets with spikes sticking up

He loved to barbeque. In the eighties, Tom and I would receive an invitation for 6pm in the evening to grill out. We’d get there, and no one would be home. Twenty minutes later, he would arrive, and then say, let’s go to the grocery store. He preferred the indirect grilling method and we’d be sitting down to half raw chicken at 11:30pm while listening to Richard Pryor albums. Indirect and method are now two words fondly used in quotes within the family

No one could do a better impression of Grandma Heitz – “You vill do dis MY vay!” I can still see him performing.

When my son was a toddler, he’d giggle when he knew Unc Bob was coming because it meant two things – Unc Bob would say “Give me a dollar” and then he would throw the kid on the sofa and proceed to use the bottom cushion to press him into the back cushion, amidst Eric’s protesting and laughing. He never would tell Unc Bob to stop.

He lost things.  Frequently and without care.

If you smoked, your lighter was not safe. He’d lose his, then walk off with yours and lose it too.  Once, Tom and Bob were at the airport heading off to ( or returning from) a sales meeting.  They had quite a bit of time before the plane was to board, so they stepped outside for a smoke.  Bob reached in his pocket and pulled out his cigarettes, then started looking for his lighter.  He looked again.  And again.  "I just had it," he said.  "It's like traveling with a monkey."

At one time, we had five pairs of sunglasses on top of our refrigerator – all Bob’s.

When he left your house, you'd find every beer can he abandoned had 1/4" to 1/2" of beer left in it.  We don't know why.

Back in the days when he had been working with his dad for a few years, one of their lines was Beneke, who make toilet seats.  There was also a Woody Allen film at the time in which his characters childhood was examined in flashbacks.  One such was in the schoolroom of maybe 8 to 10 year olds, where they each got up and announced to the camera what they ended up doing 30-35 years hence. The 'now' careers were impressive:  neurosurgeons, Nobel prize winner, cure for cancer - a true class of geniuses.  When Woody Allen's childhood self stood up, he announced, "I sell toilet seats."  Bob loved that line.  LOVED it.  He was also into dark humor, so based on that, we had a mock newspaper made with the headline that said something like "Toilet Seat Salesman Slays Four But Does Not Take Own Life."  He about split a gut laughing.

Kids loved him. His kids. His step kids. His grandkids. His nieces and his nephews. They knew that deep down inside, Bob was one of them. A couple of Christmases ago, he took all the kids somewhere in the house and taught them some goofy song, then lined then up on the stairs and directed his choir. Typical Bob.

Tom's words (borrowed from Churchill) on understanding Bob:  "He was a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in a conundrum.  "That's my brother."

Fly high, Bob.  Have a beer with your dad.  Watch out for your mom and the garden hose.  Tell hello and give our love to all who are waiting for us Yesterday, I took your brother to a pub, bought him a few rounds of beer and whiskey, put some bucks into Touch Tunes and we played music you would love as we toasted your life.  You made an impact, and we will always love and miss you.

Make the World a Little Better This Lenten Season

Lent began yesterday.

Lent, the tradition being the six weeks leading up to Easter weekend where Christians observe the crucifixion, burial, and resurrection of Jesus. They do this through prayer, penance, self-denial, etc.. My question is why do we focus on the negative? Yes, denying ourselves and taking a good look at the flaws in our lives is always good, but why should that be an emphasis during Lent? All of us are works in progress and should be striving to eliminate the negativity just as a matter of point. Instead, why can’t the focal point of Lent concentrate on the teachings of forgiveness, love, tolerance, and redemption, then carried over all year, becoming a normal part of our lives? 

Hence my challenge to all my friends, religious or not.

Instead of giving up Coke, or chocolate, or whatever for Lent, consider this. For the next six weeks, pay forward the good in your life. Do one unexpected good deed a day. Genuinely smile and say hello to someone you don’t know in the grocery store. Send someone in your life a text, just to say I love you or I appreciate you. For families, each of you write on a small slip of paper the name of each member in your household, and one good thing about them. Then fill out another slip with one good thing about yourself. Do it daily. Fold them up, stick them in a box, or jar, or Tupperware container, and read them as a family on Easter Sunday. They say it takes three weeks to install a habit. After six weeks of finding just one good thing about yourself and your family members, I can only imagine what all that love can do. So deny yourself that extra cup of coffee or dessert if you feel the need, but concentrate more on making this a better, more cheerful, and loving world.


After all, Easter is about resurrection. Not just of Jesus, but of ourselves and those around us.

I'm back!

Wow. Two years in between blogs, and reading back, I see that I am muddling along with pretty much the same likes and dislikes. (Yes to reading and music, huge no’s to shopping and cold. I read more. That’s good. I’ve retired. That’s very good. I clean even less. That’s not good, but my time always seem to be filled, and since the guys don’t clean up after themselves, I don’t feel bad about it (most days.) I have reconnected with a bunch of wonderful people from high school, which is a fabulous thing. Nothing like being 63 and feeling 17 again. We celebrated our 45th reunion last September, and while feeling a lot of trepidation leading up to the weekend of the festivities, attending was one of the best gifts I ever gave myself. I have become Facebook friends with a number of established authors in all genres, am collecting writing tip websites, and in the last few weeks have penned 15,000 words on that novel I started with a mere paragraph and an idea, five years ago. Yesterday, I took a leap of faith and strictly as a challenge to myself, entered a 250 word ‘take this start of a story to the next step’ competition. It took forever to get the guts to hit the submit button, but I did, and will accept any and all constructive comments I receive. I have taken on the accounting/inventory/billing/payables system at my husband’s office, in preparations of tying it all together and teaching it to the masses when they finish moving the end of this month. I have yet to lose weight or stick to an exercise training program, but I figure when it really matters to me I will. Right now I am very happy with the me that is, and see no reason to change for someone else. Stick around, as I make a concerted effort to weekly (I hope) update my blog with bits of goofiness and occasional wisdom from the life of an overaged child.

Hope Springs Eternal

Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
Man never is, but always to be blest.
The soul, uneasy and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

Alexander Pope wasn’t writing of spring when he wrote this, but I think of it when I recall this passage from his Essay On Man. Summer is a season of abundance, autumn one of beauty, winter one of cold death, but as winter wanes and the days become longer, thoughts of spring bring a renewal of hope. In the church it obviously brings hope of eternal life as Easter and the Resurrection of Jesus nears, and I see that promise in nature. After months of lifeless vegetation, months of poring over seed catalogs planning the vegetable and flower gardens of my dreams (which I never do accomplish), the first hint of hope springs eternal in this human breast.

First, the clouds seem more likely to contain rain rather than ice, sleet or snow. The weather is moderating; no longer are there endless days of bone chilling cold, but moderating temperatures as spring tries to burst forth with 65 and winter attempts to hold on with a 27. Suddenly there are birds happily chirping in the morning, making me almost smile as I start the day (face it – I’ll never be cheerful in the morning.) Mere days after I first hear the birds’ morning serenade, I see my first sign of life…..tree fuzz. I cannot tell you what that does to lift my spirit. Not being a cold weather gal in any sense of the word, seeing tree fuzz gets me more excited than watching P&P and seeing Colin Firth in a wet shirt. I’m an outdoor girl…..I need sunshine and fresh air and blue skies and big white fluffy clouds in order to survive. I need the color green. Nothing is as wonderful as the first day I can open the windows and top on the CRV, drive down a country road, wind whipping my hair, and singing at top of my off-key, out-of-tune lungs. (Do not equate this outdoorsiness with a desire to camp, use the forrest for my bathroom, or come into close contact with wild animals and those slithery things starting with ‘sn’ and end with ‘ke’. Nosiree, bob. Not no how, not no way, not no where.)

Then come the spring bulbs starting to pop up…hyacinth, daffodils, and tulips. The pear, dogwood, and viburnum blossom, the green shoots of grass begin to emerge from the brown thatch, the liriope lining the sidewalk and the stella d’oros in front of the yews begin to push up from the mulch. Tiny mouse ear leaves start budding from trees, giving a hint of fall color before they turn green. The first evening I can serve dinner of the deck, leaves me grinning like the town fool. The aroma of the first grass cutting has me outdoors, deep breathing the air like it’s the last there will ever be. Soon, I can be outdoors again on a regular basis.

The soul, uneasy and confined from home, rests and expatiates in a life to come.

Can you hear it? Can you see it? Can you smell it? Spring! Hope is arriving.