Pistachios

This one is easy.  I am in love with pistachios.  As a vegetarian, I rely on nuts for needed protein and some vitamins.  It has become my habit to indulge in a large handful of pistachios late every afternoon, an accompaniment to my glass of wine.  I love everything about this.  I love splitting open the shells and extracting the meat.  I love gathering the empty shells back into the bowl.  I love putting aside the uncrackable ones.  I love searching for that last unshelled gem.

Pistachios are good for me.  They will lower my cholesterol, help me lose weight, and guarantee that I will win the lottery (if I would just remember to buy a ticket).

And they taste good, too.

Done.  (Nutty post, huh?  Or was it cheesy?)

Columbine

If you google columbine, you will find article after article about the mass shooting that occurred in a town by that name in 1999.  Obviously, that tragedy is forever ingrained in our collective memory.  I can now add another way that I am saddened by it . . . it has supplanted the "other" definition of columbine.  That of a fascinating flower.

Perfect for cottage and woodland gardens, old-fashioned columbines are available in almost all colors of the rainbow. Intricate little flowers, they are most commonly a combination of red, peach, and yellow but also blues, whites, pure yellows, and pinks; they look almost like folded paper lanterns.

Folded paper lanterns!  Could that be true?

What do you think?  Intricate is certainly an appropriate descriptor.  I would also add delicate.  Maybe even angelic or ephemeral.

I have white columbines and pinkish columbines.  They are in a backyard perennial garden, a place I like to sit on a hot summer evening, as it is comfortably shaded at that time.  A glass of white wine, a good novel, and (if I'm lucky) my cat . . . all make for a lovely way to end the day.  Now compare this scene to the nightmare that Columbine became.  I do not think the difference could be more stark.

Today I am in love with the other side of tragedy.  I am in love with intricate folded paper lanterns, a delicacy of nature.  The columbines are a reminder of our fragility, our ephemeral beauty, and our resilience.  No matter how harsh the winter, my columbines return each spring, stronger and more beautiful than they were the year before.  It is important that we do not lose sight of the beautiful side of things, something I have to remind myself of daily.  Do you?

Rhodies

After Pete finished building our log home back in the mid-eighties, one of the first things he wanted to do was to plant some shrubs in front of the porch, knowing that, in terms of growth, the sooner the better.  He and Jay, a buddy, stole off into a summer evening to procure some hemlock bushes, but we went to a nursery for the rhododendron.  That was almost 30 years ago, and I have been left to cut back the growth every year, lest the hemlock and rhodies succeed in completely hiding the house from view.  It is not a chore that I love.

One of the three hemlocks perished, replaced by a holly, which provides winter decor for my window boxes, for which I am grateful.  But the four rhododendron bushes have thrived.  They are in bloom now, that brief time when pink blossoms dominate the facade of my home.  Additionally, a couple of years ago, I purchased three sickly rhododendron bushes from a local nursery for $2.00 a bush.  Yep, a total of $6.00 for three rhodies.  When I questioned whether that price was accurate, the woman told me, "Yes.  These rhodies need some TLC."  I brought them home and planted them in the back of the house.  Although one perished, the other two are thriving.  I guess I did well enough in the TLC department.

What I am in love with in regard to the rhodies is their transience.  They are in bloom here for a couple of weeks.  That's all.  Late May and early June tends to be a busy time, especially if one has kids in school, but it is imperative to pay attention to the rhodies.  One cannot ignore them, thinking, "Oh, I'll catch up with them in a week or two when things settle down."  Doesn't work that way.  Blink your eyes, and the blooms are gone.

So today, I paid attention.  In another two weeks, I will be pruning the rhododendron bushes, snapping off the spent blossoms to ensure more blossoming next year.  For now, I am in love with their pink glory, their determination that this is their time to bloom, and the reminder they offer that everything is transient.

Hands

"If you look deeply into the palm of your hand, 
you will see your parents and all generations of your ancestors. 
All of them are alive in this moment. 
Each is present in your body. 
You are the continuation of each of these people."

~ Thich Nhat Hanh

My daughter, Jenna, the one who is living in Australia, will turn 26 on June 9.  In hopes that it will get to Australia in time, I mailed a birthday card to her today.  I had some beautiful blank cards that were made by a former student of mine.  Julie had sent me some several months ago, and as I am often prone to do, I was "saving" them for a special occasion.  Well, here's one . . . Jenna's birthday.  Julie decorates her cards with handmade paper art and other adornments.  The card I selected to send to Jenna has a paper hand in lavender, so I began a search for a poem or quote about hands that I could write on the inside of the card.  When I came upon the Thich Nhat Hanh quote above, it seemed to fit the occasion perfectly.  (Thich Nhat Hanh is a Zen Buddhist monk, born in Viet Nam, who has taught and preached and written about peace and mindfulness all his life.)

I fell in love with the idea that my Jenna is not just a product of her father and me, but also of all those who came before us.  Perhaps every aspect of her personality can be attributed to the bloodline of her ancestral heritage.  And so it may be for all of us, that we are the product of a great collection of souls who shape and shift our character throughout our journey here in this life.

But this post is not about the Over-soul.  It is about hands.  So I think of Julie's hands, creating a piece of art out of scrap paper.  I think of my hands, writing out the found quote to start my birthday greeting to Jenna.  And I think of Jenna's hands, the ones that I held for a few years, gradually letting go so that she could begin her own journey.

My mother's thin hands, the ones that I loved as I traced her veins down to her fingertips.  My father's hands, the ones that were adept at woodworking but could spank me hard when I misbehaved.  Pete's hands, making chalk fly across the blackboard as he worked out math equations.  My grandmother's hands, rolling out the pie crust and slicing the apples so thin.  All the chores of all the hands of all the people who helped to create my Jenna.  I am in love with their hands and their willingness to continue.

So long!

I was very close to my grandmother, my "Nanny," when I was a child.  She was my savior in a house that knew too many arguments.  Her basement apartment was my refuge, a place where we could eat barbecue potato chips while watching Bonanza or create doll clothes for my Ginny (and later my Barbie) on her ancient sewing machine or just play poker at her little table.  She often had words of wisdom for me (some of which my mother did not approve), but the most enduring and endearing words were these:  "Never say 'goodbye.'  'So long' means you will see each other again."

Today, I said "So long!" to my 22-year-old son who began his solo drive out to California.  Sam, a 2014 graduate of the University of Vermont, has an internship with the US Bureau of Land Management in northeastern California.  He will be there until November.  Post-graduation, he had less than a week to spend here at home, but it was enough time for me to get used to his presence and more than enough time to make me miss him already.

I think it was interesting that the song that was playing  when I came inside after tearfully waving "So long!" to him was Neil Young's Expecting to Fly.

There you stood
on the edge of your feather,
expecting to fly.
While I laughed,
I wondered whether
I could wave goodbye,
knowing that you'd gone.
By the summer it was healing,
we had said goodbye.
All the years
we'd spent with feeling
ended with a cry.

Would the song be the same if I substituted so long for goodbye?  Well, I guess it would throw off the rhyme, right?

I said "So long!" to my son.  We will see one another again, hopefully in late summer or early fall when I fly out to visit him.  And I am in love with the idea that my grandmother imparted to me half a century ago.  I said "So long!"

Memorials

This is a tough one.  I recognize the importance of memorializing people and events, but the longer one lives, the longer the list of memorials, and it kind of makes one take pause and wonder . . . um . . . what's it all about, Alfie?

Today is Memorial Day, a day that continues to confuse many people, as they think that it is the same as Veterans Day.  Although I come from a family with many relatives who served in the military and/or war, none of them (that I know of) died at war, so the day does not impact me personally, the way that it does some others.  I cannot even begin to imagine what it would be like to confront this day if I'd lost a father, a brother, a sister, a child to war.  My grandfather served in WWI, both my parents in WWII, and my nephews in Honduras and the Gulf wars of the 80s.  They all came back intact . . . physically, at least.  My neighbors served two tours each in Afghanistan.  Again, they returned physically intact for the most part.

So Memorial Day becomes somewhat abstract to me, as I do not have a friend or relative to memorialize.  There were a couple of boys I knew marginally who perished in VietNam, but one of my best friends returned home from that war, again, physically intact.  I celebrate his survival, but that's not what this day is about.

When my husband died from cancer, in lieu of a funeral, we had a memorial service.  It had great meaning to me, and I put much thought and energy (and tears) into arranging it.  I still recognize the songs that played in the background, ones that I carefully selected.  I can still see our kids' contributions to the service, and I can still recall snippets of the talks that a couple of close friends gave.  That memorial provided me with great comfort, and I can still think back on it and be grateful that I had the presence of mind to honor his memory in the way that I did.

And so maybe that's what I'm in love with . . . the idea that one can memorialize the people who personally meant something.  Instead of one day of the year set aside as Memorial Day, when most of us are supposed to honor people we didn't even know, maybe the day should be expanded to include all of the souls that have left us in an untimely and disturbing manner?  I have often thought about this in regard to the 9/11 memorial.  Of course, that was a terrible tragedy, and its victims are worthy of being memorialized.  But so are the people who have died untimely and terrible deaths from cancer or AIDS or heart failure or car accidents or drive-by shootings or mass murders.  There are many ways to die.  War is one.  I'm just not convinced that it needs top billing over all the other ways that hearts are forever broken by the untimely death of a loved one.

So let us each memorialize those we loved in our own way.  Wave a flag, have a barbecue, visit a cemetery, hike a nature trail, listen to music . . . do whatever it is that honors the one you loved and lost.  And instead of feeling that stir of artificial patriotism, feel something real, something rooted in love.

Bob Dylan

Well, I'm a day late and a dollar short.  (Make that many dollars.)  Yesterday was Bob Dylan's birthday, and he is now 73 years old.  As many my age are prone to say these days, "How the hell did THAT happen?"

I guess I was too sheltered to have known about Dylan in his folkie days, because my recollection of first becoming aware of him and his music was around 1967 with the album Bob Dylan's Greatest Hits.  Already a "greatest hits" album before I'd even become aware of him?  My friend Judith, who lived around the corner from me, was clearly ahead of her time.  I'm pretty sure she was the one who introduced me to Peter, Paul & Mary, too.  And so it was in 1967, the end of our junior year in high school, that she alerted me to this amazing songwriter.  Granted, it took a little while to adjust to his voice, but there was no question that he had something to say, and the timing was spot on.  I can still listen to the songs on this greatest hits album and they are my favorites.  Forever.

Nashville Skyline blew my mind two years later.  That crazy voice had been tamed, credited, I recall, to his having stopped smoking.  Again, I can listen to these songs and I am back in 1969, an amazing year by all accounts.  Lay, Lady, Lay can still stop me in my tracks.

In 1974, Bob Dylan toured with The Band.  At the end of January of that year, I got to see them at both Nassau Coliseum and Madison Square Garden.  I swear, I thought I was in the same house with God.  I'm not kidding.  Those concerts still go down in memory as the most important that I've ever attended.  (And I've attended a lot.)

By the time the Rolling Thunder tour was underway, near the end of 1975, I was no longer as enthralled with the god Dylan.  But it was still a good show.  Subsequent times I've seen him have been somewhat disappointing, but what the hey, he's Bob Dylan, and he can do whatever the hell he wants.  It is rather sad that his audience these days wants the "old" Dylan and are quite intolerant of anything else that he wants to do.  I say back off.  He has earned the right to do whatever he pleases.  Just be grateful that you can be in the same space as he is.  That should mean something.

So today (and it should have been yesterday), I am in love with this poet who rocked the world.  He rocked my world.  He still does.  I cannot imagine what my world would have been like without him.  So, yeah, I am still in love with what he has to say.

The Dirt Beneath My Nails

I used to think someone would love me
for the places I have been
and the dirt I have been gathering
deep beneath my nails.

That's from Time Spent in Los Angeles by one of my favorite bands, Dawes.  That line, in particular, has always spoken to me.  And it was running through my head today as I abandoned my gardening gloves and got deep into the work of planting.  I have washed my hands many times today, and my nailbeds are about as clean as they're going to be.

But those song lyrics speak more to me than just a rationalization for dirty nails.  They speak of who I am.  No, I've not spent much time in Los Angeles, but I am a traveler and a gardener, two pastimes that are very important to me.  And I think that they capture two of the more appealing parts of my character.  And yet, nobody that I know of loves me for them.

I can only remember one time that I had an actual manicure.  It was for my wedding day.  This was so far back in the day that one only had to choose a color.  There were no decals, artwork, rhinestone implants, glitter, whatever.  You picked a color, and the manicurist painted your nails.  She probably stuck your fingertips in Palmolive Dish Detergent . . . that's how far back I am going.  So I had a manicure.  And my nails looked nice on my wedding day.

I have many friends who regularly get their nails "done."  While I respect their choices, I just don't get it.  I don't know how one gets any work done with manicured nails.  Additionally, as I recall from my one manicure, it felt like the skin under my nails was suffocating.  I felt pretty claustrophobic. 

So there is dirt under my nails most of the time.  I wear it like a badge.  I'm not afraid of getting dirty, of working hard, of using my hands and fingers and nails to get a job done.  And if nobody loves me for it?  Oh, well.  I am in love with the dirt I have been gathering deep beneath my nails.

Garden Stores

Drop me off in a department store or a clothing store or an accessory store and I will be bored within minutes.  Take me to a garden store/center, and I will be drooling.  I want all of it!

I happened to have a gift card for Lowe's, so after running other errands, Sam and I stopped in at Lowe's to buy a few plants.  It is true that I try to start most of my garden plants from seed in my greenhouse, but life is not perfect, you know?  I'd never found any shallot seeds.  The Brussels sprouts, rosemary, basil, and eggplant seeds didn't take.  My onions got destroyed by grubs.  So unfortunately, I had to buy some replacement plants, and I found a few at Lowe's.  Oh, and flowers.  I have not gotten to the point where I start flowers from seed.  So we got some things.

Later in the day, I went to a local nursery to try to find what the big box store didn't provide.  And that's where I fell in love.  Beautiful plants, so much nicer than the big box ones!  I found the shallots and the Brussels sprouts.  I also bought some red cabbage, purple kale, and celery plants.  More flowers.  More basil.  More onion sets.  And  a $40 tray of eight ajuga plants to try to spread the ajuga further up that difficult hill.

Excited, I came home to begin planting.  A few days ago, when I discovered the grubs in my garden beds, I picked them out and treated the soil with diatomaceous earth and neem oil.  I thought a few days would be enough time to eradicate the little buggers. 

Apparently not.  I picked out at least another hundred of them this afternoon.  Treated the beds with more DE.  I will delay the planting of my tender little tomato plants until I feel more confident that I have gotten rid of the beasts.

I thought that having a greenhouse would speed up the gardening process.  I guess not.  I am way behind.  But the garden centers, who know how to do it professionally, have it down.  Everything there is lush and ahead of schedule.  And if those pesky little grubs destroy more of my plantings, I will be revisiting the local nursery.  What the heck, it's only money, right?  But it's money that can buy me love.

Salmon

Well, it's not so much that I am in love with salmon.  But my son cooked dinner for us tonight . . . salmon and orzo.  It was to die for.

I know not to buy "farm-raised" salmon.  I pay more for wild "sockeye" salmon.  Since I don't buy it that often, it was a worthwhile expense to purchase some for the brief amount of time that my son would be home.  It was he who offered to cook it.  One of his possessions that he brought home from Vermont is a small charcoal grill, and I just happened to have some charcoal stored away in the shed.  And some lighter fluid, too.  So Sam set about to cook dinner.

The marinade he made included onions (from my garden larder) and parsley (from this year's herb garden) and lemon.  Frozen garden basil went into the orzo, along with some butter and half-and-half, which made it very creamy.  Seriously, this was a delicious meal.

But this is what I am in love with:  Since my dear friends Jim and Lois (who so often invited me for a meal in their home pub) moved away, I cannot remember the last time that someone cooked for me.  (Well, yes, I can.  It was a few days before Thanksgiving, when my friends in Florida, Joey and Trish, cooked a vegetarian Thanksgiving feast for us.  It, too, was to die for.)  So now, six months later, someone has cooked for me again.  I could get used to this.

There are some people for whom a home-cooked meal (by someone else) is an everyday thing.  I wonder if they fully appreciate that?  Living alone, I don't cook every night.  But if I lived with someone who prepared a meal every night?  OMG!  Heaven!

For now, I will appreciate the dinner that I just enjoyed.  And I will lay full claim to being in love with it, both the deliciousness of it and the effort made by a beloved son to cook for his mother.

Remedies

Remedy:  something that corrects or removes an evil of any kind.  The evil, in this case, is the grub.  As in, curly white wormlike thing that wreaks havoc in my garden.

I am essentially an organic gardener.  Which means that I am a gambler.  I take my chances.  And the Fates let me down.  Crops that I'd planted a month ago are gone, victims of the evil grub.  Red onions, yellow onions, scallions, chard, snowpeas, beets.  All gone.

Here's the killer:

I spent several hours today hand-picking the grubs from the various raised beds.  There were hundreds of them.  I drowned them in vinegar.  (Yes, I am going to hell.)  But before planting again (and I will), I need a remedy.  Because, obviously, I cannot claim to have picked out every stinkin' grub in the garden.

This is the best that I know how to do.  I treated the soil first with diatomaceous earth, raked in it, and then sprayed neem oil on top.  Worked it all into the soil.  I'll let it sit for a couple of days before I plant again.

Last year, I had grubs in ONE of the 15 raised beds.  Lost all of my peppers and eggplant.  I tried the above-mentioned remedy, then planted some extra tomato plants in that bed to test it out.  They grew like crazy.  In fact, they have offered volunteers this year.  There are a few dozen tomato plants eagerly growing in that bed this spring.  So I think the remedy works?

We'll see.  There's a lot at stake.  If this remedy doesn't work, I may have to quit trying to be a gardener.

On the other hand, if it does work, I will be so totally in love with it! 

Clean Sheets

I was away for the weekend and was fortunate to have a house-sitter here to take care of my cat and my gardens.  As is our routine now, Libby stripped the bed before she left and put the used sheets and towels in the laundry room.  Before I could climb into my own bed (always a good thing after sleeping in a motel), obviously, I had to make the bed.  I selected summery sheets, a leafy green color.  They were so clean and crisp.  Slept like a baby.

My son, the college graduate, arrived home an hour ago.  He is unpacking his car now, but I know that after he's done that, he will be happy to crawl into his own bed here.  And yes, the sheets are clean.

I can still remember coming home from college and sleeping in my own bed.  There was nothing like it.  I think I can still smell the clean sheets.  Or maybe that was just the smell of home.

Clean sheets.  Such a simple thing to fall in love with.  But the rewards are multi-faceted.  They smell good, they feel good, they tell us that somebody loved us enough to make sure the sheets were clean (even if that "somebody" was the same person who climbed into the bed).

Most importantly, I think, clean sheets remind us that there is always a way to start over, to "come clean," to be refreshed, to be treated as if we deserve . . . clean sheets.

I deserve clean sheets.  And I love that I do.

Vermont

Yes, ILOVERMONT.  Or I Heart Vermont.  Doesn't matter how you say it, it's true.  If only it wasn't so far north!  I would seriously consider moving there, but if I am struggling with the long New Jersey winters, how could I possibly survive in Vermont?

The first time I visited Vermont was when I was in my early thirties.  I was enrolled in a low-residency MFA program at Vermont College in Montpelier.  I spent five two-week periods in the Green Mountain State, summer and winter, and just loved my time there.  A few years later, when Pete and I were knee-deep in children and careers and everything else that can take the shine out of a marriage, we started escaping to Vermont for three-day weekends at some point in December.  My mother would take care of the kids, and Pete and I would drive to Bennington or Arlington to stay at some sweet bed-and-breakfast inn, the likes of which Vermont is known for.  And those weekends were wonderful!  We would ice skate, cross-country ski, visit Hildene (Robert Todd Lincoln's estate), spend hours browsing the Northshire Bookstore in Manchester, shop at Bennington Potters, drive up Mount Equinox, drink Long Trail, and most importantly, reconnect with one another.  I loved those Vermont weekends.

All good things must end.  The last time Pete and I went to Vermont was in the summer of 2002, about six months before he died.  We were celebrating the Summer Solstice with our dear friends, Jim and Lois.  I don't think we knew then that it would be our last visit to Vermont together.

Fast forward seven years, and my son and I are looking at colleges.  There were a couple of others he liked in New England, but when we visited the University of Vermont in Burlington, it was a done deal.  And now, four years later, there are no regrets.  I have loved visiting him in Burlington, and when I drove home from there today for the last time, I could not help but feel sad that my "connection" to Vermont is no more.

However . . .

Last year, my daughter Jenna spent a year in Quechee, Vermont, working with raptors at the Vermont Institute of Natural Science as part of an AmeriCorps job.  And now, anticipating her return to the States from a year working in Australia, she has some applications  in at various Vermont locations.  So who knows?  I could have that Vermont connection again, right?

One way or another, I will find my way back to Vermont.  We always find our way back to the things that we love, don't we?

Ceremony

Today was full of ceremony.  It was my son's graduation from The Rubenstein School of Environment and Natural Resources at The University of Vermont.  The day was breathtakingly beautiful, from the starting time of 8:00 a.m. all the way through to the last of the individual college ceremonies.  It was a good day.

Although I'm sure ceremonies can become tedious to those who must attend them often (like politicians), I no longer have many occasions to witness the pomp and circumstance, so I am free to fall in love with the music, the colors, the regalia, the speeches, and yes, even the cliches.  Today had all of these things and more.

The commencement address was delivered by Samantha Power, the United States Ambassador to the United Nations.  Not only is her resume replete with humanitarian works all around the globe (starting long before she was named ambassador in 2009), she is also an impressive speaker.  All ears were tuned in to her advice to the graduates (except, of course, for the idiot sitting twenty feet away from me who thought it would be fine for him to answer his cellphone and have a conversation while Power was still speaking).  Also speaking at the main ceremony was Peter Shumlin, Governor of the State of Vermont.  He was rightfully proud of the fact that just last week, Vermont became the first state in the nation to require GMO labeling on food.

And the speaker at The Rubenstein School ceremony was also impressive.  Paul Burns is the executive director of the Vermont Public Interest Research Group.  His speech also reflected how proud he is of his state.

There was another part of the ceremonies that brought tears to my eyes and the audience to its feet.  A diploma was awarded to Ben Mohla posthumously.  I've written about Ben in this blog before.  A housemate of my son's, Ben died in a car accident on his way home for Thanksgiving last fall.  Ben's parents attended the graduation to congratulate the boys of 307 Colchester Avenue.  Their love and respect for these boys was obvious.  When they took the stage to accept Ben's diploma, the applause was louder than that which any of the speakers had received.  Ben's dad raised the diploma over his head as he walked off the stage, and it was a moment I will never forget.  While a graduation ceremony is a meaningful ritual for most graduates and their families, I don't know if it can match the meaning it must have had for Ben's parents.  In all likelihood, this will be the last ceremony they will ever attend for Ben.  There will be no wedding ceremony, no baptisms of grandchildren, no birthday or anniversary celebrations.  It is with this in mind that I declare my love for ceremony and what it represents.  And for anyone who thinks of how boring ceremonies can be, consider that each one you attend could be the last.  And then make a conscious decision to fall in love with the ritual.

Boys to Men

Sam and his housemates threw a party today, on the eve of their graduation from the University of Vermont.  But it wasn't your typical Animal House party.  This party was for their families.  There was a truckbed full of beer (packed in the shaved ice refuse from the local hockey rink), lots and lots of food (including lobster), and champagne and desserts.  In the very, very clean house, there was a slide show of pictures of the boys who live there.  The day was warm and beautiful, and we all gathered outside for games and conversation and laughter.

There was one sentiment that was expressed over and over.  No one could believe that four years had passed by so quickly.  I would not be the only parent who thought back to the day that I brought my son to UVM for the start of his freshman year.

Back in December, it turns out I was already late in booking a room in Burlington for graduation weekend.  I was able to find accommodations in the next town, Colchester.  Once secured, I paid no attention to this until today, when my son put the address into his GPS to get us there.  As soon as we did, he remarked that this was the same hotel that we'd stayed in when I brought him to UVM four years ago.  I doubted this, but as soon as we drove around the back of the hotel to the entrance, I knew he was right.  So it had come full circle.  We were back where we'd begun.

With one very big difference.  When I brought him here four years ago, he was a boy.  He had those mixed emotions of excitement and dread.  I, too, had my own version of mixed emotions.  Namely, joy and sorrow.  What I remember most distinctly about that day was having dinner in a nearby restaurant.  We dined in their sports-themed dining hall, and part-way into our meal, Sam took note of the poster over my head.  "That looks like Dad," he said.  I turned around to see a picture of a young Babe Ruth, and Sam was right . . . in this particular picture, the expression on the Babe's face was akin to a look we'd often seen on Sam's dad's face.  So, yeah, it was Babe Ruth.  But in my conflicted vision, it was Pete, watching over his son, his boy.

That boy is gone.  My son . . . our son . . . is a man now, ready to step out into the world and do what he can to make it a better place.  And the same can be said of all the boys in the house at 307 Colchester Avenue.  They have all turned into men.  And they are the kind of men who can keep a clean house, prepare a good meal, and acknowledge their parents on a weekend that belongs to them. And, oh, yes . . . they also know where to get enough ice to fill a truckbed.  For free.

I love them all.

Promises Kept

I don't remember ever speaking the promise.  But that's the way we were; some things were just understood.  Or maybe it was just that some things were too painful to say out loud.  Whether or not the words were ever said, I know I made a promise to my dying husband that I would give each of our three children a college education, and that it would be his gift to them.

So now, ten years ( and 24 college semester tuitions) later, I can say that I kept my promise.  My son will graduate from the University of Vermont on Sunday, effectively ending my kids' dependence on me, at least in matters financial.

The "benefit" of dying from cancer (as opposed to being hit by a Mack truck) is that there is time to "plan."  So we were able to continue a life insurance policy, and I was able to deposit it into 529 accounts for each of our kids.  If not for the economic downturn in 2008, that investment would have covered completely those 24 semesters of cost.  But some frugal living on my part covered what the 529s could not.  Mission accomplished.

If we'd had a choice, my kids would rather have had their dad here and been in student debt up to their eyeballs.  But there were no choices.

Or there was one.  A college education was what Pete could give to them, and it was up to me to see that it happened.

So today, on the eve of my third child's graduation weekend, I am in love with the promise I kept.  I am in love with the gift of knowledge that my children received from their father . . . in the lessons he taught them, in the example he set, and in the education he provided for them.  But most of all, I am in love with the pride that I know he holds for them and in the love that they continue to have for him, evident in their successes as students and compassionate human beings.

Thanks, Pete.

Being Halfway Through a Novel

Usually, my problem is getting started.  I will find sixteen ways from Sunday (what, exactly, does that mean, anyway?) to avoid rewarding myself with the luxury of reading a novel.  If I'm on a beach or on a plane, there's no problem.  But being here at home?  There is always that to-do list, which never includes "Start reading a novel."  Or its distant cousin, "Start writing a novel."  There's always something that needs to be cleaned or weeded or cooked or refinished or sewn or sorted or stared at.  So I deny myself.

But if I actually do get started, say, on a plane, then there's a good chance that I will continue.  To be truthful, there have been novels that I've abandoned after a couple of chapters.  But getting halfway through?  I can think of only one time that I gave up enough hours of my life on earth to get halfway through a novel to then say, "Dammit!  I hate this novel!" and to toss it aside, never to be revisited.  That novel was A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole.  It's pretty much a love-it-or-hate-it novel.  It was published eleven years after Toole committed suicide, due to his mother's relentless determination to get Walker Percy to help her get it published.  And damn, if it didn't win a Pulitzer in 1981, an event which forever soured me to the respectability of the Pulitzer Prize.  I gave it all the time I could, back in the 70s, but eventually, all that farting and belching got to me, and I gave up.

I have encountered people since then who claim to have loved the book.  And these are people I respect, so I am left wondering if perhaps I was too young?  too prudish?  too inexperienced to appreciate the work?  But my wondering is not enough to get me to try again.  I am so over it.

Today, I am in love with that wondrous place halfway through a novel.  I am engaged, I am eager, I am committed to completing the mission.  Tomorrow's forecast is for 100% chance of rain, heavy at times, so guess what I will be doing?  (I will deliberately not allow myself to read any more tonight, just so that I have it to look forward to during tomorrow's rain.)  It's going to be a lovely day.

Ajuga

Invasive!  Hard to get rid of!  That's ajuga, plant of many aliases.  Carpetweed.  Bugleweed.  Carpet bugle.  Ground pine.  Or just plain Bugle.  Gardeners, be forewarned:  do not plant ajuga near areas you don't want invaded, because ajuga will prevail.

See how it just took over this blog post?

I am in love with my ajuga.  Two years ago, when I demo'd the inground pool, a portion of my property was compromised.  Specifically, in order to get the big machinery close enough to the pool, an entire hillside was removed and its dirt placed in the cavernous hole where the pool had been.  The soil brought in to rebuild the hill was terrible.  Sandy, dry, infertile.  I tried planting grass seed on the dirt, which was a waste of money.  I suppose if dandelions were desirous, I would have a nice yellow lawn on the hill.  Instead . . . ajuga to the rescue!  I invested in 32 pots of ajuga.  Planting them on the hill made my investment appear quite small, but the nursery owner (who happened to be the New Jersey Secretary of Agriculture) told me that by the end of the summer, the ajuga plants would all be holding hands with one another.  He could not have known what a dry summer it would be, and his prediction did not come true.  But if there's anything a gardener needs, it's patience.  My ajuga plants continue to grow, blending together with one another on the hillside, creating a carpet of stunning purple flowers.

Although there are obvious bald spots on my hillside, I am optimistic that a few more plants and a few more years will solve the problem.

So, patience.  Left alone, my ajuga plants will reach out to one another and unite in a bipartisan effort to conquer the hill.  If only . . .

Nah, I don't have to say it; you saw it coming, right?  Meanwhile, ajuga gets my vote.

Front Porch Swing

I hope that everyone reading this has his/her own version of my front porch swing.  I do realize that not everyone has a front porch, let alone a swing, but that's not the point of this post.  My front porch swing is the place that I go to when it's time to relax, time to put the chores of the day behind me, time to take a deep breath and tell myself that I made it through another day.

See how it beckons?  It's a two-seater.  These days, the best I can hope for is my cat to share the swing with me.  On a typical spring/summer evening, she is in the treehouse, but I just have to call, "Cassie!  Come swing with me!" and she will suddenly appear, leap up onto the open seat, and settle herself into a comfortable swinging position.  I have to do the legwork, but she gets to enjoy the ride.

The table next to the swing is just an outdoor stool, but I've placed a marble top on it to turn it into a table.  The marble top belonged to a table my grandmother had, which my sister now owns.  As the marble was scratched and chipped, my sister replaced it and offered the old one to me.  At the time, I had no idea what I would do with it, which is often the case when one accepts hand-me-downs, but the marble found a home next to my swing.  It can hold my book, my phone, my snack and my glass of wine.  And I never place anything on it without thinking of my beloved Nanny.


This late afternoon, I took my place on the swing and read for awhile.  There were birds making their bird noises and squirrels and chipmunks scurrying around in the leafy woods next door.  The sun was beginning its descent into the western sky while Cassie and I watched four deer stroll through the cornfield across the street. All was right in our world.  How could I not be in love with this?

So find your space, let your worries drift away, and breathe.  And be in love with that.

Ben's Tree

I believe I have mentioned Ben in previous posts.  Ben was a friend and housemate of my son at the University of Vermont.  Last fall, on his way home to Boston for Thanksgiving vacation, Ben died in a car accident due to slippery roads.  Although I can not claim to having known Ben well, I enjoyed conversation with him many times on my visits to my son over the last couple of years.  But even though I did not know him well, I still cannot shake the tragedy of his untimely death.

At noon today, a memorial tree planting was to take place at UVM.   

Doubtless many of you knew, or were influenced by, Benjamin Mohla. Ben was a kind, hilarious person and a phenomenal friend. To share some of the great memories he provided us with, and as a means of commemorating him, we invite you to join us in the planting a White Oak tree outside of the Aiken Center on the afternoon of May 12th, which would have been Ben’s 22nd birthday.  The tree will be planted as part of the native landscape installation for the Rubenstein School’s Greening of Aiken Project.

What a grand tree!  I think it was a fitting selection to honor Ben.

As is often the case, I turn to poetry when I need to process something emotional.  And so it is today.  My go-to poet for poems of nature is Mary Oliver, whom I was fortunate to have critique my own poetry while an MFA student at Vermont College.  And I found this:

When I Am Among the Trees

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
   but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."

Well, if that isn't Ben, I don't know what is.  To go easy, to be filled/ with light, and to shine.  Shine on, Ben, shine on.  I am in love with your shining memory.

Lady's Mantle

I guess I'd read in some magazine that Lady's Mantle (alchemilla mollis) makes a good border plant in perennial gardens, and I was able to find some at a nearby nursery.  That was a few years ago.  I have never regretted that purchase.  Lady's mantle is dependable, predictable, and just a beautiful green.  But the best thing about Lady's Mantle is the way it holds on to dewdrops.  I think you can see them in the picture, yes?  Go ahead, click on the picture to make it larger.  See them?  In the morning, Lady's Mantle glistens with dewdrops, little crystalline jewels flirting with the sun.

Apparently, Lady's Mantle has some medicinal properties.  Specifically, it can help with menstrual cramps.  (Wish I'd known that about 50 years ago.)  The name Alchemilla comes from the Arabic 'alkemelych', alchemist, bestowed by olden writers because of the wonder-working powers of the plant. Like many flowers, this plant was associated with the Virgin Mary in the Middle Ages.  Many believed that alchemical virtues lay in the subtle influence the rich accordion foliage imparted to the dewdrops that lay within its leaves.  These dewdrops were used in many a mystic potion. In Sweden, an old authority states that if placed under the pillow at night the herb will promote a good night's sleep  (www.anniesremedy.com).


I will let you know if I have a good night's sleep.

But back to those dewdrops.  These beads of water were considered by alchemists to be the purest form of water. They utilized this water in their quest to turn base metal into gold. Hence the name Alchemilla (Wikipedia).  Well, then, I guess I have some alchemy to attend to.

No, not really.  If a mantle is something that covers, envelops, or conceals, I think I will let the Lady's Mantle keep its secrets.  It is enough for me to witness the magical dewdrops every morning on my garden walk.  It is enough for me to love.

The Mother in All of Us

I know it's a day early, but since I will be busy tomorrow pretending it's just another day, I thought I'd get my Mother's Day tribute in tonight.  My own mother is no longer alive, and my three kids live too far away to visit, although I did think the one in Australia would at least make an effort to come for the weekend.  ;)

Without meaning to offend anyone, I must admit that I am not a fan of Mother's Day.  Or Father's Day.  Or Grandparents Day.  Or Third Cousin Twice Removed Day.  While these can be happy occasions for those fortunate enough to have all their relatives alive and well and not dysfunctional, I think these designated days can be painful for those less fortunate.  If I take a mental inventory of the people I know, I could quickly run out of fingers and toes to count those for whom the day might be a struggle to get through.  I'm thinking of Lyndsay and Trish, who lost their mothers when they were children.  I'm thinking of Amy, who lost her mother in a fire shortly after she left for college.  And I'm thinking of Jessie, who has suffered too many miscarriages to become a mother.  I'm thinking of Mary, whose cervical cancer when she was young took away her chance at motherhood, and I'm thinking of my sister, whose daughter has estranged herself from her family.  I'm thinking of my friend Lori and my cousin Lynne, who lost their sons so young.  I'm thinking of all the people I don't know whose mothers are dead or drug-addicted or in prison or nowhere to be found.  And the mothers for whom the same is true of their children.  But "Happy Mother's Day!" we chirp at them.  Happy?

So on the eve of this Hallmark holiday on which all mothers are saints, let's take a minute to think why.  There are qualities ascribed to mothers that we all champion, primary among them the idea of nurturing.  (As if only mothers have this ability.)  And I do place nurturing pretty high on the list of adjectives I would like people to use when they talk about me at my memorial service.  So what does one do to be considered  nurturing?  Feed and protect, support and encourage, educate and train.  Last time I checked, one did not have to have given birth to be able to do those things.

Last year, my son called me to tell me about something exciting he'd just learned.  Apparently, while I was pregnant with him, he and I were exchanging fluids, back and forth, for the ten months (almost) that I carried him.  As a result, he told me, my DNA was in him, and his DNA was in me.  The fact that my son was so excited about this discovery meant more to me than the actual truth of it.  So if I have a "maternal instinct," I must have shared that with my son.  My point is . . . we're made of the same stuff.  We are all capable of being loving, caring, nurturing individuals.  So why don't we celebrate that?

So today I am in love with the Mother in All of Us.  And just so I don't have to feel like a humbug, Peaceful Mother's Day Wherever You Are to my own dear mother.

Blank page

Okay, I am going to fall in love with this blank page because I don't know what else to do.  I've been staring at it for awhile now, and there's a temptation to become less than happy about its whiteness.  I know I am supposed to fill it with words and pictures and impressions of love, but for whatever reason, today I am having a hard time doing that.  I had a good day, there were things love-worthy about it, but sorting out a particular element to focus on has become an exercise in futility.  Maybe it's the gray weather, maybe it's the prospect of a lonely weekend, but I'm just not finding the love today.

But the day is not over.  There is still time to fill in the blanks, right?

So I'm thinking back to when my babies were born.  It was important to have a Baby Book, a pretty bound notebook into which I could record all those firsts, all the miracles that would occur as this infant grew into a baby into a toddler into a child.  All those blank pages, just waiting for smiles and words and crawling and walking and potty-training.  And all of it happened . . . and maybe I found the time to write it all down.

Then there was school and that first report card of the year.  As and Bs and 1s, 2s, and 3s filled in the blanks, but there were so many blanks waiting to be filled.  It would take years and years until all the blanks were filled in.  And then, one day, they were.

Two of my children have become writers.  They confront the blank page all the time, and somehow they manage to fill it with stories and information and wit and wisdom.  For all of my three children, their lives are the blank pages now.  They want to fill the pages with more learning, satisfying careers, home and family.  I think they are eager to get something written down, something secure, something to assure them they are headed in the right direction.  But the pages are theirs now, and I cannot fill in the blanks for them anymore.

I have my own blank pages to deal with.  I'm not done here yet.  There are more countries to visit, more perennials to plant, more poems to write, more people to meet, more music to listen to, more books to read, more contemplating the Universe to do.

And I guess I am in love with all the pages I have yet to fill.

The View

I am not in love with the TV show The View (I don't even have cable TV), but I was sitting in the audience for today's live show.  I'd done this a couple of times before with my friend Margaret who got free tickets, and so I put in for tickets myself about two years ago.  And then, a couple of weeks ago, I received an email telling me I could attend today's show.  So why not?  They often give away free stuff on these shows.  A couple of years ago, Margaret and I walked away with over $500 worth of stuff.  Another time, nada.  You never know.

So we met up with our friend Nancy and took our place in line.  In the rain.  At the end of the show, we had a $100 AmEx gift card and guest artist Sarah McLachlan's new CD.  Better yet, we had a fun time at the show and at lunch afterward, so it was well worth the drive in to the city.

In thinking about what I could fall in love with today (and knowing it would not be a TV talk show), I thought about the view.  The view from High Point Monument, the view from Sunrise Mountain, the view when driving over Hawks Nest, the view at Buttermilk Falls.  These are local places that I cherish for their beauty.  I know I am fortunate to live in a place where these views are only a short drive away.  I seek them out when my soul needs some perspective and inspiration.

I am also fortunate to have visited other views not so close to home.  I have looked down into the rainforest while ziplining in Costa Rica.  I have viewed the incredible colors of fish and coral when snorkeling on the Great Barrier Reef.  I have followed the serpentine green of the Northern Lights in Iceland.  I have felt small while standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon or Oregon's Crater Lake.  I have looked up at the red hoodoo formations from the bottom of Utah's Bryce Canyon.  I have looked down on the rust-colored rooftops of Florence from Fiesole.

The world is full of amazing views.  Some are on the other side of the world, but some are in your own backyard.  I believe I am most in love with the view from my own front porch.  Whatever the view, it is probably better than the one on your TV screen.  And it just might be worth your love.

Asparagus

You have to wait three years for asparagus.  If you grow it, that is.  It is an exercise in patience.  Our original garden (when my late husband was the gardener) had asparagus, but when we installed an inground pool, that garden was gone.  And we didn't plant asparagus again.  It was always, "Well, ya gotta wait three years, so why bother?"  Obviously, if we had bothered, I'd be enjoying asparagus these last many years!

When I demo'd the pool and put in raised beds, I planted asparagus.  And this is the third year!  I am eagerly looking forward to asparagus risotto, asparagus soup, and just plain old asparagus.

If you look at the picture, you can see the beautiful, thick asparagus spear on the left, which I will be picking in a day or two.  On the right is a new shoot, obviously not ready for harvesting.  Patience, remember?

I read an article that came through my Facebook newsfeed the other day that suggested asparagus can cure cancer.  Now, this makes me a bit angry.  Yes, it is true that asparagus is good for you.  It is healthy and you should be eating it, especially now, in the spring.  But does it cure cancer?  Tell that to the people who lost loved ones to cancer, whether or not those loved ones ate asparagus.  The response is either, "Well, it didn't work for my husband" or "You mean he'd still be alive if I'd fed him asparagus?"  Neither of these responses will make anyone happy.

So this is what I've harvested so far.  And in case you don't know, this is what you do with an asparagus stalk:  gently bend the stalk and it will naturally break at the point where edible meets reedy.  So put down the knife and let nature do its thing.  These slight stalks are edible, and once I've gathered a few more in the coming days, I will have myself an asparagus feast.

I haven't even tasted my third-year asparagus yet, but I am already in love with the anticipation of it.  After all, I have waited three years to fall in love.
 

Cheese and Crackers

. . . and wine.

Everyday, around four or five o'clock, I take a break from whatever chore I am in the midst of and have my own little happy hour.  It is very informal, usually occurring at my computer desk.  The essentials are Chardonnay and a snack, either pistachios or cheese and crackers.  Today, the pistachios were gone, so it was cheese and crackers.  Specifically, white cheddar cheese and Triscuit Cracked Pepper and Olive Oil crackers.  Break the crackers into thirds and cut the cheese into very small pieces so I can stretch out the time that I get to enjoy them.  (I am not as conservative with the wine.)

It's a ritual.  It marks a place in the day, a place where I have accomplished something that warrants a break.  It is that place where I can pat myself on the back and say, "Good job!  You tilled the garden beds/cleaned up the perennial gardens/built that stone wall/did all the laundry/paid all the bills/wrote a poem/changed the cat litter/painted that furniture/renewed your donotcall status/wrote a letter to the editor.  Whatever it was, it deserves cheese and crackers.  And wine.

It is usually at this time that I write my daily post for this blog.  So what could be conceived as a chore becomes, instead, an extension of the HAPPY hour!

As the weather gets warmer, my cheese-and-cracker time will move to the front porch, where the late afternoon sun will decorate the porch swing such that my cat will join me in a contemplative hour of appreciation for this home in the country.  Either the blog post will have already been written or it will await my return to the computer.  Which one, it remains to be seen.  Either way, I will have my cheese and crackers at the appropriate time.  Because ritual is ritual, and I will not mess with that.

Now go pour yourself a glass, open the box of crackers, slice the cheese, and start your blog.  Make your own ritual.

Changes

Change is hard.  (But not always.)

I have always been a strong believer in the adage You gotta love your space.  Actually, that's not an adage; I think it's just something I say.  It has always been important to me to live in a space that I find visually appealing, but that doesn't mean hiring an interior decorator or purchasing expensive furniture.  It means creating an environment where the colors are comforting and the arrangement of pieces is appealing to the eye.  But like anything else, a stagnant decor can be less than inspiring.  So I like to change it up every once in awhile, make it new again.

Maybe it's obsessive-compulsive, but I change my dishes every season.  Yes, that's right.  I have spring/summer dishes (bright, colorful flowers), autumn dishes (leaves and berries), Christmas dishes (subtle; no Santa Clauses), and winter dishes (my favorite, in blue and silver on white).  Changing these dishes alters my mood and helps me embrace the changing weather as well as the shift in food preferences.  Salads give way to soups, and I have the dishes to accommodate the change!

But I also change window treatments, pillows, seat cushions, placemats, and bedding with the seasons.  Today, I changed out my bedroom, putting away the dark and heavy cranberry drapes and comforter for cream and mauve valances and an ivory duvet cover.  And just like that, my bedroom retreat goes from cozy winter into light and airy spring.  I find myself standing in the doorway, taking in the changes, and feeling unburdened and (dare I say it?) optimistic.  Within the next week, my windows will add a brilliant green to my color scheme, adding even more spring to my decor.  I can't wait until it's warm enough to open the windows!

So change can be good.  It allows me to fall in love with my space again.  Talk about a mood enhancer!  What have you changed lately?

Fallen Branches

I am hoping that by the end of this post, I will have found a reason to fall in love with all the tree branches that I gathered today.  This is just one of three piles of branches that I amassed:

We all know it was a rough winter for humans.  But it was rough on the trees, too.  The collateral damage was evident all over my property.  To make matters worse, over the last few years, I'd built up piles of stray twigs and branches just beyond the stone walls that define my hosta and fern beds, and now it was time to pay for my mistake.  The piled up branches had risen in volume, creating an eyesore.  Time to take it down.

May the Fourth be with me!  I dressed in long pants, long sleeves, high boots, work gloves, and a hoodie to brave the wilderness.  Putting aside my fear of snakes and ticks (and other things with a k in them), I began moving branches, limbs, and dead trees as far out into the woods as I could navigate.  This meant being continually slapped in the face by the unwieldy boughs of the spindly bushes that insist on growing wherever they please.  But after a few hours, my cleanup was paying off.  The stone wall was visible again.  And I'd only nearly impaled myself once.

So what do I love about these piles of sticks?  Well, I love that I live in a place that has them.  I cannot imagine living where there are no trees.  And I love that woods surround my property and that I can walk in them at will.  And I love that my piles of branches might become home to some little critters . . . even if they are snakes.

Birdsong

Unless I need to wake up at 4:00 a.m. to get to the airport, I do not use an alarm clock or any other wakening device.  Well, wait . . . perhaps my cat can be considered a wakening device when she asks to go out in the wee hours.  But my preferred method of waking up, other than "waking with the light," is birdsong.  The volume on this music is increasing daily, but other than the squawking of the crows and bluejays, it's all melodious and dreamy, a beautiful way to greet the day.

My daughter, the birder, could probably identify all the birds in the choir, but I only know a few.  The wrens amaze me with their soprano.  How so much sound can come out of those tiny bodies is just stunning.  The mournful coo of the dove is another bird sound that is easily identifiable.  This spring, I am noticing more mourning dove couples on my property, nesting in the rhododendron and a large pine tree.  Their ooOOoo . . . oo, oo, oo is haunting and soulful.  The sound sends me back to childhood, with a snippet of memory of me sitting on the front porch, listening to the cooing and recognizing that it matched my mood.  It was a precocious understanding of the loneliness of self.

But the sad sound of the doves is more than forgiven with the joyful chirp of the wrens.  I have four little birdhouses that the wrens called home two summers ago.  Despite my meticulous cleaning out of the houses last spring, no wrens moved in.  I am hopeful that they will move back in this spring to amuse me with their comings and goings, ever singing as they go about their homemaking and parenting, despite the watchful eyes of my cat.



So I am in love with birdsong, a love that will still be strong many months from now.  Good morning!

Forsythia

What else is there to say?

Well, apparently, I need to say something, or I will be kicking myself for cheating on this assignment.

Despite the fact that I have always loved forsythia (I even love saying the word), I have never, ever had a forsythia bush on my property.  Which doesn't mean I didn't want to.  The time for planting forsythia seems to coincide with the financial recovery from heating oil bills, income taxes due, and property taxes pending.  So to spend large amounts of money on enough forsythia plants to line the border of my property has always been a no-go.  Hindsight is always informative:  if I'd planted just one forsythia a year, I would now have a resplendent border of joyous yellow flowers.  Or, if I was more ambitious at this time of year, I would have rooted some forsythia cuttings years ago and would now be standing back, admiring the blast of springtime hope that is forsythia.  But April and May are so full of garden and yard duties, I have resisted foresight.  My bad.

No matter.  It seems that everyone else has forsythia, and all I have to do is take a ride to anywhere, and I will be treated to a brilliant display of yellow.  The picture above was taken on my drive home from meeting my friend Nora for dinner.  I just pulled over, pointed my little camera, and the forsythia was mine.

How can anyone not fall in love with yellow flowers?  Especially those as insistent as forsythia.  There they are, all over the roadside, just daring you to be gloomy.  Look at us! they say.  Be happy!  And I fall for their pitch every time.

Cleaning up

Well, no, I am not really in love with cleaning up.  But I am in love with the results of cleaning up the garden beds.  The sun came out this afternoon, allowing me to spend a few hours on the endless task.  It is mindless work, but sometimes, mindless work is a good thing.  It allows my thoughts to wander while I am being productive.  My cat (the one who did not succumb to diabetes, but instead, seems healthy and happy . . . without insulin) sidled up against me while I sat on the paving stones and picked up leaves and debris.  Occasionally, I had to dig down to get the roots of the incessant clover or put my spade to use in order to dig up a dandelion.  (The clover could rival the NYC subway system in its wanderings, and the dandelions win the award for Most Stubborn.)  But little by little, section by section, the gardens begin to look clean and promising.  These are mostly perennial gardens, full of black-eyed Susans, yellow primrose, thyme, blue fescue, echinacea, ajuga, and things I don't remember the names of because I planted them years ago.

These gardens were among my first projects when I found myself widowed nearly a dozen years ago.  In an attempt to minimize the amount of yard devoted to lawn, I pulled up all the crappy grass and bought every perennial I could find on sale and began planting.  In those early years, I waited patiently for results.  A gardening friend had wisely told me, "First year, they sleep.  Second year, they creep.  Third year, they leap!"  And he was so right!  At this point, they have a tendency to reveal their wild side, so maintenance is mandatory.  No more being tentative when cleaning up a batch of thyme.  I yank it out at will.  Echinacea presents a never-ending problem, as it wants to take over everything.  Although the primrose, daisies and echinacea will not bloom for several weeks, this is the best time for a perennial garden.  Everything is young and hopeful.  And clean.

I have many more hours ahead at this task of cleaning up.  But the rewards are quick to come.  The trick is to get the clean-up done before the growth takes over.  Today is the first of May, a month full of so much promise, it is hard not to be optimistic.  When I was a child, on May first, my best friend and I picked dandelions and violets and placed our little bouquets on the doorsteps of the houses in our neighborhood.  We would ring the doorbell and run and hide, then watch behind the bushes to see the faces on the women who found our little May Day gifts.  Despite the one old crone who yelled at us, we felt good about our springtime ritual. 

My ritual now is different, but it still holds the same kind of love.  It is the love hidden in the plants and flowers, waiting for someone to notice.