Life-place

I guess that's another word for home.  This morning, a rainy one, I began reading my daughter Jenna's masters thesis for her degree in environmental studies.  In it, she uses five Hermann Hesse novels to explore the ways in which home (or our sense of it) contributes to the way we think and act and relate to both people and our environment.  I love the idea, and one chapter in, I am captivated.

By learning the intricacies and messages of the natural places that surround us, we learn how we fit into the landscape, ecology, and culture of a place.  We learn where our home is and we learn how to find that home again after a departure.  We learn to reinhabit a life-place.

Reading this thesis on a rainy day presented a problem.  I wanted to get outside and revisit the places that resonate within me, the places that held meaning when I was young and might impart some wisdom to me now.  I still live within a mile or two of the place where I grew up, and it seems that makes me a rarity.  Although I know some folks around here who are "natives" as well, most of my friends now are people who moved here from other places.  And so the premise behind Jenna's study takes on a different perspective.  Where is home?  Where is your life-place?  Can you revisit it?  Can you reinhabit it?  Is preserving it in memory enough?

I always believed that I was fortunate to grow up in a small town.  I am not a city person, and I do not think I could ever be happy living in an urban environment.  That's just me.  I know many people who would say the opposite.  But that begs the question:  are we born into the right place?  Or do we have to find it?

I know that my life-place is here.  As much as I enjoy traveling (and I probably do it more than most), I am always grateful to return home.  Of course, my actual house is part of that comfort, but it is also in the winding roads and the farmlands along the side of them. It is in the rivers and streams and ridges and glens and waterfalls of my county.  It is in the cornfields across the street and the woods behind my house.  This is my life-place.  And I am in love with it all over again.

Memory Lane

I had lunch today with a friend I met almost fifty years ago.  (Just typing that truth freaks me out a little.  How did this happen?)  We talked a lot about retirement, foreign places, road trips, art classes, and mutual friends.  And then we went to that place where all old friends eventually go . . . our memories.  Or maybe our perceptions of memory.  The further removed we become from our past, the more difficult it is to call it up with any certainty.  Did we ever have a class together?  We're not sure.  Did we each know that the other was smart?  Not really.  What was the name of that guy you went out with?  Hmm . . .

But there are some things we remember with certitude, as unbelievable as they may seem now.  A year behind me in high school, her class was the first one in our school in which girls were allowed to wear pants in their senior year.  That's right.  As a member of the Class of 68, I had to wear a skirt or a dress to school every single day of my time in public education.  It was the rule.  Not only that, but I was subject to the humiliation of having to kneel down on the tile floor to make sure the hem of my skirt was below the knee.  In other words, if the hem of the skirt touched the floor, I passed muster.  An equivalent "test" for boys was to do a deep-knee bend with hands in pockets.  If the rear seam of the pants split while doing so, the pants were too tight.  And the "correction" for that rule-breaking was to be sent home to change pants . . . which one had to do anyway as the pants were split wide open in the seat.

Still on clothes, we recalled wearing nylons and garter belts.  Crazy little contraptions, but they were part of our "uniform."  We thought how much simpler our lives would have been if we could have just put on a pair of pants to go to school.  Like the boys did.

We both wondered if we might have participated in a sport in high school . . . if there were any.  Years before Title 9, giving girls equality in sports offerings, we had a couple of alternative choices:  cheerleading or twirling.  Actually, I recalled being on both the girls' field hockey team AND the girls' soccer team my senior year.  How could I be in two fall sports at the same time?  Because each had only two games!  We were also banned from taking certain classes, causing us to wonder if our career paths might have been different if we had had access to more options.  I wanted to take Mechanical Drawing my senior year but was told pointblank: Girls can't take that.  And I said, "Oh."  It was 1967.  Career choices for girls consisted of teacher, nurse, secretary, or hairdresser.  That was about it.  And we said, "Oh."

So why am I in love with this trip down Memory Lane?  Because we remembered that we felt safe.  We felt free.  We didn't worry about terrorists or computers crashing or dropping our cellphones in the water or debit card debt or having our identities stolen.  We didn't have to keep up with technology; there really wasn't much.  We didn't have to pay for our phones or cable TV or Internet access; we could spend our money on after-school Cokes and fries and the juke box.  Gas was 29 cents a gallon, so we could "tool the town" for hours and hours.  And being seen around town was our number one pastime.

Simple.  Life was simple.  And I love remembering it.

Myrtle

When I was a kid, there were certain names (always female) that seemed less-than-appealing to us.  They were "old lady" names.  My mother had one of them:  Ethel. Seriously, does anyone name their kid Ethel these days?  Other names on the Undesirable List:  Gertrude, Beulah, Myrtle. 

And I am here today to tell you that I am in love with Myrtle.  I'm really talking about Creeping Myrtle or, more familiarly, Vinca Minor.  Gardeners will know it as a perennial groundcover with purple flowers.  Several years ago, my friend Jim helped me plant Myrtle in some difficult areas, places where landscaping demands were complicated.  And for the first couple of years, I questioned our choice of groundcover.  Growth was sparse at best, although the purple flowers were lovely.

It is now a decade later, and Myrtle has reigned supreme.  She is among the first blossoms of spring, and her purple and green growth is luxurious.  But . . . . she creeps.

Yes.  I had a four foot swath of pathway between the Black-eyed Susans and the Myrtle, and little by little, Myrtle was closing that gap.  By the time I got out there this week, Myrtle had creeped in enough to leave a two foot path.  And it all happened without me paying any attention at all.  Broke my heart to rip out the rootings that Myrtle had planted along the stone path, but when I did, and the path was reclaimed, I felt like I'd just cleaned house.  The path became new and clean and beautiful.  Which is not to say that Myrtle isn't beautiful!  She is!  But her beauty must be tamed!

And there it is.  For something to be beautiful, sometimes it must be tamed.  I love the wilderness as much as anyone, but we view the wilderness more clearly when it is tamed, don't we?  I am thinking of the redwood groves in northern California.  Untamed, we would not be able to meander through that beauty.  But, when tamed, golden pathways lead us through the splendor and we are changed.  I know this to be true.

And so I tame my Myrtle.  She recedes under my command, and I am able to walk through what might have been a wilderness with ease.  But her beauty is still there, asking to be loved.   And I love her wildly and without restraint.

 

Patience

I am going to fall in love with patience in the hope that I will acquire some.  I feel like so much right now is demanding patience, and I am afraid I am falling short on delivering it.  Waiting for warmth, waiting for an email, waiting for seeds to sprout, waiting for the sun.  (Cue: The Doors)  I am well aware of the adage Patience is a virtue.  Indeed.  I do not think I have ever been a virtuous woman.

I know I am not alone in thinking that my patience is wearing thin.  This winter has taken a toll on all of us.  I was grousing to my friend Jeff on the phone today, revealing that I had a hard time keeping the depression gods at bay this winter.  He immediately assured me that I was not the only one.  And so I am wondering if those who live further south of here have more patience?  Could it be?  And then, what does that say about geographical choices?  Would I have a better shot at happiness if I relocated further south?  It is something worth considering.

Or not.  Patience is a virtue.  Cultivating virtues is a good thing, right?  Well, if that is the case, goodness is in my DNA!  So I win, right?  Except it doesn't feel that way.  I am angry and ornery and resentful in my impatience.

And then I go out to the greenhouse to check on my seeds and lo and behold, kale and eggplant and chard are emerging.  In the beds already, carrots and beets and snowpeas sprouting up one by one.  And best of all, asparagus!  They poke their little penis heads up in glory!  I am reminded of the number one rule of gardening:  patience.  All good things in due time.  I am humbled by what Nature can teach us . . . if only we will listen.

And then I call up a memory of the past week.  The ocean.  Ever patient.  The tide comes in, the tide goes out.  Patience is part of the rhythm.  I am soothed by the rolling tide and its never-ending patience.  I will try to steal this rhythm and incorporate it into my own life.  Starting now.

iPod

I have tried very hard NOT to fall in love with material things in this blog.  And other than Paint and Vinegar, I've managed to avoid it.  I mean, I don't ever want to post that I am in love with a Coach purse or a Jaguar (which, by the way, will never be possessions of mine . . . not that I wouldn't like a Jaguar, you know . . . ), but I suspect it might become harder and harder to avoid this as the year goes on.

I am allowing myself to post about a material thing, my iPod, today, but it isn't the thing itself with which I am in love.  It is the thing that it contains, which isn't really material at all.  Obviously, I am in love with the music that my iPod holds, but I cannot dismiss this little marvel of an invention that allows me to select my own music and take it with me wherever I go.

I have a couple of iPods (mostly my kids' rejects) but I prefer the Classic iPod.  Although I have not updated my iTunes library in awhile, I have 2042 songs on my iPod, but here's what I think makes my iPod different from yours, maybe.  Every single song on my iPod was hand-picked by me.  In other words, I do not put an entire CD on my iPod; I select the songs from that CD that I really like and I let the others go.  Doing this is a labor of love.  I will purchase certain songs from iTunes, but not entire "albums."  Why is this important?  When I am listening to my iPod, I like every song that comes on shuffle and I don't have to skip or fast-forward through the ones that don't knock my socks off.

While I am a public radio fan Monday through Friday, their weekend line-ups often leave me unsatisfied.  My iPod to the rescue.  Today is such a day.  It's rainy outside on this Saturday, I am wasting time on the Internet, and my iPod is reminding me how much I love music.  My music.

On the flight home last night, I closed my eyes to reflect on the days spent on the beach, earbuds in place, soothed by the music I love.  I did not hear that child crying a few rows back, nor was I annoyed by the too-loud conversation of the people across the aisle.  If and when the FAA allows cell-phone use on flights, I know that I will have the means to shut out those conversations and thereby avoid being arrested for accosting a fellow passenger.  What's not to love about that?

One Quarter

This is my 91st post, which means that I am one-fourth of the way to completing my challenge of falling in love every day for a year.  Are you amazed?  I sure am.  This tiny marker provides some further inspiration and incentive to keep going, while at the same time, it frightens me with the daunting task ahead.  I'm ONLY one quarter of the way?  You mean I have to find 274 more things with which to fall in love before I complete my goal?

And now it is obvious to me what is wrong with that last sentence.  Do you see it?  Have to find?  Like it's a job, a chore, a requirement, an obligation, an albatross around my neck?  No, no no!  That is not what this is about!  Falling in love, appreciating the world around me, contemplating the value in all that I encounter here . . . these are not chores; these are privileges.

Being a sucker for markers of time, I feel compelled to assess what this experiment has offered me so far.  (First, though, I must reference a favorite quote by the character Miles Dentrell of Thirtysomething:  "The decimalization of time is so arbitrary."  I agree.  But nonetheless . . . )

There have been days when this challenge has been easy.  Something strikes me early in the day and I make a mental note, "Yes!  I can write about this today!"  And throughout the day, my ideas about it are percolating, just waiting for their time at the keyboard.  Other days, there's a sense of dread hanging over me:  "Crap!  What am I going to fall in love with today?"  I sometimes feel like I am reaching and falling short on those days.  You can probably tell which posts fall into that category.

But the best days are the days when I sit down at the blank page on the computer screen with no idea what the subject will be and just start typing.  I begin the text without even a title.  And because I believe in the magic of the written word, whatever is in my subconscious traverses the veins in my arms and escapes through my fingers, onto the keyboard and up on the screen.  Love.

And those would be the days when I most feel what this blog is teaching me.  There is love all around, and sometimes, instead of searching for it, it finds you.

A few days ago, I came upon some dead flowers on the beach.  I have no friggin' idea what the meaning of that discovery is, but I'd like to put a picture on this post, so here they are:

Cousins

We claim kin says my cousin Mary to my girlfriends.  And within minutes, it feels like we've all known each other forever.

Although Mary and I knew one another marginally growing up in the same county in New Jersey, a couple of years' difference in age and a less-than-close relationship between our parents meant that cousin was an endearment that lived in heart more than practice.  But happenstance brought us together fifty-plus years later when my daughter began grad school in Mary's southern town.  And now, less than two years later, we never miss an opportunity to get together when I visit.

Tonight was one of those occasions.  Mary and two of her daughters and I and my two girlfriends dined and talked and laughed for a couple of hours at an outdoor table in lovely Mizner Park.  By the time the sun set, we were full . . . of food and stories and contentment.  We were all kin.

Mary suggested that perhaps her mother (my Aunt Georgie) and my father (her Uncle Val), sister and brother, had arranged this happenstance of geography from afar.  I'm willing to buy that.  My father, an often cold and angry man (from my viewpoint anyway), missed the opportunity to let his children form close bonds with their cousins.  Perhaps he is now righting that wrong?  One of my favorite pleasures from this new connection with my cousin is listening to the stories her mother would tell her about her little brother.  I think I have learned more about my father, the boy, than I ever learned from him.  He just didn't tell me any stories.

We have much to look forward to.  Not all of our combined seven adult children have met one another yet.  But they will.  We will see to it.

I know you are reading this, Mary.  Thank you for so graciously allowing my children and me into your life.  I am in love with my cousins . . . for real this time.

Ocean

Today was a beach day.  A perfect beach day.  I am talking 85 degrees, full sunshine, a slight breeze.  Our chosen beach was expansive enough to not seem crowded despite the perfection of the day.  We arrived shortly after noon and immediately slathered sunscreen on our northern skin.  (Well, first, we cracked open our beers, of course.)  And then we stared at the blue-green liquid in front of us.  For several hours.  By the time we packed up to leave, we were serene and recharged, both at the same time.  The glow has yet to wear off, and it's now four hours later.  Am I in love with the ocean? Ya think?

So I'm thinking of people who have never seen the ocean.  Truth be told, despite having grown up in New Jersey, I never saw the ocean until I was twenty.  My parents just weren't beach people, I guess.  I would listen to stories told by friends who spent a week in Wildwood or Point Pleasant or Asbury Park, and I would have to imagine what all of it looked like.  My imagination could not prepare me for what I finally got to see when I visited Ocean City with college friends so many years later.  I have probably not missed seeing the ocean at least once a year since then.

But what about those who have never seen it, Atlantic or Pacific?  What do their imaginations tell them?  There's a short novel that I love, Ellen Foster, by Kaye Gibbons.  At one point, Ellen, who is being cared for by her wicked grandmother, ponders whether her grandmother has ever stood before the ocean.  If she had, Ellen reasons, she would understand her place in the world and she would not be so mean.  I think Ellen nailed it.  It's not too much different from staring at a starry sky on a clear night.  One considers one's place in the Universe.  I suppose the difference is that the ocean is here on earth and real, while that starry canopy is so far away, it becomes dreamlike.  Standing in front of the ocean does not allow one to dismiss its power, its beauty, or its immediacy.

So what does that mean for those who have never seen it?

I stood in front of the ocean today and I considered my place in the Universe.  At this point in my life, I am somewhat at peace with my choices, my joys and my sorrows.  I tossed my gratitude out to the sea, thanking her for the perspective.  And then I assured her I would be back, because the lessons of the sea must be repeated as often as possible.

Hopefully, tomorrow.

Trees

Well, who isn't in love with trees, right?  This may not be the most original post, but out of 365 potential posts, I think Trees deserves a day.

And why didn't I choose a specific tree?  Why isn't this post titled Pine Trees or Maples or Sycamores?  Well, because if I was going to title the post according to which tree I fell in love with, I would have to title it Fake Tree.  And then neither one of you would read it.

My girlfriends and I did the Goodwill circuit today, looking for treasures to contribute to the shabby chic decor in this place.  For $30, we acquired a tree.  Ficus, maybe?  (Remember, shabby chic.)  The problem was that the height of the tree prevented it from being transported in the trunk of the rental car, so it rode home with its top branches hanging out of the back window and me scrunched up by its base in the back seat.  There is still a whooshing ringing in my ears from that ride.  But we made it back safely with no traffic violations.

Now, the tree was a little dusty when I bought it, and the thought of wiping down each individual leaf with a sponge was a daunting idea.  As we pulled into our parking lot, Kathy noticed that there is an area dedicated to washing a car and she pointed that out.  And then, in a nano-second, her lightbulb went on, and next thing I knew, we were hosing off the tree.  Don't worry; we took it out of the car first.  Dripping wet (both us and the tree), we hoisted our tree into the elevator and then into the condo, where our new resident dried off on the balcony.

And the tree looks great here!  Fills up an empty space that I hadn't known what to do with.  It has occurred to me that I should name the tree, especially since I am not even sure what kind of fake tree it is.  I think I will name it in honor of Kathy, who follows a certain law wherever she goes.  Murphy. The tree's name is now Murphy.

Down the road, I think I will have to devote more posts to Trees, because obviously, there is so much more to say.  About real trees, I mean.  For now, I am in love with Murphy, and I think he is loving me back for giving him a home.

Girlfriends

These girlfriends really need a vacation.  They are teachers, and the stress they are under these days with all the bureaucratic bullpuckey is taking a toll on them.  I have listened to their nightmare stories all day now, but starting tomorrow, I am pulling the plug.  I am not going to allow them to think, talk, or cry about it anymore.  Because they are here with me now in warm and sunny Florida, and the beach is on our agenda tomorrow.  It is called vacation for a reason.

I never sleep well the night before a flight, and apparently, neither do my girlfriends.  So we arrived here mid-afternoon, ready for a nap.  But our smarter selves told us that we need to procure the groceries and beverages, so we headed to Publix.  At the checkout, Kathy attempted to pick up the 12-pack of Sam Adams Summer Ale to place it on the belt, but it got away from her, smashing and spilling on the supermarket floor.  The good news is that we'd put a warm 12-pack in our cart, but the replacement 12-pack, brought to us by a friendly Publix employee, was icy-cold.  Win!  Another win is the fact that we will still be telling this story years from now and laughing our asses off over it.

Our gabfest on the balcony tonight was candlelit, wine-infused, and therapeutic.  And this is only Day #1.  I can see them relaxing already.  And I can feel myself snuggling back into the place where I am loved unconditionally by friends who know me well, to whom I can tell all my secrets, and who reaffirm that I am "classy," despite the fact that I wore socks and Birkenstocks with Capri pants on the plane.  These are my people, my girlfriends.  I am overjoyed to be here with them

And I am telling them, here in this blog, that I am in love with them.

Eggs

Yes.  The incredible, edible egg.  Which took a huge hit when, as a culture, we first started freaking out about cholesterol.  But, as Rosanne Rosannadanna would say, "Never mind."  Eggs are okay.

Unless you're a vegan.  I'm not.  I've already given up meat, poultry, and milk (but not half 'n half in my morning coffee).  I could probably give up eggs, but cheese?  I don't think so.

So I eat eggs maybe once every two weeks.  And they never fail to satisfy.  Hold the bacon.

Today is Easter Sunday, a holiday that, unlike many others, does not really depress me.  I do not consider myself a Christian (although I think Jesus was probably a very cool dude), so the religious aspect of Easter is not something I feel compelled to acknowledge.  And as my kids are grown and gone, bunnies and colored eggs are no longer something to celebrate.  I have lots of really nice memories and photos of days when all of that mattered, but for now, a Sunday in April is a day in the garden, and that's good enough for me.  I do not miss the holy ham of Easter dinner.  (Hi, Jeannine!)

So why did I decide to fall in love with eggs today?  Well, for obvious reasons, I guess.  It is, after all, Easter.  I suppose more eggs are sold the week before Easter than any other time of the year.  But throughout the ages, the egg has symbolized new beginnings, the spark of creation.  And that is in tune with my gardening.  Seeds, eggs . . .  same thing, in some ways.  Rebirth.

When I was a teenager, I became enthralled with the Beat Poets, but mostly with Lawrence Ferlinghetti.  His poem, I Am Waiting, pleads for a re-imagining of the world:

I am perpetually awaiting

a rebirth of wonder 

And I am awaiting that, too.  Actually, I think that is what this blog is all about.  To fall in love with wonder.  Finding things in the everyday to notice and admire anew.  And today, it's eggs.  I am going to go scramble some now, with mushrooms and tomatoes and red onions and garden basil and, of course, cheese.  And I will be in love with my dinner.

Seeds

There they are.  Three hundred and sixty of them.  Seeds.  The eager ones that you can see are broccoli, cucumbers and cabbage.  You can't see them, but some tomatoes have sprouted, too.  And the rest need a little time, along with sun, water, heating pads, and a greenhouse.  In the picture, they are enjoying the April sun, but at night, they get tucked into their covered beds in the greenhouse, electric blankets beneath them.  Best part of my day is when I go out in the morning to unplug the heating pads and see who has decided to sprout!

So what's in there?  Ready?  Broccoli, cabbage, Swiss chard, cucumbers, eggplant, kale, several kinds of peppers, butternut squash, crookneck squash, zucchini, yellow squash, about six different kinds of tomatoes, basil, parsley, rosemary, scallions, sunflowers.  Already in the ground?  Snow peas, snap peas, carrots, beets, red onions, yellow onions, red potatoes, white potatoes, blue potatoes.  Returning perennials?  Asparagus, blueberries, strawberries, thyme, mint, oregano.  Annuals that aren't supposed to return, but do?  Sage and parsley.  Waiting to direct sow at the end of the month?  Arugula, spinach, several lettuces, cilantro.  And later, after the last frost?  Pole beans and nasturtium. 

And that's my garden.  Oh, and shallots.  I guess I have to buy them, as I could not find any seeds or sets.

Seeds.  They are little miracles.  Seriously.  So tiny, I can barely see them, but they will grow into the food I will live on all summer and into the fall and winter.  The reality of this stops me dead in my tracks and can bring me to my knees.  How is it even possible that something the size of a flea can end up producing an abundance of food?

And it begs the question:  why are we not teaching kids in school how to garden?  I mean, if a child is fortunate enough to have parents who garden (I wasn't), there is a good chance he/she will continue the tradition.  But all those kids who have no idea where their food comes from?  Can't we find room in the over-tested curriculum to introduce them to this life-sustaining skill?

I am, by my own admission, a half-assed gardener.  Pete was my gardener.  When he died, I had a choice:  I could let the garden beds go to seed, or I could figure out how to garden.  I chose the latter.  And I have been in love with gardening ever since.  Today, I fell in love with seeds all over again.

Goodness

Gracious.  Great Balls of Fire.  Following on the heels of yesterday's post, today is Good Friday.  So of course, I looked it up.  It appears that the biblical "good" is just another word for "holy."  Not wanting to repeat my thoughts from yesterday, I thought I would focus on general goodness in this post.

As a child, I was known as a "good girl."  I went to church, confessed my sins, got good grades, obeyed my parents, said my nighttime prayers, pledged my loyalty to the flag and the Girl Scouts, and invited every girl in my class to my birthday party.  I wore goodness on my sleeve no matter how difficult, boring or restrictive it was.

And then I turned 13.  It was all downhill from there.

But the truth is, I don't really believe that I am a good person, at least not in the way I would like to be.  I am quick to anger (ask my kids), resentful, accusatory, selfish, and sneaky.  In other words, I am human.  When I think of goodness, I think of other people whom I perceive as good.  For instance, my friend Allyn, who brings me flowers when she visits.  I doubt if she realizes the impact that has on me.  No one brings me flowers . . . except Allyn.  It's a simple gesture, born of goodness, but it makes me feel . . . well, good!  My friend Margaret has so much goodness that she spreads around, whether it's her gifts of baked goods, her devotion to everyone in her large family, her volunteer work for Habitat for Humanity, or her church-based charity.  If anyone I know is going to heaven, it's Margaret.  And then there are my friends Jim and Lois, who have done more for me since Pete died than anyone else, from remodeling my bathroom and kitchen to building the raised beds in my garden to helping me erect my greenhouse to building a pergola to creating a tavern in my basement . . . and the list goes on and on.  All of this from the goodness of their hearts.  And I have to add my friend Kathy to this list.  She is the one who knows me better than anyone, who has laughed and cried with me so many times (and who is likely to blame for most of my hangovers).  Kathy is generous and kind and forgiving and trustworthy.  She is goodness personified.

Of course, there are many more people in my life who would have to be listed under the title "Good People I Know."  I am blessed with many good people on my journey here.  So much so that I am always shocked when I discover, once again, that there are also evil people in the world.  The concept is so simple:  if you do good, you feel good.  What do you feel when you do evil?  I know, I know . . . doing evil makes some people feel good.  I just don't get it.  And I never will.

Today is Good Friday.  And I am in love with the good people of my world and of the world at large.

Holy

I know that today is "Holy Thursday."  I grew up Catholic.  I left the Church years ago, but I still remember a lot of the rituals and beliefs.  As this particular Thursday was just like any other Thursday to me, I began to contemplate the word "holy."  So, of course, I had to look it up, to see if there was a definition devoid of religious dogma.  The second definition at dictionary.com was this:  "endowed or invested with extreme purity or sublimity."  Okay, I can buy that.  So the bigger question is:  What is holy?

My first thought is of an afternoon in July 2001 when my family and I rode mules down into Bryce Canyon in Utah.  Although it is hard to articulate, I have always felt that that day was the most perfect day that I have ever lived inside of.  The sky was perfect, the air was purer than any air I have ever breathed, and the stillness and peace inside the canyon was emotive and memorable.  The experience was holy. There is no other way to say it.

Another experience that comes to mind was a visit to the Redwoods in Northern California in 2008.  Along with two longtime girlfriends, I walked through the Jeremiah Stout grove as if I were walking in a dream.  I remember not wanting to leave.  I craved the peace of that grove, wanted it to be a part of my every waking day.  It was holy.

More recently, I have become aware of more subtle expressions of that which is holy.  A hummingbird contemplating the brightness of a flower, the tentative sproutings of seeds that I've planted in trays in my greenhouse, last year's bird nest evicted from an eave of my log home, the purr of my cat who seems to have recovered from a diabetes diagnosis, the anticipated arrival of asparagus spears from the ground, the brilliant alarm of birdsong at dawn.

All of it is holy.  And I have come to this conclusion:  do not ever let anyone else tell you what is holy.  Find it for yourself.  Your discovery makes it holy.  Find it.  And then fall in love with it.

Gingerville

Two things today . . . my sister's birthday and the news of the death of a girlfriend's mother . . . have taken my thoughts back to my childhood neighborhood.  As if my hometown weren't small enough, sections of it had their own designation.  My neighborhood, less than a dozen blocks, was known as "Gingerville."  Our own mythology informed us that Gingerville was once its own little town, but we might have made that up.  My friend Tom, who lived around the corner from me, tells a story about a man who had a horse named Ginger and that the name came from his horse.  Or maybe it came from the gingerbread on the old Victorian houses scattered around.  I suppose it doesn't really matter where the name came from; those of us who grew up there have a special place in our hearts for Gingerville. 

We were post-WWII kids, the first of the Baby Boomers.  And there were so many of us!  In my mind, I can go through the entire neighborhood and tell you, house by house, what kids lived there.  We played together all the time, holding circuses in our driveways, riding our two-wheelers in the evening as part of the Gingerville Bikeriders Club, playing Cucarachi (a made-up game that involved bikes and tag and flashlights and who-knows what else) as it got dark, playing baseball in our backyards and empty lots, and just generally being happy kids during a happy time in America.  Or so we thought.  We knew very little about the Korean War or McCarthyism or the Bay of Pigs.  I suspect most of us do remember the Cuban Missile Crisis, as it sparked an exciting new interest:  fallout shelters.  Those of us who had basements (known as "cellars") got a thrill from stocking them with canned soup and board games.  We failed to see the gravity inherent in a need for fallout shelters.  To us, they were akin to the forts we built on wooded lots or under porches.

I lived at 8 Maple Avenue.  Ford and Jane lived at 22 Maple Avenue, across the street from my cousins.  It was their mother who died yesterday, one of the last of the neighborhood moms from the Gingerville of my childhood.  Dottie was that happy mom, the one who never seemed to get flustered, who had a wry sense of humor, and who gave out the best candy on Halloween.  My memories of her are pure and visceral.  Dottie went out on her own terms.  At 89, she decided she'd had enough of dialysis and picked the date that she would stop.  And two weeks later, she was released.

I know of at least four Gingerville moms who are still alive, but I think all the dads are gone, by death or by Alzheimers.  A few of us kids are gone, too.  Although I live only a couple of miles away, I have not revisited the neighborhood.  No one I know lives there anymore.  But Gingerville still exists in memory, where it belongs.  Because it wasn't just a neighborhood; it was a moment in time.  It was the place where childhood dominated and the pain of the world was unknown to us.  And I will always be in love with that.

Taxes

Yes, it is April 15, and I am in love with paying my taxes.  You think I'm kidding, right?  While I moaned and groaned with the rest of them as I wrote out those big checks to the IRS and to the State of New Jersey, I decided to not fall prey to Tea Party mentality, but instead, take a close look at where my taxes have gone.  And while I would mix up the percentages a bit if I ran the country, I cannot complain about most of the things my money goes toward.

The percentage of my taxes that fund national security has actually gone down in the last year, from 25% to 19%.  Of course, that's still too high for my liking, but it's a step in the right direction, I hope.  I have always been angry/sad that I do not get to have a say on how much of my money goes to support war.  Being an old hippie peacenik, I would prefer that none of it did.  So I guess this is the only area where I DON'T love paying my taxes.

The "entitlements," as some prefer to call them, take up a large portion of my taxes, but I have no complaints about it.  Social Security gets 24%, while Medicare, Medicaid and the Children's Health Insurance Program share 22%.  Why certain politicians want to cut these programs is beyond me.  If we, as a society, can not make the health and safety of our citizens our number one priority, then what does that say about us?  When I was widowed at 52, Social Security helped me raise my children.  It was not a hand-out.  My husband and I had both worked hard all our lives and paid into the system; now was the time for that investment to help the little family he left behind.  I would not want to deny that assistance to anyone.

Taking only 12% of my taxes are the "Safety Net Programs," and these are the ones that certain people really want to rail against.  Food stamps, school lunches, low-income housing assistance, etc.  This is where I get really confused.  Many of the same people who scream about these programs call themselves "Christians."  But Jesus Christ would be all for this, wouldn't he?  On the other hand, the people who are upset about these "hand-outs" don't seem to mind at all that people like the Koch brothers are getting all the breaks while they are buying America.  And yet, they blame the poor for our economic condition.  I, for one, am happy that my tax dollars are helping those who risk falling through the cracks. 

Interest on the national debt takes 6% of my taxes.  Wish that was lower, but I don't think it foreshadows the end of the world as we know it.

So the above accounts for about 83% of my taxes.  The rest of it?  Oh, it's reserved for those minor things like veterans' benefits, transportation and infrastructure, education, science and medical research, non-security international stuff and some other little things.

Think about it.  If you were in charge, where would the money go?  Are you comfortable with only 2% of your tax dollars going toward science and medical research?  Education only gets 1% of your federal tax dollars?  Natural resources, energy and the environment get less than 2%?  Seems that priorities are a little messed up, doesn't it?

Or maybe you disagree with me.  That's your right.  And if we get involved in the Ukraine militarily, you will be okay with the National Defense Budget taking dollars away from veterans, right?

Meanwhile, I have paid my taxes in full.  And I am in love with MOST of the things they are paying for.  Why on earth would I not be?

College Kids

In another month, I will be attending my son's college graduation.  Sam is the youngest of my three, and his graduation will mark the end of my visits to these colleges that have turned my children into adults.  I am in Burlington now, having driven up here to both visit Sam one last time and then to take home as much of his junk as I can fit in my Jeep.  (I still do not believe he will get the rest of it home.)

It was warm and windy today in Vermont, and Sam and I spent a perfect day, driving out to St. Albans for lunch,  shopping for seeds at Gardeners Supply, packing the Jeep, having dinner in downtown Burlington, and watching Season 7 Episode 1 of Mad Men.  But in the middle of all that, we spent an hour or so on the front porch with his housemates, drinking some beer and enjoying the warm breezes.  These young men did not seem to mind that an old lady was hanging out with them.  They engaged in conversation with me, laughed at my jokes, and allowed me to reflect upon my own college years, so many, many years ago.

Although I had to ask for the name of the network to get wifi access, causing some embarrassment for the young man who had to tell me $&?<  #>  @$$, my time spent with Sam's friends was comfortable and entertaining.  These are good kids, in spite of their very creative drinking games.  They are good students, too, in the process of interviewing for jobs in their fields.  I am in love with their youth, their ambitions, their hopes for the future.

I suppose I am more sentimental than I might otherwise be, due to the fact that I will be sleeping tonight in the former bedroom of Ben, Sam's friend since his freshman year.  Heading home for Thanksgiving last fall, Ben was killed in a car accident.  Just like that, he was gone.  These boys all know that it could have easily been one of them.  And their mothers and fathers know it, too.

I last saw Ben a month before he died when I visited Sam in October.  While Ben cooked his breakfast, we had a conversation . . . about his future.  So, yeah.  You never know, do you?  Tonight, I will sleep in this room, the last place that Ben slept before he left us, and I will welcome a visit from him.  After all, Ben was just a college kid who didn't mind an old lady talking to him one October morning when the sky was blue and the leaves were turning and the promise of the future was so real you could taste it.

Crocus and Daffodil

Daffodils - May Swenson
Yellow telephones
in a row in the garden
are ringing,
shrill with light.
Old-fashioned spring
brings earliest models out
each April the same,
naïve and classical.
Look into the yolk-
colored mouthpieces
alert with echoes.
Say hello to time. 

Yes!  They're here!  And oh, it feels like we've waited so long for them!  You can see by my picture that I have been remiss in thinning and replanting the bulbs.  Somehow, I always seem to miss the window of time that I'm supposed to do that.  I am promising myself, right now, that I will do it this year.  And spread the joy.

Because that's what daffodils bring.  Joy!  How can you not feel optimistic when you gaze upon those yellow trumpets of happiness?  Daffodils are only the beginning.  Following on their heels are the tulips, the myrtle, the primroses, the tiger lilies, the tea roses, the black-eyed Susans, the echinacea, the climatis, the autumn joy . . . so much beauty!  Ah, summer!

I debated about whether I should fall in love with daffodils or crocus for this post, as they are both harbingers of spring.  And I thought why not both?  For exactly that reason.  So here, getting equal time, are some of my crocuses. 

Ah, spring!  I am so in love!

Bird netting

Interesting that my neighbor Nancy commented on yesterday's post.  It was Nancy who introduced me to bird netting many years ago.  Nancy was host to a cherry tree in her front yard, and to protect the cherries from the birds, she covered the tree with netting.  Nancy also taught me how to pit cherries in a sinkful of water, and my little family enjoyed a few cherry pies from her cherry tree.  Best cherry pies I've ever eaten.  Alas, I think lightening took down the cherry tree, so those pies are just a memory.

But bird netting is still with me.  It has protected my strawberry patch and my blueberry bushes from those pesky birds and prevented bats from re-entering my home.  It has put a stop to my cat thinking that my flower beds are giant litter boxes.  And now, bird netting (I hope) will stop those nasty squirrels from digging in my garden beds!

You remember my Squirrel Baffle post of February 23?  Of course you don't.  But in it, I fell in love with the miracle invention that prevented the squirrels from ascending the bird feeder and stealing the seeds that are meant for my birds.  Well, I need a new kind of baffle, and I hope I've found it in the bird netting.

I remember last fall, after the garden was spent, seeing the squirrels scampering around inside the chain link fence.  I didn't bother about them.  After all, the garden was done; what harm could they do?  Well, I think I know now.  Apparently, they were hiding their nuts in my garden beds.  And now, hungry with spring, they are redeeming their stash.

The last two mornings, I've gone out to the garden to find all kinds of holes and tracks in my raised beds!  Those little buggers can easily scoot under the gates and enter my domain (which they believe is theirs).

So today, I placed bird netting on top of the beds that I've planted -- the carrots, beets and peas.  If the little buggers want to dig up their nuts in the unplanted beds, so be it.  But DO NOT, little squirrels, dig up my planted beds!  I'll find out tomorrow morning if my bird netting baffle worked.  I don't know; those squirrels are mighty clever.  For now, I have no choice but to put my faith and love in the netting.  I will let you know if it's a love well spent.

April Showers

I know, I know, it's a cheesy post.  We were all fed the pablum of "April showers bring May flowers" when we were young and pissed off that we couldn't go outside to play.  And part of me still feels that way.  It was great to finally get out in the garden and start working on it the past two days.  But it's raining now, and I can only look outside at that gentle precipitation and try to fall in love with it.

It is quite lovely, really.  And the black dirt in my garden beds is even blacker when wet.  The carrots, beets and peas that I've already planted are being nourished.  And maybe this rain will prod the asparagus heads to begin emerging.  (This is the third year of asparagus, the year that I can actually harvest and eat it!)  If it weren't true that this past winter was so long and unforgiving, I might be able to embrace April rain  more willingly.  Instead, I am charged with convincing myself that this is a good thing.

Time to put things in perspective.  My daughter Jenna lives in the rainforest near Cairns in Queensland, Australia.  At this very moment, she is hunkered down at the SFS centre as Cyclone Ita bears down on them.  Winds are predicted to increase to 100 mph and over two inches of rain is expected.  Her last communication with me revealed that they expect to lose power at some point.  (This is particularly bad timing, as I am attempting to complete her 2013 income tax return and cannot do so without some information from her.  I wonder if the IRS will understand if her return is submitted late?)

So yes, the gentle rain that is falling here is love-worthy.  I doubt if my daughter and her companions are in love with the heavy rain that is hammering them right now.  Was it Aristotle who cautioned us: All things in moderation?  Or maybe that was my mother.  Whatever.  A battering downpour is a thing to survive.  A gentle rain is a thing with which to fall in love.

Greenhouse

With the help of dear friends Jim and Lois, I put together and installed my greenhouse a year ago.  I am quite happy to tell you that it survived the winter from hell.  I've been spending the last couple of days in it, and I have to tell you, it's quite toasty in there.

I spent the better part of today in there, planting seeds in grow-trays.  Tonight, I will plug in the heating mats under the trays and close the door, crossing my fingers that it is warm enough in there to allow the seeds to germinate.  Tomorrow morning, I will unplug the heating pads, water the trays, and again, cross my fingers.

Today's plantings included three kinds of tomatoes, Cubanelle peppers, eggplant, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, parsley, cabbage, cucumber, and sunflowers.  More plantings will begin in a couple of weeks, and I have more seeds to buy when I head up to Vermont next week to visit my son.  Gardeners Supply is located in his town, and they have a great selection of organic seeds.  Also, I direct-sowed beets and carrots in the raised beds today.  So it's happening.

The purchase, assembly, and installation of the greenhouse was a necessary next step in my passion for organic gardening.  For many years, I purchased garden plants from nurseries and big box stores mid-May, taking my chances on pesticides and other maladies.  And I spent a lot of money.  To now be able to start plants from seed, watch them grow, and transplant them into the soil is both an economic and an environmental plus.  It's all a lot of work, but the rewards are worth it.  Dinner tonight consisted of my garden-grown green beans (frozen from last fall) and my homemade tomato sauce (also frozen from last fall) over pasta.  Yes, the rewards are worth it.  And there is love.

Black Dirt

Finally!  Despite the March winds that came a month late, today was a day to spend in the garden, getting the raised beds ready.  I was able to turn and rake out the soil in 15 beds and plant the snow peas and snap peas!  Do I have a rototiller?  Nope.  It's just me and a hoe and a rake.

I don't need a rototiller because my garden beds are filled with Pine Island black dirt.  Specifically, nine tons of the stuff, all of which I shoveled into the beds myself two years ago.  A labor of love and well worth the effort.

The black dirt of Pine Island (NY) is soil left over from an ancient glacial lake bottom.  It is supposed that the glaciers melted 12,000 years ago, sending organic sediment to the bottom of the lake.  Augmented by decades of past flooding of the Wallkill River, the area was referred to as the "drowned lands" and was considered not useful for farming or homesteading.  And then, over 150 years ago, Polish and German immigrants arrived and installed a series of drains to make the land suitable for farming.  Due to the depth of organic matter (30 feet deep in some places), the soil is rich in sulfur and nitrogen.  The 26,000 acres of black dirt in the Pine Island area is the largest concentration of such soil in the United States outside of the Florida Everglades!  Right here in my own back yard!

For decades, the main crop in the black dirt region of Pine Island was onions, and certainly, onions are still grown there today.  But the farmers have expanded their crops to include lettuce, radishes, potatoes, tomatoes and carrots.  Because, why not?  It's damn good soil!

The standard for good gardening soil is that it should resemble chocolate cake.  Would you need a rototiller to turn chocolate cake?  My job today was not hard.  I do have to admit, though, that one of the larger beds, which existed years before I demo'd the pool and built the new raised beds, has old soil enhanced by black dirt.  It is much harder to turn, but it is still manageable.

And so it begins.  Gardening season!  I am in love with the dirt that will give birth to a harvest of the best organic vegetables I could ever want!

A Small World

This one could have been titled Coincidence, but I think I already used that.

I had some errands to do today, and one of them took me to Lowes in the next town.  It was a specific errand.  I needed those hammer-in furniture glides for the dining room chairs in the condo.  I'd purchased and applied those stick-on felt ones only to find that they tended to slide off, leaving gobs of glue residue on the tile floors.  Yuck.  So there I was, in one particular aisle of the big-box store, looking at furniture glides.  I happened to look up and to my right, where another customer was looking at those plastic bubbles that one would put between the wood and the glass on a coffee table.  So on any given day, how many Lowes customers are looking for these things?

The other customer, it turns out, was my first cousin, Dotty.  Despite the fact that we live in the same town, I do not see Dotty often, although I have run into her in the A&P once in awhile.  But in the aisle that sells furniture glides and plastic bubble protectors in a big-box store in the next town?  How likely is that?

We had a good long chat, just the two of us in that empty aisle, and it was great to catch up.  Her grandson, Ryan, just signed with the New York Rangers, so it was exciting to get her first-hand perspective on that event.  Yes, it was a good long chat.  And then we hugged and said goodbye and laughed at where we might run into each other again.

I went to three other stores on my errand list and then headed home.  At a red light, I noticed that the car in front of me was sporting magnets of two schools that my cousin had mentioned in our conversation.  How coincidental, I thought.  And then I saw the license plate and recognized her husband's initials on it.  Oh, duh.  I am behind my cousin Dotty driving back to our little town.

What are the odds? 

So it's a small world.  These days, I drive around this county and think that I don't know anyone else who lives here.  They're all strangers to me.  And then something like today happens.

I don't know what it means, if it means anything at all.  But I do know that I love when it happens.

Seed Potatoes

Prepare yourselves, my followers.  (Both of you.)  From this point on, you will be subject to reading about me falling in love with all sorts of garden-variety things.  The snow has finally melted, and green stuff is sprouting up all over the place.  And it's a mess out there.  I'll need a good two weeks of sunny days to clean up the yard, the garden beds, the porches, and everything else that lives outside.  I'm ready.

While visiting my local farm store this morning to purchase a variety of cat food flavors to try to entice my cat to eat more, I became happily distracted by the bags of seed potatoes at the front of the store.  In particular, there was a bag of blue seed potatoes!  Last year, Wende (store manager and friend) was unable to get any, so my garden got only red potatoes.  Today, once I got over the shock of "Holy crap!  It's time to plant seed potatoes already?" I filled three paper sacks.  Red.  White.  And blue.  Call me patriotic.

I also purchased onion sets.  Red and white.  I don't know of any blue onions.

Potatoes and onions are two of the crops that I can harvest and store for consumption throughout the winter.  In fact, there are still some from last fall's harvest waiting to be roasted or sauteed.  I have to admit, the potatoes are looking a little limp at this point, and I am annoyed with myself that I did not make use of them earlier.  Not being one to waste anything, especially my garden produce, I think there will be a potato soup in my near future.

It's rather raw out there today, but I think there's a warm and sunny day coming up mid-week.  I will be out there, turning the soil, planting the seed potatoes in rows of red, white and blue and marking them accordingly.  And so it begins.  Preparing for the best time of year, a summer full of organic produce, right in my own back yard!  And it all begins with seed potatoes.  Miraculous things, don't you think?

Characters

My dear friend Allyn stopped by today to loan me the latest novel by a favorite author of ours, Alice Hoffman.  Allyn loved this latest work, specifically saying that the characters have stayed with her, and that what endears a novel to her is falling in love with the characters.  I could not agree more.

Characters.  In the best fiction, they become real.  I just finished reading The Book of Dead Birds by Gayle Brandeis, and her characters are still with me.  Their birth and circumstances are far beyond anything that is "real" to me, but nonetheless, they now live in my head as legitimate acquaintances.  I feel for them, I care for them, I worry about them.  And this lasts far beyond my interaction with them.  In other words, the book is finished, but the characters live on in my head.  Did Daryl and Ava marry?  Did Helen and Anchee stay at Salton Sea?  What happened to Janiece?  At some point, I will have to chase them from my mind, convince myself that they are fiction, not real.  But I will miss them.

I do not like those "What's your favorite . . . " questions.  Or as my friend Wally Lamb would have one of his characters in a short story say, "What's your favorite size monkey wrench?"  But if I had to answer the question, "Who's your favorite literary character?" I most likely would say Atticus Finch, although he would be in fierce competition with his daughter Scout.  And now, as soon as I typed that, I am thinking of other characters I've met and debating with myself if they might be able to unseat Atticus.  As I said, I don't like those kinds of questions.

There are a lot of very real characters in my life, and if I could get off my butt and actually try to write that novel I always think about, they would become my fictional heroes.  They are unique, they are compelling, they are flawed.  In other words, they are very real.  And they deserve to be immortalized in a story, even if no one ever knows their true identity.

My friends should beware.  My friends should hope that I remain too lazy to write a novel.  Because one day, some of my friends might find themselves reading my blockbuster bestselling novel and wondering, "Did she base that character on ME?"  And the answer is yes.  Because I love the characters in my life.

Newspapers

For more years than I can count, I have read two newspapers every morning.  One is the local paper, the other is the largest state (NJ) paper.  I read the local one for obvious reasons:  who died, who got arrested, who raised some money for charity, who has what to say about local politics (and all politics is local, as we all know).  The state paper keeps me up to speed on all the political shenanigans in Trenton, most specifically of late, "Bridgegate."  (Full disclosure:  I am enjoying watching Christie go down.)  Both papers give me enough info on world and national news.  If I want more, I know how to google.

Whatever the topics, newspapers are part of my morning routine.  Put the coffee on, walk down to the bottom of the driveway, retrieve the two newspapers, then sit at the table with said coffee and papers and spend an hour.  It is hard for me to begin my day otherwise.

When I am away from home, as I was this past week, I can access the papers in digital format, and I usually do just that.  But this time, for whatever reason, I didn't.  I don't know, I was busy with painting and plumbing and cleaning and all sorts of "fun" stuff, so I just didn't make the time for my papers.  And guess what?  I didn't miss it!  (See previous post:  Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes)

But now I'm back, and I caught up with the news via my newspapers.  It all feels normal again.   Part of the news, however, was that The Star Ledger laid off 167 employees the other day.  This does not bode well.

You see, I am in love with actual newspapers!  I do not enjoy reading them digitally, any more than I would enjoy reading an ebook (which I did once).  Call me old school.  I want that big old black and white spread on my table, I want ink on the side of my hand, I want to rip out the page with the puzzles for later use, and I want to recycle my papers at the landfill.  Old habits die hard.

Just as my favorite magazine, Newsweek, went from print to digital a year or two ago, I can see the writing on the (Internet) wall regarding my newspapers.  Not much I can do about it, except to enjoy them while they are here.  And I will.

Changes in Latitudes

Changes in attitudes.  I needed this.  A different landscape, different scenery, different people.  Different dishes, different bedsheets, different supermarkets.  Different colors, different birds, different trees.  Different thoughts.

Back home tomorrow morning, and I'm not sure I want to leave here just yet.  Pete and I always had a "ten day rule."  Ten days was the perfect amount of time to be away from home enough to miss it and be ready to go back.  No wonder I'm not ready; I've only been here five days.

But I do miss my cat.  I miss my routines.  And I do think that when I get back to New Jersey, winter will have finally hit the road.  Time to get the garden ready, start the seeds in the greenhouse, plan the beds. Lots of work ahead, and I am ready!

I'm ready because I've enjoyed a change in latitude.  Anyway, I'll be back here in a couple of weeks with friends for five days of beaching it.  And there you have it . . . the "ten day rule."  It's just been broken up a bit.  Still applies.

Wainscoting

So they sell this "wallpaper" in Lowes that is textured to look like something it is not.  I learned about it from my friend Margaret, who invited me to her house to see her new "wainscoting" on her hallway wall.  It looked great!  As I was complimenting her on it, she told me it was wallpaper.  No it's not! I insisted.  Yes, it is! she calmly stated.  To all appearances, it was wood beadboard, no doubt in my mind.  But after touching it and examining it a little bit closer, I had to agree, it was wallpaper.  Amazing!  I immediately went to Lowes and bought a roll.  Twenty bucks for a big fat roll.

So I brought it down here to my little Florida condo, a previously white (but dirty) space that was screaming for some character.  I envisioned a wainscoted dining room wall, painted a sandy color against the gorgeous blue already in place.  Yesterday, I cut my 33' lengths of "wainscoting" which I soaked in a tray of water and then put in place.  Nine strips later, it was done.  Took about an hour?  And it was white.

Today, it was painted that sandy color (called Drumskin for those of you paying attention to paint colors), a very subtle chair rail was added and painted, and voila!  I have a wainscoted wall!  And even I am having a hard time convincing myself that it is wallpaper!  Again, I have to spend this evening staring at my walls.  Love.

So things are not always as they appear to be.  In this case, my "fake" wainscoting is a good thing.  If I'd tried to do real beadboard, there would have been a problem with the bowed walls.  Wallpaper and a flexible "plastic" chair rail don't care if there' s bow in the wall.  To all appearances, everything looks perfect.

So to what do I apply this metaphor?  Cosmetic surgery?  False impressions?  Fake diplomas?  Designer knock-offs?

No, I think it's just about wainscoting.  Wainscoting that I am in love with.  That's all.

Friends Who Petsit and Paint But Don't Plumb

Yeah, you read that right.  The plumber is no friend of mine.  To the tune of double the budgeted amount for some minor repairs.  But he's got five kids, so I'll suck it up and let it go.

But friends who petsit!  Friends who paint!  I am in love with their generosity!  In order for me to come down here to sunny Florida to see my daughter and take care of some housekeeping, I needed trusty people to look after my sick cat.  Although one of my people could not find the cat during her brief assignment (I love you, Jeannine!), my other two sitters have sent me pictures to assure me that my cat is still alive.  They not only know how to love my cat, they know how to give me peace of mind.  And I love them for it.  (And I love you, too, Jeannine!  Did I mention that?)

So aside from the plumbing issues, this place has been in great need of some painting. Room by room, friends are taking care of that for me.  Today was the kitchen, and it is looking marvelous!  I cannot stop staring at it.  The kitchen is small, so I thought it would be a quick job.  Not.  I learned a thing or two about painting today.  It's the cutting in that takes time.  The rolling is a breeze.  So a kitchen full of cabinets and windows and appliances is going to take a lot longer to paint than a much larger bedroom or living room.  But Joey works patiently and efficiently (while Trisha and I yak away).  It's a great plan.  At the end of the day, I have a new room, a sore throat, and a great feeling of being cared about.

And that's it for tonight.  I have to go stare at my kitchen walls.  More painting tomorrow and I can't wait!  And I'm actually going to do some of it!

Goodwill Hunting

No, not the movie.  I am in love with shopping at Goodwill-type stores.  I spent the afternoon with three friends, visiting every Goodwill, Habitat, and other-named used goods store in this south Florida area.  There's a lot of good stuff here.  (Think about why.)  I did not find a thing to buy.  But I had a good time not buying it.

Shopping at Goodwill is like a treasure hunt.  Yes, I may have something in mind that I am looking for, but I never really find that thing.  It's the surprise of finding that OMGthisisperfect thing.  Like the time that I found a framed print of a painting by a Florida artist that caught my eye.  Why?  Because right in the center of that painting was a Great Blue Heron.  My late husband's favorite bird, the one that has become the sign, the symbol, of all that we love and remember about him.  That framed print is now hanging in my living room here.  Perfect.

Or the bedside table lamp that I found at another shop.  An odd color green, but it caught my eye.  It now resides next to my bed, where it blends in perfectly with my shabby chic beach decor here.  And when I say "shabby chic," I mean shabby chic.  Everything in this condo (where my oldest grad school daughter is living) is recycled, repurposed, repainted, refinished, or reimagined.  There is a story to every piece here.  The only "new" thing I bought was a mattress.

Goodwill stores can be viewed two ways.  On one hand, one sees the excesses of American lives, where perfectly good furniture, clothing, and necessities of life are offered up as throw-aways, goods that have another chance before heading to the landfill.  Who are these people who discard these perfectly good items?  Did something shinier or trendier catch their attention?  Did they switch up the decor because what they had was so last year?  Maybe.  There is likely a different story for every item in the store.

On the other hand, Goodwill stores allow those who are lower on the economic chain to have nice things.  Or necessary things.  Or fun things.  They allow perfectly good "stuff" to be re-used instead of going into the landfill.  It's all good.  For me, Goodwill Hunting offered me a fun afternoon with new friends.  No, I didn't find anything to buy this time.  But there are a couple of stores I didn't get to today.  Tomorrow?  Let's go!