You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
My wife is big on “quality of life” touches that affect our sense of living. They don’t have to be big expenses, either, as many of her yard-sale finds demonstrate.
The concept hit me while changing the bed the other day in my gratitude regarding a new set of striped flannel sheets, unlike the old floral patterns.
Just wait till we slip in, I thought. Oh, the sweet anticipation!
Bingo! Basil!
As they say …
The delight of watching from our dining room as a hummingbird goes from one bloom to the next in a tithonia beside the window – observing the balanced hovering of what looks like giving each one an injection of a special nectar and then moving on, to repeat the dance figure. And then, it’s gone.
It’s the joy of embracing a rare moment before it’s gone. And then? It’s a lesson in appreciating life itself.
New Englanders – at least those living in old houses – will occasionally speak of ghosts, and their stories can be compelling, no matter how skeptical the listener.
Of course, the specifics can differ. A dark apparition moving silently through dark hallways – or, in other modes, clumping loudly up and down the staircase. Leave empty junk food wrappers and soda cans and bottles on the counters and coffee table and even in the unmade sheets. Laugh eerily at midnight. Slide in front of you at the bathroom door, close it, lock it.
Drain the wi-fi bandwidth.
Expect steak and lobster and cheese while ignoring lettuce or eggs or peas.
But have you ever heard of a trail of stench that follows its movement? Oh, that detail is so telling. The fear of taking a shower, as well – the soap and washcloth remaining untouched.
They speak of the chill you feel, more than the dense smoky cloud. Or the echoing conversation as it’s twisted with a chortle and thrown back.
One version, in fact, has every intimate conversation accompanied by a Hollywood laugh track. And that, I’ll contend, is the most annoying.
They’ve become a kind of signature for our place every summer, even though it’s been a number of years since we’ve planted any. The neighbors tell us how much they enjoy the sunflowers. They’ve become self-seeded, no doubt enhanced by our bird feeders.
As for all of the goldfinches, now that’s another matter! Just look at that bright yellow on bright yellow …
Finding adequate terms to define someone in a contemporary family relationship can be elusive.
I don’t mean the euphemistic police blotter application of “live-in girlfriend” to the mother of the suspect’s latest child or its transformation to “his fiancee” after the birth of their second or third.
What I’m thinking would fit situations like “my wife’s ex-father-in-law” when he’s still on very good terms, unlike his son, the ex. While still roundabout, calling him “my kids’ grandfather” turns into the most direct description, though it takes a few seconds to register.
Then there are the extensions. Consider the favorite sister-in-law of a favorite brother-in-law, when she’s part of the active scene you share. Have we ever had terms that fit there? Now try “my ex-brother-in-law’s ex-wife” before twisting it further into “ex-wife’s new husband.”
When families scatter across today’s continent or the world, keeping track of even first-cousins can be vaporous. That’s largely ancient history.
Genealogists have charts to assist in determining third-cousins from fourth- or fifth-, along with the “times removed.” Anyone ready to tackle something similar for today’s all-too-fluid familial connections?
A call to my cell phone the other Monday threw me for a loop. I was on the way back from my daily swim when I got the news that the first round of three cords of stove wood was on the way.
What it meant was that one end of our driveway would soon be buried in cut and split wood and my plans for the rest of the week would drastically change. Except for one day of thunderstorms and rain, I’d be stacking – always a lesson in the process of writing and revising, actually, including its exercises in structure and observation. Do it right, and it’s solid for seasoning into several winters. Sloppy, and it all falls apart.
Among my other thoughts was the question of how many more years I might be doing this. The wood felt heavier than I remembered. Even with my new routine of daily exercise, achy muscles and joints started appearing. At least I had the perspective of knowing how long you just have to keep plugging away before you notice any progress – and then, somewhere in a sensation of futility, you might experience that flash of realizing you’re making progress. The second half usually seems to go faster than the first half, too, unless you get overly anxious.
Now I sit back and admire that wall of stacked fuel – the one I’ll take down, piece by piece, all too quickly some winter.
The SUV pulls out from in front of a neighbor’s house and tosses a plastic iced-coffee cup, straw, and lid onto the elderly woman’s driveway across from me as I’m weeding.
I retrieve it, put it in our recycling bin.
So they want a clean interior?
It’s not their vehicle that needs purging.
Oh, Lord, help us!
I’ve already mentioned it, the patio-like space beside the barn where we grill and dine through the summer. The place we call the Smoking Garden.
Originally, I envisioned it as a haven for the kids’ grandmother to sit with her cigarettes, but she never used it. Preferred the porch to the barn, if anywhere.
We inherited the arrangement when we bought the place. A couple of thick maple branches had to be removed, since they were blocking any passage at chest level. But the round fiberglass table was already in place, with pea-gravel on the ground and three adjoining panels I’ve since cleared and planted.
Now we’ve added tiki torches and twinkling Christmas lights overhead, plus the hammock.
Pour me a glass, please. Turn up the music.
~*~
let me praise the secluded outdoor corner
as part of an urban dwelling:
a patio or deck
(my last apartment lacked one)
the courtyard with a fountain
a large porch or gazebo
at the least, a place to sit
or, better yet, cook
any place close enough to the kitchen
with a degree of privacy and a view of something
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
We’re not alone, I know, when it comes to unusual weather patterns.
In fact, I’m getting the feeling that the computerized models the forecasters rely on just don’t fit the changing realities. (One site I checked a couple of days ago had a projected high for the day of 71 F and a current reading of 76. In fact, the highs several days running before that, while we were waiting for an uncommon heat wave to break, were up to 20 degrees above expectations. Whew! ) Through much of the critical gardening season in May, our actual lows were often nearly 10 degrees below the forecast – a potentially costly error. And then there was one night a week or so ago when meteorologists changed the immediate outlook to 100 percent chance of rain overnight … and we got nada.
April, as it turned out, was slow motion – about three weeks behind our usual gardening routine. And then May, making up for the delays, allowed us to get more in the ground than usual.
The downside was that we didn’t get our usual rainfall. Officially, the month delivered a tenth of an inch. The seedlings and transplants had to be watered in a period where we’re usually concerned about root-rot and drowning. A month, typically, when I can’t keep the lawnmower wheels from sinking in the side of the yard we affectionately call the Swamp.
As I mowed the grass the other morning, I kept noticing how parched the ground is. This time of year?
Through all of this, we’re tallying up the effects of our long, nasty winter – the one that had snow cover for all but three of the coldest weeks in January. Dogwoods took a big hit, as did limbs of rhododendron and azalea. We’re missing a number of perennials, including the sage in the herb garden and salvia along the driveway.
So now it’s raining. What’s expected to be three days and more than two inches of precipitation. Welcome, welcome rain – even if it would have been much better doled out rather than dumped on us.
Oh, the joys of gardening …
Jnana's Red Barn 