As I find myself still starved for feedback, I have added a couple of new features to the blog that I'm hoping will help.
Look for the "reaction" buttons on the bottom of each entry. As you read the new enteries, let me know what you think. Or if there was a particular entry that affected you (one way or the other), go back and punch a button.
Several icons now appear that will allow you to e-mail an entry to a friend or share it on Facebook, or do other things that I'm not familiar with but you might be!
Thanks for being a follower--either officially or not--and take advantage of these new options to keep me motivated or get me redirected. I can't wait to hear from you!
PS: Thanks to Emily for being a frequent commentor. She has become my favorite person in the world (next to Katz and kids) because of her willingness to join the dance!
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
No Respect
One of the fan favorites at the garden tour was my Rose of Sharon ('Althea'), which surprised me. "Wait, wait, wait," I wanted to say whenever they asked about it, "Have you seen the Foxglove? Or the Cleome? And don't overlook the Weeping Birch, and those stunning Dahlias."
Truth be told, my surprise was that others loved a long-timer in my garden that we've moved three times and that sheds blooms frightfully as the Japanese beetles settle in for a favorite meal. It's a plant that gets little respect from me, as a rule. Still, all that love directed its way made me step back and take a second look. Hmm. Nice shape. Flowers that make a statement. Nicely trimmed, as it was for the tour, it anchors a bed and provides structure, making every other plant more purposeful, giving definition and backbone to the garden.
As you can see from the photos, it's a pretty little thing with buds that plump up and swell, and blooms that extend and stretch, seducing the honeybees and coating them with pollen.
It makes me wonder what else in my life is under appreciated, what things of beauty and substance have suffered from being taken for granted. Friends? Family? Marriage? Books?
Perhaps all of these take a beating as life gets busy and priorities shift. Time to refocus. Time to remember what's important. Time to respect the ordinary things for the support they give to our lives.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Feeling Invisible
I owe my kids an apology.
I got together with a group of good friends this week for dinner and to celebrate a birthday. This is one of three groups of women I get together with a few times a year for dinner and conversation, and this particular group goes back longer than any of the others. We lived in the same neighborhood and raised our children together. Our kids attended the same grade school, had the same teachers. We sat on buses together for field trips, attended school and scouting events together, got to know each others husbands, socialized as families. There are roots here that go deep, and I am very connected and fond of these ladies and their children.
So how come I left after two hours and never told them that Ben is in a relationship, or that he's doing well in a new job, or he's about to take a trip to DC to see Dave Mathews in concert? How come I never mentioned that Josh got a paper accepted for presentation at a conference at Rutgers University, or shared the funny stories he's told about roommate issues? How come I left without even simply saying they were fine?
Yes, there's a lot of territory to cover when we all get together. There are 15 kids to discuss and now some grandchildren. There are three husbands and three jobs to dissect, old stories to rehash, and lots of good, old fashioned gossip to get on the table. Still, when these ladies went home, if they'd been asked, "What's new with everybody? What's the gossip?" my friends would have been hard pressed to say anything about me or mine.
My problem is, unless I'm one-on-one or with my large, extended family, I am conversationally challenged. Way back when I was a high school/college student, I rarely contributed in class. Put me in a department meeting at work and chances are pretty good I won’t say anything.
In my opinion, I lack conversational self-confidence. I'm not verbally gifted, like Katz. I've never been able to tell a joke well and if I retell a story in an uncomfortable setting, it often comes off flat or lifeless. When I'm excited about a book or an article, I love to share that excitement, but oftentimes I don't do it justice in the telling. "I can't quite explain it, but it was really good. You should read it," is a common summation Katz hears from me when I try to convey a good read.
I am capable of telling a good story if all the stars are aligned, i.e. a non-competitive atmosphere, a group of people who are just as interested in hearing my story as telling theirs. I can recount an emotional encounter or something funny that happened at home or work and do a pretty entertaining job of it. I would have loved to talk about the raspberries Jane brought to the garden tour for me "from Joe", and told my friends how Joe and I had talked Square Foot Gardens and garden-grown raspberries two months before his unexpected death. It would have been a story they loved to hear, I think. But, how to go in that direction, how to interject into a flow of words from four other voices that never ever lags? I don't know how to do it well, I don't know how to do it comfortably, I don't know how to do it without that sense I'm taking up time my friends would rather spend talking about other things.
Katz teaches a class called "The Art of Relationships". It speaks to the importance of personal dynamics and how to make sure everyone is heard. It talks about asking open ended questions so that a dialogue ensues. I admit it: Conversationally, I am like an unlit campfire without kindling. I can be lit and I can burn fairly strong, but you're never going to get much from me unless you help me out. I need an invitation to talk, a dialogue-inducing question like, " What was the most interesting comment about your garden?" or, " What kind of research are you doing for your book?" or, "I loved that blog post you wrote about your friend, Joe. Tell us about him?"
As much as I enjoy and love my friends, as committed as I am to maintaining these relationships and being loyal, as much as I want to hear EVERYTHING about their lives, I walked away from Thursday's dinner feeling a little invisible. I know this is my responsibility and I need to work on it, but if you are my friend and you are reading this, you could help me out. It's not that I have nothing to contribute, it's that I need a little kindling to get started.
I got together with a group of good friends this week for dinner and to celebrate a birthday. This is one of three groups of women I get together with a few times a year for dinner and conversation, and this particular group goes back longer than any of the others. We lived in the same neighborhood and raised our children together. Our kids attended the same grade school, had the same teachers. We sat on buses together for field trips, attended school and scouting events together, got to know each others husbands, socialized as families. There are roots here that go deep, and I am very connected and fond of these ladies and their children.
So how come I left after two hours and never told them that Ben is in a relationship, or that he's doing well in a new job, or he's about to take a trip to DC to see Dave Mathews in concert? How come I never mentioned that Josh got a paper accepted for presentation at a conference at Rutgers University, or shared the funny stories he's told about roommate issues? How come I left without even simply saying they were fine?
Yes, there's a lot of territory to cover when we all get together. There are 15 kids to discuss and now some grandchildren. There are three husbands and three jobs to dissect, old stories to rehash, and lots of good, old fashioned gossip to get on the table. Still, when these ladies went home, if they'd been asked, "What's new with everybody? What's the gossip?" my friends would have been hard pressed to say anything about me or mine.
My problem is, unless I'm one-on-one or with my large, extended family, I am conversationally challenged. Way back when I was a high school/college student, I rarely contributed in class. Put me in a department meeting at work and chances are pretty good I won’t say anything.
In my opinion, I lack conversational self-confidence. I'm not verbally gifted, like Katz. I've never been able to tell a joke well and if I retell a story in an uncomfortable setting, it often comes off flat or lifeless. When I'm excited about a book or an article, I love to share that excitement, but oftentimes I don't do it justice in the telling. "I can't quite explain it, but it was really good. You should read it," is a common summation Katz hears from me when I try to convey a good read.
I am capable of telling a good story if all the stars are aligned, i.e. a non-competitive atmosphere, a group of people who are just as interested in hearing my story as telling theirs. I can recount an emotional encounter or something funny that happened at home or work and do a pretty entertaining job of it. I would have loved to talk about the raspberries Jane brought to the garden tour for me "from Joe", and told my friends how Joe and I had talked Square Foot Gardens and garden-grown raspberries two months before his unexpected death. It would have been a story they loved to hear, I think. But, how to go in that direction, how to interject into a flow of words from four other voices that never ever lags? I don't know how to do it well, I don't know how to do it comfortably, I don't know how to do it without that sense I'm taking up time my friends would rather spend talking about other things.
Katz teaches a class called "The Art of Relationships". It speaks to the importance of personal dynamics and how to make sure everyone is heard. It talks about asking open ended questions so that a dialogue ensues. I admit it: Conversationally, I am like an unlit campfire without kindling. I can be lit and I can burn fairly strong, but you're never going to get much from me unless you help me out. I need an invitation to talk, a dialogue-inducing question like, " What was the most interesting comment about your garden?" or, " What kind of research are you doing for your book?" or, "I loved that blog post you wrote about your friend, Joe. Tell us about him?"
As much as I enjoy and love my friends, as committed as I am to maintaining these relationships and being loyal, as much as I want to hear EVERYTHING about their lives, I walked away from Thursday's dinner feeling a little invisible. I know this is my responsibility and I need to work on it, but if you are my friend and you are reading this, you could help me out. It's not that I have nothing to contribute, it's that I need a little kindling to get started.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
The Bucket of Death
It's 5:30 in the morning and Garden Tour Day. By 10, the garden Katz and I have been working on for two months will start to fill with garden lovers who will ooh and aah about my near-perfect garden.
I spoke with my sister Kathy in New York yesterday. She had a garden tour of her own a couple of years ago and I asked her advice. She told me to learn a few Latin names--just a few will do, she said--and then I could impress my garden guests.
"Grab them by the arm and say, 'Oh, come and see my Echinacea,' and then when you get there, they say, 'Oh, a coneflower,' but they're impressed with how knowledgeable you are."
Isn't she funny! Sorry Kathy. I'm guessing Latin is probably a nice touch in up state NY but I'm quite sure they'll laugh at me in plain old Wisconsin if I try it, so I skipped memorizing Latin botanical names last night in favor of collapsing on the couch.
She did give me a great idea about my Japanese beetle problem. I'm on year two of dealing with these nasty little plant attackers, and wouldn't you know it, they've managed to time their yearly arrival to Garden Tour Day. I spent yesterday bending the heads of my small shrub roses over a pail and shaking the quite beautiful insects loose. When I was lucky, they kept their upside down position and flew straight into the soapy water that awaited them. In the end, I had dozens of dead beetles floating in a pail I've come to call "The Bucket of Death."
Kathy said not to worry. She said to share my beetle problem with the tour goers. "They love when you have the same problems they do."
Isn't that brilliant? Isn't that the best way to face a problem--any problem--by being honest, by avoiding the weight of trying to hide it, by appealing to the commonality that being in trouble presents?
Thanks, Kathy. I can't wait to show off my Delphinium, my Prickly Pear Cactus, my Foxglove, my Square Foot Garden, and now my Japanese Beetle. I'm even tempted to show off the "Bucket of Death," too, to prove what lengths we gardeners go to to maintain the beauty of our gardens and protect the plants we nurture and love.
I actually think such a visual would be a hit, but aah, then vanity intrudes. Today is a day for beauty and the bucket full of dirty water and rotting beetle corpses is not quite the "staging" I've been envisioning. But I do plan on doing one thing: I'm looking forward to grabbing my guests by the arm, adapting a mournful pose, and saying, "Come see the Popillia Japonica. The little critters are nothing but trouble!"
How's that for impressing them with my Latin!
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Thinking of Mom
We grew up in a beautiful, big house with lots of room to spread out. Dad was a General Practitioner, which meant he made a decent living, but with nine kids, it didn't always go that far. The house was a splurge and he left the challenge of meeting a tight monthly budget to my Mom.
My siblings and I worked from a young age on; the boys had paper routes, and in 7th grade the girls started working in Dad's office washing test tubes and pipettes. My Mom saved money by buying toilet paper by the carton and making lots of ground beef casseroles, and we each had our table setting, room cleaning, toilet scrubbing, dish washing, yard work, and snow shoveling assignments to do.
Mom was no slouch. She worked hard to keep the house going and nine kids fed and clothed. She cooked all the meals, carted kids around, painted rooms, and hung wallpaper. She was a beautiful woman who often looked crabby and always looked harried, and she wasn't much concerned with looking fashionable. The times when I found her cutting the grass in shorts and ankle socks so ugly they set a teenage girl's teeth on edge were the worst. We had the biggest house on the block, but I don't remember any other mother who cut the grass much less cut the grass looking like that. It was mortifying.
Fast forward to 2010: I have become my mother.
I've spent the past 6 weeks gardening like a crazy woman. I wear torn shorts, sloppy t-shirts, black ankle socks and clogs. I sweat like a yeoman, my hair is flat and lifeless, and all the bending, kneeling, digging I've done has left me with the gait and the posture of an old, crippled lady. I stumble from the back garden to the front of the house trying to whip the flowers and the bushes and the trees in to shape, trying to race the clock as it ticks down toward next week's garden tour. I'm sure I'm entertaining the neighbors with my antics, but I want my garden to look perfect and I'm beyond caring how I look or what other people think. Above all, I'm having a blast. The weather's been great, I've lost a couple of pounds, and my garden . . . well, it's looking darn good.
Mom's been gone for several years now, but that doesn't mean I don't owe her an apology. I can't imagine having her job, and she did the best she could to take care of my Dad, raise us, keep us from harm, and manage a complicated household. She always looked a little crazed because she was a little crazed. Forty-plus years later, I am my mother.
By the way, the garden has done a number on my fingernails: They are a grade A mess. But tomorrow I will take a seat across from my manicurist (see earlier blog entry) and she is going to have to work her little heart out to make them look presentable.
See, there is an up side!
My siblings and I worked from a young age on; the boys had paper routes, and in 7th grade the girls started working in Dad's office washing test tubes and pipettes. My Mom saved money by buying toilet paper by the carton and making lots of ground beef casseroles, and we each had our table setting, room cleaning, toilet scrubbing, dish washing, yard work, and snow shoveling assignments to do.
Mom was no slouch. She worked hard to keep the house going and nine kids fed and clothed. She cooked all the meals, carted kids around, painted rooms, and hung wallpaper. She was a beautiful woman who often looked crabby and always looked harried, and she wasn't much concerned with looking fashionable. The times when I found her cutting the grass in shorts and ankle socks so ugly they set a teenage girl's teeth on edge were the worst. We had the biggest house on the block, but I don't remember any other mother who cut the grass much less cut the grass looking like that. It was mortifying.
Fast forward to 2010: I have become my mother.
I've spent the past 6 weeks gardening like a crazy woman. I wear torn shorts, sloppy t-shirts, black ankle socks and clogs. I sweat like a yeoman, my hair is flat and lifeless, and all the bending, kneeling, digging I've done has left me with the gait and the posture of an old, crippled lady. I stumble from the back garden to the front of the house trying to whip the flowers and the bushes and the trees in to shape, trying to race the clock as it ticks down toward next week's garden tour. I'm sure I'm entertaining the neighbors with my antics, but I want my garden to look perfect and I'm beyond caring how I look or what other people think. Above all, I'm having a blast. The weather's been great, I've lost a couple of pounds, and my garden . . . well, it's looking darn good.
Mom's been gone for several years now, but that doesn't mean I don't owe her an apology. I can't imagine having her job, and she did the best she could to take care of my Dad, raise us, keep us from harm, and manage a complicated household. She always looked a little crazed because she was a little crazed. Forty-plus years later, I am my mother.
By the way, the garden has done a number on my fingernails: They are a grade A mess. But tomorrow I will take a seat across from my manicurist (see earlier blog entry) and she is going to have to work her little heart out to make them look presentable.
See, there is an up side!
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