25 mph speed limit

It’s hard to do, almost feels like crawling.  It’s a post you’ll find in a school zone or a highly congested area, like downtown, with pedestrians crossing, traffic lights, drivers double parked waiting for a spot to open.  You’ll also find it on a back country road where you see signs depicting animal crossings like turtles, ducks, and deer.  Signs of blind drives and children playing, weight limits on bridges crossing small brooks.  These roads, almost expanded cart paths from days of old, have curves you can’t see around from a distance, and knolls you can’t see over until you are at the crest.  Slow it down, there may be a mother and baby in stroller, a jogger, a girl walking her horse, neighbors chatting at the mailbox just around the bend you can’t see.  These roads often snake around outcropping of ledges that can’t be moved, trees that are elders in the landscape with trunks so large they deserve respect but prevent any sort of shoulder off the pavement.  With two-way traffic about to intersect, one driver must yield to the other and pull to the side, as there is only room for one.  This is especially true when a school bus or trash truck are navigating, just trying to do their job.  Pull over, pause, wave, and smile.  It is a friendly road.  I live on this road.  It is marked Cross Street, a “scenic road.”  If you slow down you can notice the stone walls and gates, the turkeys crossing at the brook, the children playing in the front yard kicking soccer balls, you may even hear the donkey.    Some years ago, I became the queen of backroad driving.  I had some sort of unexplained vertigo when driving 80 mph on 95, and I lost some of my confidence racing down the highway.  I venture that way sometimes, but find it far less stressful to slow it down.  When using the GPS, the backroads are nearly always shorter in distance but take longer because of the previously mentioned deterrents to speed.  A smart driver knows this and when in a hurry, may chance the shortcut to get to …work, date, appointment, fill in the blank, on time because they find themselves running late.  Hopefully, they will use the brake, crack the window and take in the laughter of the playing children and barking dogs, the fragrance of the blossoming trees, wave at the old neighbors visiting at their driveways taking a break from their raking, and enjoy the scenic drive.  It’s not meant to be a short cut, and you can tack an extra 10 minutes on for your boss if you arrive a little late.  Slow it down, you won’t regret it. 

Don't forget to remember, final

We called him “Clarm”, short for Uncle Armand, my mother’s younger brother.  I can still hear him playing Creedance Clearwater Revival in the back bedroom, and coming into the kitchen happy as a kid declaring all is well.  “C’est c’est bon bon” he’d say, talk/laughing.  He’d come to stay with us to help my mom out shortly after my dad had left.  He was not tied down to anything or anyone, landed a temporary job with another uncle, bunked in the back bedroom and provided support for a short while.  That was him, he’d come, then he’d go, and he was always happy.  Turns out he had lived his life like that, was married for a week or so, didn’t work out, life of every party, worrying my grandmother…not worrying himself.  He had something special rolled up in his smoking papers and loved to drink beer, and wander to the next gig.  He served in the military during the time of the Vietnam War, but was lucky enough to be directed to Europe.  He most likely served because he needed something to do, and when his tour was up, he’d find something else to do.  Unlike any other adult in my life, he connected with old and young, had no high expectations of anyone, even himself.  I loved being around him.  I grew up and went to college and then on to Alaska and got married.  One day, I had a knock on my door.  It was Clarm, so unexpected.  He had come to some awareness that the life he was living was leading him nowhere, so he ran away from home, New Hampshire…to the farthest place he could get to, Alaska.  And he was not turning back.  But the air quality did not suit him or his lungs, he was sick.  I don’t know how he found me, but he did, and he came to live with me, staying in my spare bedroom.  And he stayed there long after I left.  He met and married Rosa, started businesses, and lived a rich and adventurous life.  He found his path and got his health back.    After many years in the last frontier, he purchased a home and a business back in the land of his roots, New Hampshire.  He was ready to return, and he did with three young sons who were teetering on manhood.  Rosa became very ill with cancer, and lost her battle in 2019.  The last conversation I had with Clarm, he was in the hospital fighting something in his lungs.  When he recovered he was planning to develop the land he owned on the mountain and ride his four wheeler and hunt and fish with his boys.  He never recovered, following Rosa by just a few months, leaving their boys without parents in 2020 just as they were trying to figure out life.  When I think about how serious life gets, how difficult it can seem to strive, I remember my special Uncle, who didn’t grow up too soon, who laughed always, and never took himself seriously, sprinkling joy wherever he went.  C’est c’est bon bon, it is good, it is good.  It was so good to know you Clarm, thank you for teaching me that growing up does not mean letting go of that kid within me…and that all is well, hee, hee!

Don't forget to remember, part 5

Irene Eva Laro was my mother’s mother and I called her Grammy.  She was the last living of my grandparents, reaching 89 long years…a great stride for such a petite woman.  The funny thing about my grandparents is they all made such an impact on my life, but I didn’t really meet them until they were in their fifties, and able to have a mutual relationship until they were into their sixties.  They had lived a full life before I came along.  And this was true for Grammy Osgood in particular.  There was a back story that she kept deep inside.  For some, what you see is what they are.  For her, there was so much more that didn’t reach the surface.  I can only write of my experience with her and it was wonderful.  Imagine you are staying at a bed and breakfast nestled near the mountains, rivers, and lakes of New Hampshire, in a tiny village filled with historic homes and scenic roads.  Your room houses a queen bed with an oak headboard, matching the grains and finish of the vintage dresser.  You pull down your bedcovers and the smell of freshly pressed linens and clean air come from your sheets.  It is peaceful here.  After a restful sleep you awake to percolated coffee, with a small woman standing at the stove, dressed in her apron, poking and turning bacon in the cast iron skillet, getting it ready to serve with toasted homemade bread, jam, and potatoes from the garden…and eggs how you like them.  There will be homemade pie for dessert, at breakfast!  That’s a sampling of what it was like to stay at Grammy’s…it was quiet, peaceful, and delicious.  Like Grampy, she was not one for conversation, but she enjoyed my company.   After her shift at the split-ball bearing plant…she must have quit at nine, because she would return and I’d already be in my jammies as a young girl.  She would make popped corn on the stove and smother it in butter, pour herself a brandy and me a homemade root beer from her cellar and we’d watch a show…maybe “Hee-Haw” or a western…I don’t remember, I just remember loving staying up late and having a snack with her.  And I know she loved having me there.  When it was time for bed, she’d do the usual encouragements…”brush your teeth and say your prayers.”  After I was done, I peeked into her room and she would be kneeling beside her bed, deep in prayer.  Then she’d come tuck me in.  I felt like she had a direct line to God and I wanted that, too.  My parents didn’t take me to church when I was real young, but Grammy did.  Church was a place where we whispered, and walked quietly, and revered the space.  Years later, my family and I attended churches labeled “charismatic” or “Pentecostal”…and I struggled with all the drama of it.  I longed for the reverence that Grammy had for this time set aside with God.    She was like that with everything she did, it was all sacred.  She made her pies with such intention and feeling, she set peas in little porcelain or china bowls and placed them just to the left of the main plate…dinner time was sacred and the table was set beautifully.  The beds were made lovingly with sheets that had dried on the line.   And she loved holding babies, the precious new lives welcomed into the family.  And she lived longer, so held more than the others, as her tribe grew into grands and great-grands, and I believe even great-greats!  I remember you, Grammy, and love you so much.  Every Sunday morning, I make a special breakfast, and use your turning fork, my precious inheritance.  You have shared with me the incredible gift of hospitality, and the importance of walking intentionally and quietly with God.  Thank you.

Don't forget to remember, post 4

Marie Dolores Bourgeois, what a beautiful name, for a beautiful lady. She was my father’s mother, and I called her Grammy. She came from Canada for a better life away from the farm and cold. She didn’t get too far, she made it to New Hampshire, but she was able to wear red lipstick, pretty dresses, fur collars to church on Sunday, and ride in my grandfather’s cadillac with the top down. Not speaking any English when she met and married my grandfather, she would learn the language from soap operas she’d watch during her afternoon break from household chores, simultaneously knitting a beautiful afghan with a cable stitch down the middle. She would often mix her French in with English, then laugh at her silliness. I’d laugh, too. She was easy to be with and I spent alot of time with her. As a child I didn’t know the reasons why I slept at her house so much, even went to half of my first grade from her house. There was trouble brewing at home, and Grammy took me in for long periods. It is a blur to me where my other siblings went. All I know is I was lucky to get up to pancakes that filled the whole skillet, and cake donuts on Sunday mornings drenched in pure maple syrup. Sitting on a vanity stool beside her, I would admire Grammy as she would primp in her mirror, spraying on perfume from beautiful bottles, choosing the perfect clip-on earrings to match her dress, brush out the curls of her golden hair (she was a natural brunette, but chose to be blonde) and spray it into place. I was a ragamuffin in comparison with pigtails and overalls. She loved me as I was and gave me a line to remember always, “you need to love what you see in the mirror, so be who you are!” She and Grampy did not have much money, but they did their best to look like they did. The two homes I remember her being in were two bedroom ranches with one shared bath and a tiny kitchen. But the clothes she wore and the cars she rode in told the world that they were high class! Grammy had a part-time job as a housecleaner for a rich family on Lake Sunapee, and I would tag along during my stays with her. She polished silver as if it were her own and dusted the fancy chandeliers. After a simple lunch, she and I would put on our bathing suits and take a dip in the lake, pretending we were cooling off on the shore of our very own summer home. Shortly before she died at the age of 87, I spent a weekend with her, listening to stories of her childhood in Canada. Raised on a large farm, there were no screens on the windows and there would be flies everywhere…and there was always hard work to do. Though she missed her siblings deeply, she bravely crossed a border and made a new life for herself. Thank you, Grammy, for your courage, your wonderful laugh, your mixed up words, and your ability to live in the richness of the moment. Every six weeks or so I think I should just go gray, but change my mind and put on a bit of color at my roots, because I want to like who I see in the mirror. I miss you and I love you, Grammy!

Don't forget to remember, post 3

My father’s father died at the age of 76.  I called him Grampy, and he was so full of life to die so young.  I remember him telling me that he is the last person he’d ever think would get cancer as if he, too, thought he would live forever.  But he smoked from the minute he got up til he went to bed, and probably suffered from PTSD, though he had no use for labels and those letters weren’t part of his vocabulary like they are ours.  He will have a flag at his grave to indicate his service…he was a CB, construction battalion member, who served in the Philippines during WWII.  He didn’t talk about it much, but I did hear a story that a comrade was blown up right in front of him, missing Grampy by inches.  It changed him.  But that was before I knew him.

Grampy was in many ways the complete opposite of my mother’s father.  His cars were shiny, his shoes were shiny, his hair was slick, and he was not silent.  He loved to tell a story, and start an argument.  He was full of challenges, having us kids compete…how fast can you run? How long can you hold a hand stand?  How good is your cartwheel?  How far can you swim?  If I dared speak at the dinner table, I’d better be willing and able to defend my opinion…he liked to argue and debate.  He would take me for motorcycle rides on the back country roads of New Hampshire, just to go for a ride.  He taught me to get back in the saddle when I fell off, literally.  We both shared an interest in horses, so he gave me his cherished army saddle and would take me riding, and when I got bucked off, and got back on, it made him proud.  I started my college career in equine studies, and did a lot of riding on that saddle as a young woman, thanks to his encouragement.  He wanted me to play piano so badly, he said I had the fingers for it, whatever that means.  With no money for lessons and no piano, I traded housework and cat sitting in the home of a nearby piano teacher for practice time and tutoring.  I learned to play, thanks to his encouragement.  One of my favorite memories of Grampy was of him holding a honey bee in the palm of his hand on a cold spring morning.  The bee had lost its way from the hive and appeared to be dead in the snow. He put a drop of honey on his finger for the bee to “lick”…he revived it and calmly returned it to one of his beehives.  Though I’ve seen him exhibit a nasty temper at times, this moment revealed his tender, gentle side and love for life.  I became a beekeeper many years later, thanks to his example.  He truly was larger than life to me, he made me feel like his favorite, as I’m sure he did his other grandkids.  I think of him often, especially when I am gardening and a honey bee comes over to sip nectar on a flower near my fingers, I smile and say hello.

Don't forget to remember, part 2

I was lucky to know all four of my grandparents. Russell Ward Osgood was my mother’s father; I called him Grampy. I sat on his lap as a little girl and rode on his tractor with him while he mowed the lawn. And then I mostly just watched him. He had quiet down to a science. He rarely spoke, only when he had something important to say. He walked quietly, though he carried a large frame. He danced smoothly and lovingly with my grandmother. He sat in the corner chair wearing his green uniform…work shirt and matching work pants, like Dickies or Carhartts, reading mystery novels or the newspaper. But what he gave me was a love for the outdoors. During the day, he would go off to the sawmill to work. When he returned he would stack his own woodpile as if it were a work of art, and it was. There was a small glass greenhouse extending off the basement of the home he built. He would spend hours there, getting seedlings started and ready for the garden. Petunias and other bedding flowers were started there also, before planting out along his front foundation for summer color. Tilling the garden, making long furrows, was also an intentional practice, loose and straight, and in full sun. Peas, and beans, and of course potatoes, tomatoes, cucumbers and more went into the perfect soil. Grampy drove us kids in his pickup truck the day of the infamous “accident”, where we all miraculously survived. He did not make a big production out of all his broken bones and smashed stepside, or his trip to the hospital. I never remember hearing the story from him, it was just another day, and he did what he had to do. During my high school years, he came to visit us in Massachusetts after my mom had surgery. It was getting dark and I went looking for him, finding him on the front porch staring at the sky. “Whatcha doing Grampy?” I asked. He pointed at the moon. “When I got out here it was over there,” pointing to the left. “Now it’s here.” Moving his large finger to the right directing it at the full moon. And that was the extent of our conversation. He was 82 when he died, quietly as he lived. I was 32, a young mother, and he had met both of my children. I remember him especially this weekend, because it is time for planting. I find myself talking to him as I put seeds in the ground, asking him if he would do it this way. I remember you, Grampy, and look forward to the next full moon when we can look at it together. You have blessed my life so quietly.

Don't forget to remember

Memorial Day weekend is racing upon us, coming early this year.  The unofficial start of summer, a time to open pools, get the camper ready for weeks of fun, and get the garden in…it is technically a day to remember those who lost their lives in service to their country.  There will be parades, and cookouts, and an extra day tacked on to the weekend to help us celebrate this day of remembrance.   I have worked in the garden center business for decades now, and I know that most people remember all their loved ones who have gone on, military or not, by visiting the burial sites and decorating them with flower baskets.  Today I remember my friend.

I became friends with her in high school.  An unlikely match.  She played softball, field hockey and basketball and earned letterman’s jackets for her excellence.  I twirled baton, for which I also earned letters, and she would joke that baton twirling is a poor excuse for a sport.  Perhaps she was right, she had bruises from the field hockey stick, but I had singed arm-hair from the fire baton…it counted to me.  We dated close friends, so we spent many weekends together, and we served on the yearbook committee together, she as a photographer, and me, who knows.  I don’t recall other classes together, and I don’t remember long phone calls, shopping trips, gossip sessions, sleepovers, typical bestie stuff.  But I do remember her laugh.  She loved a party and she loved to bring people together, and she liked me, despite our differences.   We would run together in the late afternoon on the turf of the Whitinsville Country Club, barefoot.  We ate ice cream at Friendly’s…hers was black raspberry, and mine was chocolate chip.  We drank kahlua sombreros on the weekends; those days the drinking age was 18, and it was not hard to find a friend a couple years older who would “buy” for us.  One summer, tired of the same old routine of hanging out at the summer league basketball courts, I called her and asked if she would like to go to York Beach and see what we could find for work.  She said yes, and we left the next day, my mother drove us there and just dropped us off…we had no job, and no place to stay, and one bike between us.  After a week in an overpriced boarding house, we scored a job at the iconic Goldenrod, working the same shift, and found a secluded “cottage” on Rte 1A for $25/week.  We had the summer at the beach that you read about, including being outlawed in the state of Maine for a short while, but that is another story…it involves a lobster trap.  She studied marketing and went on to a promising career.  I graduated with a liberal arts degree and went off on another adventure, to Alaska.  She came up to my wedding a couple years later, my only invited guest; my parents and family could not afford the trip, but she came.  We sat on the bank of the river the night before the ceremony, drinking Kahlua.  She said, “you don’t need to do this, you know.”  She was right, and she was honest, and she was supportive, she was my friend, she was not afraid to tell me the truth, and that is what I love and miss about her the most.  I got married, and she went home.  I had children and she pursued a promising career.  At the age of 29, while away with other mutual friends celebrating New Year’s Eve, her car veered off the slippery road, and her life ended just as 1990 ended.  I do not know if she would have married, travelled, had children…but I do know we would still be friends.  I last visited her grave the weekend before I was planning to marry for the second time.  I brought a small bottle of Kahlua and shared it with her as I told her all about Jack.  I can hear her laughing now…she would have loved him.  I miss you, Denise.  You made a wonderful impact on my life.   I will not forget to remember you.

Fiddlehead ferns and Dandelion greens

My grandmother loved to hunt for treasures. Like old bottles in the ground on the edge of a property used for dumping in a time gone by. She had her finds lined up on a shelf or window sill, displayed in blues and gold, burgundy and green. Saturday morning you could find her driving around town and beyond to check out the neighborhood yard sales, looking for something valuable that someone was letting go of for 25 cents. This time of year, she would go foraging for early greens to put on the supper table. Along the creek beds she would harvest fiddleheads from the emerging ferns, and dig out dandelion greens from the grass. I ate her delicious greens as a side but do not remember watching her prepare them. I know there was butter and onions involved! On one of my recent morning walks I saw the fiddleheads rising tall and thought of my grandmother. I did a little research about the preparation of them…not for the faint of heart. Though loaded with many nutrients (yay Gram!), they must be carefully prepared, to avoid a stomach ache. I remember the dandelion greens being a little bitter; perhaps that is why I love arugula so much, full of flavor and a little bitter. I am not willing to forage like my grandmother did, a little leery of the exposure to the environmental hazards we bring to the creeks and turf during our era. My own garden is really getting a pokey start with the cool nights still lingering…by this time I would be snapping some asparagus, but my crop is not liking the spring and looks like it may just go to “fern”. I will use that later for cut flower bouquets. And I’ll have to wait a little bit longer to put my own greens on the dinner plate. Off to Market Basket…

The Dock.

My room comes with a view of the Mountain and lake, but this morning is gray, the clouds are low and it is only in my imagination that there is a beautiful mountain hiding in this blanket of fog.  The lake is apparent but as gray as the sky, so only provides a canvas for the dock that is floating about 50 feet from shore.  The kayaks lined up in front of the equipment shed and the grass they are sitting on provide the only color in front of me.  And so I imagine.  Soon the lakeside will be filled with screaming kids, splashing and jumping in.  I know, because I was one of those kids.  The New Hampshire lakes I swam in seemed to all have a dock.  That magical platform for jumping from, and pushing off, and engaging in false boxing matches with the loser falling over the edge…and on quiet days a place to sun my skin.  When my children were little, we rented a small cottage on a lake not far from our home for a week each summer, that was our vacation.  The dock was set in the water the first week of May and came back out of the lake to be stored for the winter sometime around Columbus Day.  We’d hardly pulled in the parking spot, no time to unpack, the kids already in their suits would yell, “Race you to the dock!”  And for the next several days, that one simple object provided a launching pad for fun.  One summer, my little brave Westie, Wally, would hitch a ride out to the dock on the paddle boat with the kids or me, day after day, jumping in and sometimes swimming the length back to shore.  He had the vacation of his dreams on the lake.  When we returned home, after a good night’s sleep, Wally could not get out of bed, barely able to walk.  At the vet’s office, after a little interrogation about Wally’s recent adventures, turns out jumping off the dock and swimming all week nearly did him in.  Next time, keep Wally close to shore, we were warned.  Today is Mother’s Day.   I don’t remember my mom ever going out to the dock.  She was more of a floater, though I know she spent many hours in the pool later in life to ease her arthritis.  She never stopped us kids from going.  And it’s odd that I don’t remember ever having swimming lessons.  It doesn’t make sense that we just knew how to kick and paddle and swim under water…but that’s all I can remember.  Mom was that way, she just knew I could do so many things, so she let me try.  She didn’t ever seem to be afraid I would fail.  The list is too long for examples, so I just consider the dock.  I thank you, mom, for all the docks in my life that you let me swim to, you encouraged me in every one.  You were always on the shore when I swam back with a dry towel.  I really miss you today.  I’ll stop by for a visit with some flowers before returning home.

Spuds

Baked, mashed, au gratin, scalloped, fried, puffed, boiled, hashed and browned…I love them all ways!  It’s in my genes.  As a child I would watch my uncles and grandfather devour an entire plate of mashed potatoes as an appetizer before my grandmother put the main course on the table.  And so I grow them, religiously.  If it was the only thing left to eat on earth, I would be happy.  My naturopath has informed me that underground crops should be grown in organic soil, which mine is since my watch began in this garden, unlike the soils of monoculture crops that are treated with potentially harmful insecticides and fungicides for superpests and diseases to keep the spuds producing.   This spring has been teasing us with warm days, but all too many cool days in between, but it seemed right to get the potatoes started in soil that is slowly warming up.  I cut the seed potatoes into chunks with 1-2 good eyes and let them cure for a few hours while I weeded and prepped the space…one block down from where they were last year, to keep with the rotation habit.  A couple inches deep, 12 inches apart, eyes up… two rows of red, two rows of gold, and a random pile in a space outside the garden to give the remaining a fighting chance, I’m not willing to let any go to waste.  But I did make a note to order half next year.   The potato beetles will be arriving soon.  When my kids were little, I’d pay them a penny a bug, which they collected in cans and turned in for payment.  Child labor!  At harvest time, I would treat digging for potatoes like an easter egg hunt, hands digging deep to see how many yummy potatoes can come from one tiny cube with a couple of eyes.  Here’s to a good crop, Mr. Potato Head!

My special helper

My granddaughters call me Mimi.  I was present for each of their births and have placed myself, welcome or not, as a central figure in their lives.    Driver, dominant game teacher…now loser, sleepover queen, lifeguard, nature teacher, recreation and activity leader, and general cuddle on the couch when we have time to be together, I make a space for myself.  Teetering on the teen years, they want new clothes and gadgets, so as a small business owner, I have opportunity to give them some hours if they want to start making money.  When I was young, it was understood that if I wanted anything beyond a roof over my head, and new underwear and shoes at the beginning of the school year, I needed to hit the sidewalk and apply for jobs any place that would hire me.  I packed books at a local church, cashiered at the local grocery store, babysat, sold seeds and cards, all before I was 13.  By the time I was a teen, I had saved enough money for a bicycle and began pedaling 8 miles each way to a country club in the next town…beginning a career in hospitality and lifeguarding that would last me through college.  Now, the girls are getting ready to start earning their own coin.  I have committed to “scheduling” my oldest for 1-2 hours a week in one of my many ventures.  I am trying to keep it creative and fun to hold her interest until she sees the reward of a pay envelope and becomes motivated on her own.  She has a timecard with her name on it at the garden center where I put in a couple shifts a week.  Last week I put her to work assembling and installing plastic edging for a customer…she learned about encroaching plants that were crowding the old edging, how to divide and make room.  Every time she works gardening with me her assignment is to learn one new plant, last week it was tulip.  Yesterday, she helped me assemble gift bundles in cellophane and a bow for quick Mother’s Day grabs in my little boutique shop.  She is creative, fun, and is learning the value of taking some time to work.  I gave her some cash when her dad came to pick her up for Taco Tuesday.  She was smiling and proud…as was I, so glad to have help from someone I love.

Power

Power, confidence…seems to come with noise, and maybe a y chromosome.  I don’t mean this post to be sexist because women can be powerful, too.  But my visuals this morning are oddly male-dominated.  I can be blissfully quiet, working with my hori-hori knife listening to the birds manicuring a garden bed when I hear the rumble coming through the neighborhood, like an army of them, landscape trucks!  When they stop at the residence I am working at, interrupting my peace, multiple laborers disembark and travel like bees to their chosen tool, and whisk through the neighborhood, house by house with mowers, and blowers, and weed whackers, and earmuffs because even they can’t handle the sound of their own power.  They are oblivious to me, and I am in the direct line of any stray pebble that may be thrown from a trimmer.  In self-defense, I stand to my feet and raise my hands to let them know I am there, and retreat until their whirlwind job is finished.  I respect these tools, and honestly, fear them.  As a child, I witnessed my uncle nearly cutting his toe off when the blade from the lawnmower came free, hit a tree and boomeranged back at him, aiming for his neck.  He quickly hit the ground and his feet were lifted high enough to take the hit, slice through his boot and nearly cut off his toe!  Random, not likely to happen again (right?)  Another incident occurred when I was walking on the sidewalk in my hometown, and a pebble thrown from a weedwhacker whizzed in front of me and hit the windshield of a parked car, cracking it.  Random, not likely to happen again (right?)  So, I keep my distance when possible and rely on hand tools when I can.  Yesterday I faced a giant, I needed to dig out the stump of a dead blue spruce so I could plant the replacement, a flowering lavender rhododendron.  Tried the shovel, tried the pruners, but those roots just would not let go.   I had to go for the big guns, the hand held power saw, sliced through the roots like butter.  I made some noise, I hope I didn’t disturb my customer’s tea time before the big trucks arrive!

"Why is your hair always a mess?"

Words from my grandfather that have stuck with me my entire life.  He was a barber in the 70s, back when long hair was an agitation to him, the herald that the days of the weekly haircut may be coming to an end.  He liked a crisp edge and a precise crew cut, no hair in the face stuff.  And my grandmother, she was a beauty, with curlers at night and beautiful head of curls in the day, set and sprayed into place…perfect.  He was right, my hair was and still is always a mess.  I can’t answer why.  It’s the same as why are my eyes blue and why don’t I walk well in heels…just because, I guess.   He wasn’t alone; my mother would nag me, “would you get your hair out of your face!”   My hair is like cornsilk, thin and without body.  When I was a teenager I would braid my hair at night just to get some crimp and fullness; and then later, when I could afford one, I would perm my whole head, but honestly didn’t like the look.  I’m a ponytail girl, so even haircuts that kept my hair out of my face didn’t suit me.  So, everyday, I pull it back in a flip or pony tail and clip all the loose ends.  Done!  well, not so fast!  Last week, I went to the eye doctor and got a good report that I don’t completely understand… perfect 20/20 vision, but I can’t see 2 inches in front of my face…but, that’s another story.  To stay on point, while the doctor was peering under my lids, she noticed flecks of dust? Maybe a sty forming.  The visual of me on my hands and knees, brushing hair out of my face with my gloved hands to get a closer look at the vine or the weed or my pruning got her to thinking that messy hair for me is an occupational hazard.  There are oils and viruses on foliage and I don’t want any of that to get in my eyes.  So, for my eye health, I need to consider headbands, more clips, a new haircut…something to keep my hands away from my face.  My alarm woke me this morning in the middle of a dream, I was in a salon, getting my hair cut and I came out looking like Reba McIntyre.  That would make my grandfather happy.  But without a do-over on the horizon, I will start a new discipline to keep my gloved hands away from my eyes, because there doesn’t seem to be any taming of this graying mop!

Clean Plate Club

“Clean your plate and you’ll get dessert…or TV…or stay up late…” or some bribe my mother would tease us with to finish our supper.  If that didn’t work we’d be guilted into it by some statement about children in a faraway land who were starving; we should be grateful for every last green bean, as if me filling up my belly would help with world hunger.  So, that’s how I became a member.  And it doesn’t help that I love to eat, so I now monitor how much is on my plate and eat every last morsel most meals.  Throughout my life, I have had the luxury of eating fresh veggies from my garden and, at times, fresh eggs and milk from neighbors.  Growing up in New Hampshire, there were cans of liquid gold stored at the top of the cellar stairs, gold boiled from the harvest of the local maple trees, simmered down into delicious maple syrup.  We drowned donuts in this liquid, soaked our pancakes, and ate it by the spoonful.  And when no one was looking, not only did I clean my plate, but I licked my plate!  Not a drop could go to waste.   

After my gardening job in Grafton this week, I passed a homestead that had driplines attached to loads of maple trees whose sap flowed through the lines into a large plastic grate on a pallet for easy transport.  My subconscious has been tempting me since, so I indulged in waffles with a heavy portion of maple syrup for breakfast this morning.  And after Jack went out to work in the shop, I licked my plate before putting it in the dishwasher.  Blame my mother for my lack of manners, but I really have no shame!

1000 words

I’ve joined a writing group. I was looking to meet some new friends. After my life had taken a shift and I no longer had a steady stream of customers and employees to chat with, laugh with, joke with, struggle with…I find myself very quiet. My evenings are not spent socializing over drinks, and during the day, I work in gardens where there are no people…only bees, and butterflies, a podcast to tune in to, the radio now and then, and the daring bunny or woodchuck to race passed my workspace. Honestly, it is lovely and peaceful and fits well with my introverted nature. But at the end of the day, I don’t have much to talk about when I come home…so I realized it would be good for my social health to meet some new friends…and I started with a writing group. Naturally, after congregating twice, a challenge was posed to write 1000 words a day for the month of May. Here we are, May 1. My contributions to pen and ink, or text is basically this blog, and my last post was 191 words. I won’t bore you with longer blog posts, but I have to get cracking. Those of you who have followed me over the years know where I travel, how I struggled to sell my house, my train ride that helped me process my divorce, my love for my mom, and the wonders of the gardening world and so on. Life, for me, is worked out with a pencil. Thank you for reading…now I have about 800 more words to write…I’m thinking a murder mystery… ooooh.

It was a nasty affair

It’s hard to tell when it started, so innocent really. The ajuga growing wild noticed the beautiful strawberry, coming close to its protected border. A simple hello, then before anyone knew, they were becoming fast friends, too fast. To keep their adoration secret, they went underground. First they traveled locally, then the wild ajuga, unsatisfied, convinced the strawberry to go beyond its borders. She was timid at first, not really wanting to leave her home, but she eventually agreed. Soon, they were inseparable. Then the tension started. Strawberry wanted to return to her home, so she did, but not alone. Ajuga trailed along, not wanting to part…but also invited friends, the chives. And they came in large numbers, always loving the party. Their lives had become so entangled, strawberry was afraid she had lost herself. Her friends were starting to show balls of blossom, and she knew that was what she was made for. She called in a mediator to help them untangle and right the wildness of her ways. Ajuga and Strawberry parted, agreeing to remain friends. The mediator will remain in touch, should the flames begin to flicker again.

Heavenly Hellebores

I raked the leaves collected under the leathery evergreen perennials, and clipped the weatherbeaten crispy foliage and tossed it in with the debris. What remains is a graceful, soft, subtle yet glorious plant, with flowers in mauve, wine, and cream. Sometimes called the lenten rose or christmas rose, it’s official name is hellebore, and it blooms before the forsythia…an early arrival announcing the spring season. This plant thrives in the shade, so carries a humble attitude. This customer has an entire collection, planted along side her garage, with little traffic or attention, relatively unnoticed. I’m writing about it today because they are not seen in many gardens. Seems when the garden centers open in April, perennials that bloom in February are old news and folks are eager to purchase pansies and phlox that shout with vibrancy the arrival of spring. I urge you to seek out a pot or two when you are doing your spring shopping, dress up your shade garden with a fancy “merlot” or “ivory prince”. Give your gardens a piece of heaven.

Go outside and play...

“Go outside and play!” We were told that often, perhaps daily, as kids…followed by, “and stay out!” Without toys to speak of, we jumped in the hay, “fished” for leaves in the neighboring brook, dug for precious jewels from the mica in the rocks. My children followed suit by swinging from trees, creating crop circles, leashing their goats and bunnies to romp through the backyard. At times it seemed like a punishment, as we were often not allowed back in for what seemed like hours. Now, I realize it set the stage for me wanting to be nowhere else. The housework will have to wait, there is so much waiting for me outside. So, on this Earth Day, take a walk on your lunch break, take a hike on a trail you’ve been wanting to visit, stare at and admire a daffodil, stick your hand in the ground, dance around the back yard and listen to the birds…go outside and play!

With heads bowed...

The daffodils bowed in submission to the wild pelleting of the snow, tiny balls resembling the space ice cream I was introduced to at the Alaska State Fair 40 years ago. Not light, dancing flakes…little tiny balls that fell from the sky and bounced off my shoulder and the granite steps as I walked out in the cold morning to spend some time down by the lake shore where the mist was rising with the sun. With such great contrast to the summerlike weather we experienced last week, winter once again entered spring and declared, “I’m not gone yet!” All around me, the once proud flowers standing tall yesterday, lay humbled by the fierceness of it. Would they be okay, I wondered? The sunrise was magnificent, seen for a short while before the clouds returned with their unleashing from above. A mixed day. Shortly after my walk and breakfast at the inn, my siblings and I joined at the site of my mom’s final resting place. Sun, clouds, snow, repeat. Laughter, stories, tears, repeat. A final prayer by the priest, with our heads bowed, we submitted to this final goodbye. But not in defeat, more with acceptance and gratitude of the love felt by family, and especially by a mother who lived and loved so well. Goodbye for now, Mom. Rest in Peace. The daffodils are upright again, and they are going to be okay.

How bad do you want those raspberries?

Sunday is a day reserved for something other than going to work. It may be a fun day or a work at home day, but it is definitely a day that the alarm is not set and the pace is much slower. I started with coffee and my morning meditative reading, which quoted the principle of Archimedes and the power of the lever when placed just right…the earth could be moved. Little did I know how that would be put into practice later in the day. After several hours of transplanting young seedlings and planting fresh seeds in trays in the greenhouse, I uncovered my dahlia bulbs and put them in soil hoping to give them a headstart. All was watered and I was ready to quit to go put some burgers on the grill when I spotted the raspberry bush by the door, waiting for a day such as this to go in the ground. I already have a raspberry bush, but couldn’t resist this one when I saw it on the nursery racks a couple weeks earlier. I had just the right amount of space for it, and it will only take a minute or two I thought. So I wielded my new digging spade, a bag of compost, and my little plant and started to dig…clink! A little to the left, clink! A little to the right, clink! I got down on my hands and knees, raked away the soil to reveal a very large rock that was comfortably residing in the only spot I had left for my raspberry bush. I removed all the wedged rocks around it, and left a small one in front to use as a fulcrum, and after several tries, it came free…Archimedes was right! What was failed to mention was, though I could move the rock, my female frame could not lift the rock. So, I interrupted Jack from his project of building the state’s best chicken coop and asked for his assistance removing the small boulder, he was happy to oblige. What remained was a huge hole, I would need a second bag of compost, but I had a new home for my raspberry bush. Lessons: learn from the ancients, don’t give up, and ask for help when you need it…because raspberries are worth it!