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Weekly Column

07/07/13: The Mysterious Mashed Potato Man 

 Dear readers,

Once again I’ve had no time to write a column; eighteen relatives are visiting Sunnybank for our annual Fourth of July reunion. Laughter, lots of food and story-trading devour the hours and days. So, in that spirit, I offer this story, written a few years ago. (I still remember the fragment of music my mystery man hugged so close…)

 


Just before the beginning of the Film Festival a beautifully dressed businessman rang the garden bell. He wore an expensive dark blue suit, an elegant tie with a diamond clasp, highly polished trotters, and expertly cut hair.   Wow, I thought. Here’s an executive who emanates power…

A constant, chant-like musical phrase puzzled me, but, as he moved closer, I realized he was singing, rhythmically, repetitively, and with quiet emphasis, “Mashed potato one, mashed potato two, mashed potato three four five six blue…” The numbers were delivered with vigor and panache. Moving through the main garden, setting a slow, deliberate pace, he followed the beds’ contours, hands clasped behind his back. Though I tried not to stare (he hadn’t acknowledged me, his mind being filled with mashed potatoes and flowers) I always knew where he was by listening, with growing amazement, to his song. Actually, the melody wasn’t half bad.  It consisted of five notes, and his intonation and diction were excellent. But he’d gotten stuck, like my old 33s, in a groove, and I realized, nervously, that the chant-song was seeping into my mind, disrupting my thoughts.  That’s the trouble with rhythm, and repeated words and melodies; they capture a brain. Really insistent ones, sung with confidence, make feet twitch and tap.

On and on it went, and I actually found my trowel responding to the accented numbers. Grinding my teeth, I carried on, praying he’d hurry up and leave. 

Suddenly, the song ceased. Stopping in mid-stride, he bent backward and looked up, and, holding that pose, stared. There were no other visitors, and no breeze to break the spell. I held my breath, and grinned. Aha! The tall meadow rue had captured him! (It was in its glory, with those purple, water-filled stems supporting tiny, vividly blue flowers cheerfully perched atop this bog-loving, slim relative of columbine.) Bless that rue; at last something had silenced him.

Clutching my trowel, I waited…after about 30 seconds he snapped forward and resumed his song, exactly where he’d left off. He mashed-potatoed himself around the Ram’s Head Garden, circling it twice, before moving into the Library Garden.  It got 3 trips, and ten potato cycles, and then he was out, and moving down the stone path to the Brick Walled Garden---when Bang! Total silence.  This time the delicately beautiful weeping larch had snared him.  He stood stock-still; then one manicured hand tentatively traveled to a soft, lovely, arching branch.  He smoothed it once, and focused on its details.  His gaze was intense. Never has that weeping larch been stared at so hard.

Suddenly, he snapped to attention; hands back-clasped themselves, and he stepped down to enter the last garden.  But before vanishing, the potato man paused one last time, turned around, and smiled. Then he was gone.  I thought I heard a murmured numerical fragment; the heavy, creaking door thumped shut, then- silence.

I was mystified.  Why cultivate and nurture a potato tune?  Maybe he was a musician, mulling over measures; maybe he anticipated too many helpings at dinner, or maybe he had a musical tic…

After pondering this puzzle awhile, I sighed and resumed digging out weeds, but found myself singing that awful spud-tune, over and over.  Horrified, I threw in the trowel and rushed into the kitchen.  Tea, I thought; tea will fix this-- and classical music…

It took an hour, three cups of Yorkshire Gold brewed strong, and the Lone Ranger’s thrilling ‘Hi-O Silver’ music from Rossini’s ‘William Tell Overture’ to peel that persistent potato scrap from my brain, and chuck it.

 

6/30/13: Strike Three! You're Out! 

Romeo and Juliet Mallard were driving me nuts!

Here’s what’s happened.

In late April the two lovebirds- who never seem to nest - took up residence in my 48” round cement ground pond, which, at the time, held rain water, dirt, and rotting leaves from last autumn. They played and slept in there, adding poop to the bacteria-rich soup.

In late May, I realized I had a problem. That scallop-edged cement circle had always been a pond, with a brass boy perched on the rim, playing his water flute. I loved it, and now I’d lost it to ducks!

Then, I had a really good idea.

I’d make it a faux water feature. A blue oat grass would be the central ‘fountain,’ and ageratum would be the vivid blue ‘water’ beneath. Perfect. I wouldn’t even have to wash out the duck poop/rotting, soggy leaves/earth, but just combine it with the Wholly Cow manure I’d purchased.

My creation looks very nice, indeed.

Juliet disagreed. She paced around her vanished pool/spa, quacking dismay and frustration, wishing it back. She even hopped onto the rim to make absolutely sure there was no water in there. Finally, disgusted, the two of them waddled off to the big central, but still dry, fountain, and settled down to wait.

Uh-oh. I knew my future.

In early June, when I filled that big pool and turned on the fountain above it, they quacked happily and climbed in. Horrified, I rushed them, flapping and howling; they stopped paddling and watched me make an idiot of myself. I tried waving a small tarp. They wouldn’t budge. My husband Joe popped out of the house to drop six lime-green tennis balls into my lap. “Try these.” I lobbed balls at them, and finally made feeble contact with Juliet’s feathered back; both flew off. But just for an hour or two.

Here’s the thing: they knew what we wanted. Juliet would stand on the pool rim, drink, raise one leg as though to go in, freeze, then look right at us. Joe and I, perched on the bench, would say, “No…no…” She’d slowly lower her leg, watching our reaction. She did this over and over. Once she even rippled the water with one webbed foot, teasing. We said, “No…no…” over and over.

Who was conditioning whom? It was uncanny. That duck was baiting us. Finally tired of the game, they head-bobbed agreement- and jumped in. We were speechless.

All day, as visitors wandered through the garden, I’d charge those mallards hissing and yelling and lobbing balls. (A few people were confused by my behavior- but they didn’t have to clean that fountain.) By closing time I was exhausted, having run the equivalent of a mile. Maintaining a constant vigil was clearly not gonna work.

Furthermore, I had to scrub away loads of ducky do-do they’d deposit on my brick sidewalk night after night. Ugh!

There had to be a solution.

I biked to Ace Hardware, bought a mega-tarp, and covered the entire fountain at day’s end, securing it to the ground with long white nails. The task took forever. In wind it would be impossible. When I finally finished- (with R&J watching with interest a decent distance away)- they circled the pool slowly, studying the situation. One edge, where the tarp ends didn’t quite meet, was as wide as a small pizza box. There was room for precisely ONE duck. Quacking happily, Juliet plopped into that tiny space.

I threw a Donald Duck temper tantrum, blocked the hole with a broom and large silver dustpan, and stomped off to bed in a fowl mood.

The next morning I motored to Garden Goods, which almost always has what I need- for the garden. But could they help with ducks?

Gordy listened to my outraged squawks. “I have just the thing, Dee. Netting. It’s strong stuff.” He whipped out a package. I read. By golly, it just might be my salvation.

-Duckbills couldn’t shred it.

-Sun and treated pool water wouldn’t hurt it.

-The large-sized jet-black netting collected leaves, and was nearly invisible.

It. Was. Perfect.

I installed it. Waited. Very soon the whir of duck wings alerted me. Showtime!

R&J landed, quacked with glee, wagged their tails in anticipation, and made straight for the water.

Romeo stopped in mid-waddle though, and refused to step onto the extra netting secured to the grass. It just felt wrong. He backed off and checked his paddlers.

But not Juliet. Hopping over the ground netting, she landed on the pool’s rim and tried to drink. Her bill bounced off the exquisitely thin black barrier. WHAT?? She quacked in disbelief. Ducks know water! They drink it, belong in it. This situation was totally outside her experience.

Though unnerved, she wouldn’t give up. After circling on the pond’s rim for ten minutes trying to sip- with the same result, she abandoned caution and jumped in.

Except.

There was no In.

Only On.

The poor duck bounced, then remained suspended above the water. She quacked confusion and tried to paddle. Nope. There she sat, crouched a scant inch above her favorite beverage.

I gasped with silent laughter. Before me sat a truly mystified duck.

Had the rules changed, she wondered?

Romeo coaxed her out and led her up the garden path toward the back porch, but Juliet continued to glance back. Why wouldn’t the water let her in?

To help soothe Juliet’s agitation they played house in the shrubbery for a while, and then wandered around the Ram’s Head Garden pretending to graze. Half an hour later, though, she chucked her pretended indifference and rushed back to the pool, confident that spot would finally make sense. On the edge, she quacked once and dived in.

Bounced.

Sat, suspended.

Nothing had changed.

She repeatedly snapped at the netting.

It was impervious.

She squatted there, baffled, knowing what was underneath her feathers, but…not.

Finally, a defeated Juliet walked unsteadily on water to its edge, hopped onto the grass and flounced to the North Gate in silence. Romeo followed, muttering.

I laughed so hard I cried.

We haven’t seen them since.

 

P.S. Indecently smug for the last six days with this feather in my cap, I wanted to celebrate. So last evening Joe and I stumped down Union Street straight to the Merry-Go-Round. He bought me a ticket. I chose a prancing white steed on the ride’s outer limits and hopped on. (Incredibly, no one else rode, that one time!)  Round n’ round I whirled, grinning.

Gotcha, you quacks!

 

 

06/23/13: Memories...Light The Corners Of My Mind... 

 Dear readers:

This week, overwhelmed by work, I’ve had no time to write a proper column. Instead, here’s one I’ve included in my book, The View from Sunnybank, available at Horizon Books in Traverse City. The stories in there will help you remember what it’s like to feel good about people, animals and –life.


Every dime I earn is recycled into my garden. That’s a promise!


It was a lovely summer afternoon.  A specially equipped van drove up and unloaded seven Alzheimer’s patients- three in wheelchairs- for a scheduled garden tour.  The group was largely silent. Occasionally, one or two would ask where they were, and require confirmation that they were ‘on track,’ and that their driver wouldn’t forget how to get home.  One elderly man hoped aloud, over and over, that he’d turned the stove off before leaving. Their caregivers kept up reassuring, cheerful conversation as they settled everyone in the main garden. 

One wheelchair patient was bent nearly double; the two others stared straight ahead, their hands restlessly picking at the blankets on their laps, not seeming to notice, or care, where they were. The rest made their way to the benches and arranged themselves carefully. A small lady seemed reluctant to let go of the bench arm, needing its solidity; she looked confused and tensely alert.

“Did I turn off the stove?” came that soft voice, again.

Mama Nature was feeling benevolent. Her soft breath ruffled the big grasses, and delicate flowers moved just enough to release their scents. Birds sang, and the air was redolent with the buzz of busy insects. The garden was a jumble of bright reds, intense pinks, rich gold and pale or deep blues that blended with oranges and purples. Sweet alyssum wound through the beds and perfumed the air, connecting everything. The fountains burbled, their soft murmur muting the rough blat of the outside world. The caregivers chatted quietly among themselves, and with their charges.

Gradually, as I watched, these visitors began to respond to Nature in her best mood. A blanketed, wheelchair-bound woman hummed fragments of an old song. The bench sitters made comments addressed to no one, about the sights and sounds around them. Others began to look around, tentatively.

But something special was happening to one slim, wheelchair-bound man.  He sat up straight, looked around, smiled, and began talking conversationally, his bright eyes taking in everything. “Ummm…those rosemary leaves are delicious! I know all about that plant!” Then, pointing to a particularly beguiling daylily: “This wonderful peach color reminds me of Jean’s summer dress. I often pick the best blue irises for my mother; she buries her face in them, and thanks me, laughing, because I get them from the neighbor’s ditch.” More quietly:  “I love the summer sniffs because it means no school for two long months…We’ll ride the donkey… have a garden, but it’s partly my sister’s, too.  I can grow just about any veggie, but flowers capture me.” He grinned. “We take snapdragons on picnics, and make ‘em ‘talk…’”

The staff surrounded him, sharing their own experiences. Mr. Jones answered questions reasonably, and pointed out favorite plants. By now the others, their apprehensions largely forgotten, were daring to look up, or walk out a few steps, or nod. The bench-arm woman, still in her own world, nodded and smiled to herself as she slowly rose and began to wander around. Even the soft-voiced, stove-worried man sniffed appreciatively, and recalled the lovely kitchen bouquets his wife used to gather from their own garden.

Too soon, it was time to go.

A staff member came over to thank me, and shake my hand. “This is truly a special day! Mr. Jones, in that wheelchair, has never spoken.  What a marvelous resurrection; we couldn’t believe our ears! He’s so articulate—so full of vivid memories!” 

He shook his head.  “It’s amazing! The other staff won’t believe this!”

Mr. Jones was still dusting off old, delightful floral memories as the van pulled away.

I wandered back into my perfumed garden, deeply content, recalling Shakespeare’s Hamlet, to Ophelia-  “There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance…”

06/16/13: A Surgical Intervention 

A while back I found it nearly impossible to stay optimistic about the state of the world. I wore depression and confusion like a mantle. Humans were horrible. They constantly did terrible things. So did nature.

Someone had set off a huge bomb in India, or ‘gone postal.’ Then, a giant sinkhole had devoured a sleeping man- and his entire house. The wrong leg was surgically removed. A mass grave was discovered in…Yada-yada.

WAIT! Maybe the reason for my malaise was right in front of me!

I’d become a TV news junkie.

-Worse, while channel surfing for relief, I’d witness pretend and real murders.
-I’d be shown a hoarder’s house, and hear about embezzlers, robbers, and home invaders who killed. Neighbor: “I can’t believe this! He/she was so nice!” (Translated: Nobody’s safe anymore.)

-Advertisers repeatedly hawked their wares for a large part of every hour, accompanied by inane thumpity-bump jingles.
-Giant tornadoes/typhoons/earthquakes erased communities. Heliocopters filmed stunned survivors for voracious audiences.

-Reporters endlessly discussed people who killed for religious or political beliefs, or honked on about politicians running amok, or asked ‘experts’ why a man would toss six kittens out of a seventh story window.

It was all Bad. No, it was all Terrible. I began every day immersed in Terrible, Awful, Eternally Bad news, and frantic ads. Who wouldn’t be profoundly sad? Yet, I’d permitted these visual and auditory assaults with nary a protest. I was close to becoming numb to what once would have horrified me.

I’d nearly succumbed to the inference that there were hardly any good people left. I feared much. I could control nothing. I felt helpless, and hopeless.

Could it be that TV news was distorting my view of the world? Yet, I had to know what was happening, didn’t I?

TV is essential, especially these days.
Isn’t it?

To find out, I turned it off. In fact, I unplugged it. I stopped reading newspapers, and refused to even glance at mag-rags at check-out stands that showed, in living color, Hollywood stars’ various body parts distorted by incompetent plastic surgeons, or that babbled on about who was bedding whom, or salivated over which celeb was dumped, or ‘battling’ cancer, or dying ‘bravely.’ (Readers could choose between being titillated, or profoundly depressed. Or, in an embarrassment of riches, they could embrace both.)

Excising the constant recitation of awful events- about which I could do nothing- was akin to radical brain surgery. Initially I experienced tube-junkie withdrawal. The absence of mostly depressing, useless ‘information’ made me jittery-nervous.  I suffered acute separation anxiety. I bit my nails and worried about missing something important.

Occasionally, if there were a significant event, my husband would brief me. Briefly. This approach allowed me to gradually wean myself from my addiction.

I started to feel better. Withdrawal pains lessened, then evaporated. I slowly relaxed, and looked forward to fresh, unpolluted days. 

I found myself shocked, bored, and not a little embarrassed when I flicked on my friend’s tube for a scant minute, recently.

              Ads. Ads. Ads. Poop. Ads. Poop. Poop.

TV doesn’t truly represent what’s actually happening out there. It’s mostly a bottom-feeder.

Regaining my balance has taken a long time, but this new footing feels fine. My sense of what’s ‘normal’ has radically changed.  Decent people are all around me, quietly doing their jobs, loving their families and pets, playing sports, celebrating special occasions, paying bills and trying to raise their children to be responsible adults. Police and firefighters dedicate their working lives to bettering our communities. Volunteers generously give their time for all manner of causes. Neighborhoods hold fund-raising dinners to help victims of some misfortune. Americans rush to disaster areas, like Haiti, to help.

I’m living in a world that’s learning to improve the environment, and heal the sick in innovative ways. (Surgeons, for example, do cleft palate surgery free, transforming children’s lives in poor countries.)

These are good, solid things to hold close.

Oh- and the planet’s weather is mostly benign, most of the time. 

I’d almost forgotten these ongoing, everyday realities.

The implacable tube will never again decide for me what is important. I won’t indulge its obsessive focus on the tiny percentage of terrible human behavior, or gawk as it constantly displays deadly weather. I won’t be drawn into its cultivation of uneasiness, insecurity, suspicion and fear.

I’m paying much more attention to the normal, healthy aspects of people who live on planet Earth, in my country, my state, my town, and my neighborhood.

There will always be some dirt behind the picture I am part of, but the picture itself is FINE.

Here’s the thing: if something disruptive happens, I’ll know. But there’ll be no more hand-wringing about bad stuff. I’d rather wallow in my own good dirt outside. It’s much cleaner.


Radical surgery- being permanently unplugged- has calmed me, and provided a fresh opportunity to puzzle out the human family.
I’ve decided that we’re a lot like fudge; mostly sweet, with a few nuts.

I can live with that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

06/09/13: Shocking Reflections 

I’ve been on my knees, immersed in clouds of wood dust for the last two days. Vivid pink and orange sponge plugs are squashed into each ear. (I keep losing them, so the more shocking their colors, the better.) A big, sophisticated rubber breathing mask with a large, flexible gray nose and fat chipmunk-cheeked side filters envelops my face; flexible attachment straps snatch at my short hair, forcing clumps of it to poke straight up in all directions. Huge special wraparound plastic safety glasses finish the absurd picture. (I remind myself to go out to the alley to shake myself like a dog whenever I take breaks. Coating the flowers with powder-goo is unthinkable.)

Resigned to more hours of hard work I attack the kitchen floor on my knees. The roar of partnered shop vac and rotary sander, though muted, is terrific as I doggedly move over every inch of every board. Careful, Dee: too much pressure will scoop out permanent valleys.

The electric machine delicately vibrates in my hand, much as a captured humming bird might. The fantasy makes me smile.

Getting down to bare wood is mind-numbing work, but necessary. For sixteen years the intense southern sun’s subtle chemistry has quietly, inexorably converted my floor’s attractive antique copper color to pond-slime green. Ugh.

An up-to-date film on the big window will keep the sun at bay.

An elderly man came through the garden gate as I knelt on my pad working away, and he started when I glanced up, decked out in my paraphernalia. I do look startling.

Anyway, this sort of job requires concentration and coordination, but, as protection from the crushing monotony, a part of my brain wanders off to think thoughts.

My niece, Erynn, is an avian ecologist with Maine’s department of Fisheries and Wildlife- a raptor specialist about to earn her Ph.D. She weighs about 110 pounds dripping wet. Nothing much rattles her.

Ha! ‘Rattles!’ What a lead-in!

A few years ago, out on the Missouri prairie, Erynn was working trap lines she’d laid to briefly capture, tag and count bobwhite quail. It was a cloudy, breezy afternoon; the long prairie grass rustled as she worked the lines in summer heat.  She began to reach for the trap in front of her…and froze. On the other side of it was a coiled, beefy timber rattler, poised to strike. It was considerably bigger than a diamond-back rattlesnake, and angry. She hadn’t heard its warning in the light wind. A bite from this monster would be catastrophic.

The snake’s eyes glittered as it swayed slightly, contemplating angles of attack. Only a little wire quail trap stood between this young woman and The Terminator.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Erynn began to back off in slow motion, an inch at a time, her eyes never leaving those lidless snake eyes. The serpent’s tongue tested the air, responding to her body’s heat and scent.

The rattler was intensely focused, deciding. There was certainly enough room to strike- though the contraption between them might bruise its ribcage when it recoiled.

Ssoo…Sshhall I kill thee, or sshhall I not?

She retreated oh so slowly, with velvet soft, non-jerky steps, praying Sir Serpent was alone out there. The big snake rose higher on its coils, debating…

Suddenly, eons later, it broke eye contact, lowered itself, and languidly moved off to the side to disappear into the sea of prairie grass… Perhapss another time, when it ssuits me better...

I would have quailed, then bolted. Erynn kept working, logging data and tagging and releasing trapped birds all afternoon. But, she watched the immediate area carefully. These encounters happen. Deal. Move on.

That small person. That huge snake. Vehicle a good distance away in the middle of a vast prairie. Poor to no cell phone reception. Lord!

Erynn has nerves of steel, honed over the years she’s worked in the wild. (She’s been nearly nose-to-nose with giant alligators… but that’s another monster tail.)

Rats!! Lost in reflection, I’d ground a rather deep hole in a paint-naked plank. It could never be fixed. Idiot! I shut down the shrieking machines in disgust and ran out into the garden, needing fresh air. There are no serpents in this peaceful place, save the very occasional, timid little garter snake.

I moved close to the big North Gate door to visit the Faerie Garden, when a young child opened it- and stood rooted to the spot. I towered over him, an ugly apparition in baggy overalls, covered in slime-colored powder, with a distorted rubber face and frantic hair. The boy was speechless. A second later we both laughed as I pulled away the equipment and explained…

To that child, for just a blink, though, I was a snake-thing.

 

 

 

 

06/02/13: With Patience and Persistence... 

Argh!!! I’ve been snatching out maple seedlings, clumps of deeply buried baby alliums, and innumerable catmint infants, which have multiplied exponentially in my garden. They’re determined to live long and prosper- where they’re not wanted.
There’s simply no end to them.

The maple seedlings tout their brassy green leaves in the lawn; onions burrow deep within my shrubs. I must dig up the poor things up to pull out the offenders from below. Catmint peeks out from the most inaccessible nooks and crannies, ready to make a hundred more.

These plantlings are implacable. Rain delights them; they’ll sprout overnight. If it’s dry they’ll hunt for a drippy faucet. Their plan is simple: sip from drips and grow like crazy.

Perhaps the trio sense that poisons aren’t allowed here. Every plant in my good earth would be affected. So, the only thing left is to pounce-and-pull, pounce-and-pull, all day long. My hands and knees ache. My temper frays.

Here’s the thing; when I extract, I’d better get it all.  If I leave one bit of a stem, or miss a deeply buried onion bulb- and some are truly tiny- another villain will re-grow almost immediately. (Fortunately, the onions are dumb enough to form pure white roots, making them much easier to locate amid the dark roots of well-mannered plants.)
There are times when I want to scream. Yesterday I caught myself throwing my trowel in exasperation, flipped out over a weed, for heaven’s sake!

Then, I remembered Emma-dog. She exemplifies calm, patience, and quiet persistence.

Emma’s a rescued rottwiler/shepard mix who experienced world-class cruelty during her first 18 months on this earth. I’ve written about her frequently. My dear friends, Les and Sarah, and their large, loving family, have restored Emma’s faith in people.

Recently Les batted a tennis ball for her to pursue, from far out in the meadow, at their country home. (Emma is passionately fond of tennis balls. She usually has a frayed, exhausted one in her mouth. I love to watch her resting in her home, with a ball nestled between her paws. She’ll nudge the tattered orb with paw or nose as she lounges in her family’s living room. Her ears will perk as it rolls slightly, and I swear, if it should ever move without her touching it I’d be unsurprised, knowing the mobility had come from that intense mental focus…)

Anyway, Les whacked the ball with an old tennis racket; she eagerly raced after it, following its trajectory.

And then- it just disappeared.

Another thing about Emma. She will patiently hunt for a flung tennis ball until it’s found. No matter how long it takes. She did that now. Les knew where it had landed- in the crotch of a tree, about six feet above the ground. He remained well away from her to watch as Emma grid-searched every inch of the small area where she, too, knew it had to be. She could smell it. Still, there was no ball anywhere.
Puzzled, she finally sat, her head down, in concentrated thought.

Balls fly: balls always land on the ground.

I always find them.

I know it’s here.

But it’s not.

So... if it’s not on the ground, then…

She looked up, into a fully leafed tree. Scanned branches---THERE. Her ears perked; she grinned. After studying the situation for a minute she rose on her hind legs, and, balancing perfectly, walked along for a good length, front paws folded in, head up, eyeing it intently until she was directly under the spot. Still on her hind legs she reached up- up- strrretched one front leg and paw way up there---contact! She delicately maneuvered it out with a claw. It fell to earth with a satisfying plop. Dropping to all fours she scooped it up and trotted back to Les. The search, discovery, and her remarkable solution had taken fifteen minutes.

Patient, clever, even-tempered Emma never gives up.

There’s a lesson, here…

 

 

 

05/25/13: Whoo? How? 

As Joe and I packed our small carry-on bags in our hotel room in England in late April, I realized that my beloved owl necklace- the one piece of costume jewelry I’d brought with me- might get lost in the shuffle when security officials tore into our belongings. So I secured it safely inside a pair of thick socks. (Joe’s suitcase is always crammed with a bewilderment of cords, miscellaneous electrical gadgets, various connectors, tiny machines, miniature speakers, etc., which always gives airport security fits. They feel compelled to dismantle and search everything connected to us, every time. It’s an annoying, but inevitable part of flying.)

Later, back at Sunnybank, I wanted to wear my necklace, which isn’t valuable, just cherished.
It wasn’t anywhere.

My heart sank.

I hadn’t seen it since packing up in England. So, I methodically searched the dining room and library, where I’d unpacked two weeks before. I squeezed socks, and pawed through every bit of clothing. I examined the chair cushions. My pants pockets. The dining room sideboard. The windowsills. I even searched the lining of my small suitcase. Finally, days later, I’d given up. So had everyone else. We decided that when airport security had thoroughly searched our belongings, my owl necklace had somehow been lost.

I’d bought it in Peru decades ago, when I was a Youth For Understanding exchange student. This morning, as I sipped my coffee, I felt its absence once again.

Stop! This was stupid! I’d put the loss behind me, and moved on. What’s with the ‘retread’ mourning?

“OK, Mum,” I sighed, as I did the dishes; “where’s Owl?  You find it.”

Hold on! My mother’s been dead for twelve years. Yet- she’d popped into my mind just then. Mum had liked owls, but -most especially- she loved any fish on a necklace. Fish were her thing. There’s a big wood-carved trout attached to the fireplace mantel in Bryn Garth Cottage. (My sister loves chickens. I like spiders and owls. Odd passions like this run in the family.)

Anyway, right then I felt drawn to the dining room. “I’ve searched here ten dozen times,” I muttered. “Owl’s gone.”

Now here’s the exceedingly strange thing. I found myself standing by the room’s sideboard, where my mother’s inch-high owl figurine sat, next to our antique coffee urn. (I’d brought the tiny memento home years ago, as a keepsake.)

Lying between them, with its chain laid out nicely, was my much larger owl necklace.

To describe me as astounded is to understate. I was a fish, open-mouthed, pop-eyed, deeply shocked. Everyone had searched this room. I’d passed the sideboard a dozen times daily, since. Only the tiny owl, and the urn, were ever there. Yet, here was my owl necklace between them now, impossible to miss.

Richard Feynman, the world’s greatest particle physicist, used to muse about inexplicables. Bosons- unimaginably tiny particles- always behave differently when they are observed, which, when one considers the rules by which we comprehend our world, and the infinite sky, should be impossible. He’d ruminate about parallel universes- multiverses- and say, ruefully, that “physicists understand very little – almost nothing, really- about why, or how our Earth and the universe work as they do.”

I know, I’m wandering here. Forget particle physics. My Owl is home. An impossible reality.

And I’m a permanently puzzled, really happy woman.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

05/19/13: Bits and Pieces 

“We’ve kicked onion-butt today, Dee,” commented Christopher, my tired garden helper. Groaning, I stood up and stared at the umpteenth pile of dug-up ornamental onions we’d jammed into old buckets and wheelbarrows, or simply tossed onto the grass, to be raked away later. I swear the secret garden has breathed a sigh of relief. It’s lost weight quickly.

They’ll be back, though. Those beautiful wretches love my soil, and multiply faster than I can dig them up. It’s simply amazing how many onions have replicated, from the seven fat beauties I planted ten years ago. I’d researched them; there’d been no warnings. Now hundreds were everywhere. We’ve reeked of pungent onions for days. Christopher took some home to see if his hens might be interested; they clucked in disgust and ignored his offering. Chickens are smart.

When trying to haul out the darn things I’d keep bumping into ducks. Romeo and Juliet would paddle around in my four-foot wide pool, poop copiously into that ‘fowl’ water, then settle happily into newly seeded grass, exactly in my way. I’d move too close, dripping onions, and he’d quack a warning: I had to move to the side. It’s my garden, yet I had to accommodate them.

Vociferous complaints were ignored. They’d simply tuck their beaks under their wings and tune me out. (Personally, I think Romeo is past it. Juliet doesn’t seem fazed by the lack of ducklings. Or nest. In love, she just goes where he tells her to go, and that’s that.

Harriet Duck has hatched two ‘lings,’ and proudly shepherds them around the fairy garden, but she always stays well away from these two. Quackhead, her mate, is never around. (I’ve fleetingly wondered if Romeo has a bird on the side (Harriet). Maybe that other furtive duck-dude was Romeo. But wouldn’t Juliet know? Can ducks in love be oblivious to such important things? How faithful are mallards males, anyway?)

The secret garden is organized now, and tidy. Everything in here grows an inch or two a day. It’s hugely satisfying.

But my home is still awful. I’ve endured over five months of dirt and dust, plastic-sheeted carpets, and our un-dressered clothes and bedding spread all over the library rug, the only room not filthy. (Many of the ceilings and walls had to be repaired after an SUV rammed the house in December. The powerful impact brought down much of the ancient plaster. Various workmen have trundled through the house since then, hauling buckets of plaster, ladders, boards, nails, insulation batting, big machinery, etc., which hasn’t helped.)

Two days ago a top-to-bottom cleaning finally began. On Tuesday we hope to reassemble the beds in their proper rooms, then clean the fourth one (where they’d been piled up). I’ll put freshly laundered bedding on each, and then restock the dressers, which had been emptied so they’d be easier to shift.

Room by room, bit by bit, the new Sunnybank is emerging. Yesterday the upstairs bathroom was transformed!  It took my wonderful cleaner the best part of a day to resurrect it.

I took a shower. I can’t describe how fine that was.

Les and Sarah, knowing how things are right now, invited Joe and me for dinner; Emma-dog, their beautiful rottweiler/shepherd mix (rescued three years ago from an unspeakable early life), cried when she saw our car pull in. Holding her beloved tennis ball she rushed to greet us, giving low moans of delight. Always the soul of politeness, she pushed her nose gently into my palm and tried to lick me without dropping the ball. I never tire of watching Emma being joyful.

I offered a small milk bone; her eyes widened as she faced a dilemma- how to keep hold of the ball, yet collect the treat.

She thought.

Then she led me to some vinca vines growing up against the house’s foundation, gently dropped her ball between my shoes, accepted the milk bone, moaned a bit and mouthed it, then delicately pawed a slight hole in the earth, carefully placed the treat in the depression, nosed earth over it, pressed the mound flat with her paw, took up her ball and beseeched me to join her in toss n’ chase.  One joy at a time, old friend.  Emma has priorities, you see.

Who could resist? We played out there in the twilight for fifteen minutes, till she called a halt and sat in the cool grass, grinning. That was wonderful; thanks ever so!

I was released to join the dinner party inside. She unearthed the bone and happily scarfed it down

A few days later, at Sunnybank, the electrician discovered water in the basement. The source of it was eventually traced to a sprinkler whose buried hose line had been mysteriously severed. Twelve inches were missing. The break was repaired, but a half-day of interior work was lost. Then the attic insulation hit a huge snag. The porch stair steps, though built, haven’t been set in. ARGGGGGH…

I was about to fold into a bawling ball.

Joe, noting widening cracks in my emotional armor, snatched me up and whisked me downstate, then across Port Huron’s bridge and on to Stratford, Canada for 48 hours, to enjoy three plays. Les would run things at Sunnybank. (Stratford, by the way, is only 2.5 hours from the bridge.) I fell sideways onto my pillow on the back seat and slept deeply the whole way, mouth open, body rolled into a tight ball, fingernails still earth-blackened. The border guard, worried that I’d died back there, made Joe shake me briefly awake.

Friday night, after settling into our B and B, we drove into town. ‘Tommy,’ the original rock ‘n roll opera (which debuted in 1969), blew us out of our front row seats with that first chord! What fun! Sunnybank’s sex-mad onions, hose leaks, clueless ducks, insulation difficulties, etc., vanished in the musical blast.

‘The Three Musketeers’ and ‘Fiddler on the Roof’ will keep my exhausted mind off the house, and its seemingly endless challenges.

Big problems often grow smaller when we step away for a bit, eh?

 

 

 

05/12/13: A Purple Astonishment 

Joe and I spent a month this past April living light- one small carryon bag each- and poking around three fascinating cities in the British Isles. York, in the north of England, offered some really intriguing experiences.

On a cold, sunny morning we happily ambled up and down narrow, winding, ancient streets with wonderful names: Nunnery Lane, Micklegate, Low Petergate, Pavement, The Shambles, and suchlike. We exclaimed over the ancient cobblestone paving, medieval buildings and intriguing little shops, and noted quite a few -mostly British- tourists, even this early in the season. (What would York be like in summer? Crammed beyond capacity, I think. Unlike some towns in Britain, this one is thriving.)

Then we came upon a fascinating, unique street performer.

Before I go on, though, indulge me a minute.

Imagine a large vat that a full-grown man could stand upright in. Picture a sturdy winch suspended above it, with a rope dangling off its tip. Finally, imagine a sixty-something man, dressed in normal British cycle-to-the-village-grocery clothing, carefully winching himself into the vat.

Here’s the thing: it’s filled with luscious purple paint, certainly made from a concoction that’s friendly to humans. The color’s one I could wear happily. Some of my ornamental onions are exactly that shade.

Anyway, imagine this fellow carefully lowering himself into it while holding his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. 

He submerges. After a tiny pause he winches himself out. The result: From his shoe soles to the top of his capped head, our Brit is a deep purple.

One more detail. Monochrome Man secures the rope- a vivid purple now, of course- to the front tire of his beautifully appointed bike. He lowers it into the vat. There’s a fractional pause. He winches it out, then arranges them both, rather like sozzled cormorants after a dive, to dry out in the weak April sun.

Doesn’t this sound likely?

Here’s the part I haven’t quite worked out.
Somehow- Ping! – man and machine were simply there, smack in the middle of Swinegate Street. How had it been managed? One minute chatting tourists filled the street, with bagged purchases banging their legs, while their children skipped ahead, and then, when I looked again a few minutes later, there he was, collecting a small crowd as he perched on his bicycle, which sat on a purple stand. His face was devoid of expression, and he didn’t speak.

It’s really hard to be expressionless. Try it. Ask someone to chat you up. You might furrow your brow, or wiggle your eyebrows; your mouth could twitch. Your Adam’s apple might bounce a bit.

Not a muscle moved here, save the eyes in his head.

I dunno… Brits aren’t exactly famous for their cuisine, but they can effortlessly command attention in other incredibly creative, fascinating ways, if it suits them…

Moving very slowly, he shifted his purple cap. I peered. Yup. Purple hair under there.

And even hairy purple ears.

How would his wife react when he pedaled home for tea?

When he felt like it, he’d assume the cycling pose, with purple coattails and neck scarf obligingly frozen into flying position. Strollers would notice this peculiar statue in the middle of the street, and exclaim, not realizing at first that he was the real deal. They’d take photos, but not touch.

(The British are more reserved, that way. Not like some Europeans, for instance, who love to grab and cheek-kiss, twice.)

Choosing the moment, that living statue would ‘come alive,’ languidly shift position, or actually dismount and look thoughtfully busy as he fiddled with his steel steed. His reward was quite satisfactory. Exclamations. Cheers. Giggles. Especially from astounded small children.

Oh- and you could toss a penny, or a pound, into a purple pot…or not…

Another thing: ‘The Shambles,’ which we discovered next just one street over, is a beautifully preserved, incredibly appealing, narrow, winding medieval street straight out of Harry Potter’s world, with tiny shops featuring jewelry, sweets, restaurants, a bookshop, and other delights. It leans, but then, the street is 600 years old. No wonder Google awarded it ‘Most Picturesque Street in Britain’ in 2010!

Delight yourself: type in ‘The Shambles-York’ on Google.

That’s not a painting. That’s the street at Christmas. Move down it virtually, and peek into runny glass windows.

Stuff like this enchants me.

Finally, every morning we’d stare in delighted disbelief at a huge, ornate sign that covers an entire side of a big brick building just across the street. It read:

 

Nightly BILE BEANS keep you

HEALTHY, BRIGHT-EYED & SLIM

Brits! I love ‘em!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

05/06/13: Up, Up, But Not Quite Blown Away 

Huff, puff, dash up; move carefully down. Over and over I’ve climbed three flights of stairs, from the attic to the basement and up again, here at Sunnybank.

I’m clearing out lots more ‘stuff.’

Question: What would my children do with it?

Answer: Sell it. Give it away.

So I will.

Rule: if it hasn’t been touched in two years, it’s outta here.

Plus, we’re going to insulate our wonderful old attic, at last. A less cluttered area is much easier to work in. As the rest of the house is appallingly dirty anyway, from repairs made after an SUV rammed it in December, Joe and I decided to go for it, then have everything cleaned.

Stairs provide a great way to keep fit. Plus, I can practice my balance- and my common sense. In other words, I don’t haul down too much at one time. (Did that once, arms full, misjudged the steps, nearly fell head over teakettle.) That near-disaster did the trick. Now I simply make lots more trips, but I always slow down, going down.

My stair-trek reminds me of our April climbing adventure at York’s York Minster Cathedral, in the north of England.

After breakfasting at our hotel we walked three blocks to reach it. There we'd devote a full morning to look closely at all the lovingly carved statues and gothic decorations on the exterior and interior of this exquisite cathedral. I sat on the grass and used my monocular to more closely examine delicate architectural details fashioned by barefoot illiterate geniuses 800 years ago.  Viewing such an achievement always leaves me mute, and frequently moved to tears. The whole gigantic, hand-made thing is impossible. Yet, here it stands, rock-solid, the heart of the city.

As we passed through the enormous doors into the cathedral I noticed a line of life-sized statues of the twelve apostles nearby, standing in head-high niches that had been carved out for them. Every head was gone.

I paid for our ‘Trek to the Top’ tickets, and while the lady made change I gestured toward the headless saints. “Was religious civil war responsible for the loss of those statues’ heads?”  I’d read that cannon balls had often sailed through the stained glass windows during services in the early 16th century.

She peered at their lovely remains, then shrugged dismissively. “ Oh, this place isn’t all that special. Those heads just fell off years ago, I’m sure. They were probably top-heavy and poorly made.” A sigh… “I can’t imagine what all the fuss is about...” She gestured toward the people in line who were marveling at the wonderful ceiling of the jewel that is York Minster.

She wasn’t joking. We found ourselves speechless.

She briskly dismissed us with a small wave. “Next, please!”

Quietly we sat down nearby to look about, and wait. In twenty minutes, at 9:30, a group of us would climb to the top of this building.  I leaned back in the pew to look way up, and then far away toward the high altar, brushing away tears of awe. York Minster Cathedral, for me, defines gothic architectural perfection.

Our guide, a pleasant young woman, ushered a group of seven young Chinese visitors, and Joe and me, to an ancient little door. She unlocked it, took our tickets, and stepped aside after wishing us a good journey. I entered first and began the climb cheerfully enough, noting the steep, deeply worn stone steps, the very narrow, circular stone stairwell, perhaps elbow-wide, and a skinny iron railing (added 800 years later). Round and round. Up and tightly up. Twenty steps, fifty, eighty, 100… My smile drooped. I began to pant. Oh God, theremustbeaplacetorest…  No.  On and on, higher and higher, round and round…I clutched the railing and planted one foot in front of the other. Feeble light from an occasional slit window showed the way. 125, 140, 155…

Here’s the thing. Those twenty-something folks behind us were laughing and joking. Grrrr. First in line, I absolutely wouldn’t be a drag; I was determined to do this.

Gritting my teeth, I climbed on. 176, 190…Suddenly, a little arched exit appeared. Gratefully, Joe and I moved outside onto a narrow stone walkway along a thin roof edge. We needed to cross it to carry on. The view from here was wonderful, but we couldn’t linger too long, as the others were right on our heels.

I moved into the relative darkness and we continued to climb, round and round, higher and higher. I felt the cold stone, wondering, as I puffed along, what would happen if someone experienced a medical emergency in here.

Easy answer: nothing would happen. Not for a long time. A doctor, assuming he was fit enough to climb, would have little room to examine the patient. There’s no room for a gurney. If the patient died, the body would have to be eased down to the cathedral’s nave, one spiral stone step at a time. It’s a very small space.

200, 236, 253- I climbed, climbed, prodded upward by distant, youthful laughter- and my own stubbornness.  260…Gasping, I clutched the little iron rail- a lifeline- and pulled my exhausted body upward, ever upward; 270, 275…

Suddenly, bright light! Vast space. Sky. Flatness.

Hooray!

I had reached the pinnacle, and was still on my pins! Joe emerged, blinking. Then the rest staggered out, breathless, I noted with secret glee. There were general groans of relief; my calves threatened cramps. Walk, old girl. Walk them out.  I stood up straight and looked around as I paced.  York, and the vast, hilly Yorkshire countryside stretched to the horizon. This view, not only of the land, but also of the cathedral beneath us, from so high, was truly magnificent. Jaw-dropping. Certainly worth the climb.

We were inside an enormous, solid, permanent cage, or totally enclosed thickly meshed fence, ending two to three feet above the parapet, that covered all four sides of this highest tower. No suicides would ever be possible up here. No hats and scarves would blow off and away.

For at least 30 minutes we walked the edges, took photos, pointed, admired. The guard, ensconced in his postage-stamp booth, kindly pointed out the Dales. I noticed he had a phone, should he need to ring emergency services. But, he confirmed, it would be a long, slow business to manipulate a sick or dead person down to the ground.

Eventually we found ourselves shivering in the stiff breeze. It was time to leave.

I gulped, entered the relative darkness, and we began the descent. Down, down, round and round, our legs challenged in a different way. We managed all those stairs once again, and finally staggered through the tiny door onto the cathedral’s ground floor.

We’d managed 550 stairsteps, in total.

Imagine that!

Something cold would taste simply wonderful. There was a guy just outside the cathedral manning a booth full of sweets, who sold us Cornish ice cream cones- the perfect treat to mark the occasion. We had just experienced something rare and special that I’d waited half a lifetime to see.

For the next few hours we’d wander through this thriving town to admire the ancient closes (alleys) and half-timbered shops, and hunt for The Shambles, an intact mediaeval street. No maps allowed! Wheee!

Life was deliciously fun on this practically perfect day.