Vacations would be so worth it if we could skip the packing part. I dread pulling out the old suitcase, and when I finally do get around to it, it takes hours to figure out what's going to accompany me on my journey.
The clothes I wear comfortably, happily every day turned to dreck as I start packing for our trip to the Pacific Northwest.
Nothing from my closet looks spiffy enough, nothing fits quite right. I always pack too much, and yet invariably I have regrets about leaving some thing necessary behind.
Packing is an imprecise science and a real stresser, and that's only the beginning of the joys of traveling these days. Follow that experience with long lines and security checks, worries about flying, concerns that something important has been forgotten and who wouldn't need a vacation?
Wish us luck. The weather forecast is seasonal and sunny and we'll be visiting new places. I'll be back to blogging in September but first I'm going to see some mountains, some whales, a world class garden or two, and a lot of Katz. If I didn't have to pack, it would all be perfect!
P.S. It's September 13th and we've been back for over a week now. My apologies for the long break. I hope to have a story or two about the trip for you shortly as I finally get my rhythm going again. Thanks for being patient.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Saying No
Katz said no to me yesterday and I was mad all day.
Here's how it went:
I wanted him to do something I felt was important but I knew he wouldn't be entirely comfortable doing. It was a parenting thing and he's very much a let's-not-do-anything-unless-it's-a-crisis sort of parent, where I'm more of a we-can-make-our-adult-children's-lives-much-better-by-sharing-our-wisdom sort of parent, so this is not the first time I've asked, he's said "no," and I've been mad.
Still, I've learned to pick and choose what I ask for, so even before I opened my mouth, I thought the conversation through carefully and tried to choose an opportune time. Besides my best efforts, he still said no.
Now, I'm not a prima donna; I don't need to always hear yes. And I went into this conversation knowing it was an iffy proposition, so I even saw it coming. I expected no and I would have accepted no. The problem is that "No" isn't a literal translation of our conversation.
Katz listened to the question, muttered something not very nice that included the words "nose out of it" and then got quiet.
"I know, I know," I said. "You don't want to, right?" I asked.
"I'll think about it."
And that's when I got mad.
Now, to be fair, Katz is a near-perfect husband. We don't agree on everything but we rarely fight. However, when we do, it's most often due to "a failure to communicate," so this is a historical problem for us. Katz is funny, good hearted, a great husband and father, and he COMMUNICATES for a living, so my question is, how come he just can't say no? Better yet, how come he can't figure out a way to say no and still make me feel okay about being turned down.
In my imagination, I can deal with the perfect rejection. All I need is a kind voice, the understanding that I'm not a lunatic for making my request, and a non-defensive, soft spoken explanation that he's just not comfortable in the role I want him to play. I get that! I understand that!
What I don't understand is why--when he knows that "I'll think about it" means "no" and he's darn sure he's done all the thinking about it he needs to and will never change his mind and will never revisit the conversation again if it's up to him--he can't just say no and put me out of my misery.
Of course, the fact that I'm finishing this posting on Wednesday and I've been quietly mad at him since Sunday morning reveals that I have my own communication issues. Katz knows I'm unhappy and, to his credit, I know that makes him unhappy, too, but instead of dealing with it, he's walking around on eggshells.
Writing and the passage of a few days have dampened my anger, and at least on my end, we're getting close to detente. But oh how easy, oh how sweet it would have been, if he only would have said "no" instead of "I'll think about it."
Here's how it went:
I wanted him to do something I felt was important but I knew he wouldn't be entirely comfortable doing. It was a parenting thing and he's very much a let's-not-do-anything-unless-it's-a-crisis sort of parent, where I'm more of a we-can-make-our-adult-children's-lives-much-better-by-sharing-our-wisdom sort of parent, so this is not the first time I've asked, he's said "no," and I've been mad.
Still, I've learned to pick and choose what I ask for, so even before I opened my mouth, I thought the conversation through carefully and tried to choose an opportune time. Besides my best efforts, he still said no.
Now, I'm not a prima donna; I don't need to always hear yes. And I went into this conversation knowing it was an iffy proposition, so I even saw it coming. I expected no and I would have accepted no. The problem is that "No" isn't a literal translation of our conversation.
Katz listened to the question, muttered something not very nice that included the words "nose out of it" and then got quiet.
"I know, I know," I said. "You don't want to, right?" I asked.
"I'll think about it."
And that's when I got mad.
Now, to be fair, Katz is a near-perfect husband. We don't agree on everything but we rarely fight. However, when we do, it's most often due to "a failure to communicate," so this is a historical problem for us. Katz is funny, good hearted, a great husband and father, and he COMMUNICATES for a living, so my question is, how come he just can't say no? Better yet, how come he can't figure out a way to say no and still make me feel okay about being turned down.
In my imagination, I can deal with the perfect rejection. All I need is a kind voice, the understanding that I'm not a lunatic for making my request, and a non-defensive, soft spoken explanation that he's just not comfortable in the role I want him to play. I get that! I understand that!
What I don't understand is why--when he knows that "I'll think about it" means "no" and he's darn sure he's done all the thinking about it he needs to and will never change his mind and will never revisit the conversation again if it's up to him--he can't just say no and put me out of my misery.
Of course, the fact that I'm finishing this posting on Wednesday and I've been quietly mad at him since Sunday morning reveals that I have my own communication issues. Katz knows I'm unhappy and, to his credit, I know that makes him unhappy, too, but instead of dealing with it, he's walking around on eggshells.
Writing and the passage of a few days have dampened my anger, and at least on my end, we're getting close to detente. But oh how easy, oh how sweet it would have been, if he only would have said "no" instead of "I'll think about it."
Saturday, August 14, 2010
First Mystery
I've always loved mysteries! It started with Nancy Drew when I was a kid and went from there. Early favorites were Agatha Christie's English mysteries, Dick Francis's jockey-hero puzzles, Dashiell Hammett's slender, ice cold and crisply written detective tales, and Josephine Tey's brilliant Daughter of Time. More current mystery writers I appreciate include the hilarious Janet Evanovich and Carl Hiaasen, and Alexander McCall Smith's gentle and lovely No 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series. There are dozens more writers I could mention, but needless to say, with this kind of reading history, my comfort with the mystery genre is not all that surprising.
So, for your amusement, resurrected from the flood waters of our basement, is the first mystery I ever wrote. If memory serves me, I wrote it when I was maybe 14 and very melodramatic. It has no grade on it, so I obviously wrote it for my own pleasure.
Enjoy!
Untitled
I saw her walking down the street,
I almost died of fright.
My heart was going wild
This really wasn't right.
She walked along so slowly,
A smile upon her face,
A drop of blood laid on her cheek,
A sign of death it traced.
I heard her say "Hello John,
It's been so long a time.
Whatever came between us?
I believe it was some crime.
It was you who did the nasty job,
Of that at least I'm sure.
It was a foggy night like this,
The diamonds were your lure.
You set them on the table
And forward I did come,
And when I was a foot away
You shot me with your gun.
I laid there on the bloody floor
And you stood o'er me laughing;
Now that you committed crime
You found it rather smashing.
You hurt my feelings, John my love,
But seeing that it's done,
It's now my turn to laugh with glee
For I have got the gun.
Bang, you're dead! Why you're trembling dear.
Did you think I pulled the trigger?
Don't slip away, Johnny my darling,
I've only to move my finger.
Should I shoot you through the head or heart?
I must take careful aim.
Did you know that is is rather fun?
It's almost like a game.
When you shot me it was quite a mess
So I must take my time.
It really is a shame, you know,
To be shot down in your prime.
They called you 'John the wonderful,'
They called you 'John the great.'
It's sad but now they'll have to call you
Young John Brown, the late.
I'm dead, you know that very well,
But still my ghost walks on,
And so I swear on this cold gun
that you'll be dead by dawn."
Next day did the headlines read:
"We say with quite a quiver.
John Brown now lies in his grave,
He fell into the river."
Copyright 2010
So, for your amusement, resurrected from the flood waters of our basement, is the first mystery I ever wrote. If memory serves me, I wrote it when I was maybe 14 and very melodramatic. It has no grade on it, so I obviously wrote it for my own pleasure.
Enjoy!
Untitled
I saw her walking down the street,
I almost died of fright.
My heart was going wild
This really wasn't right.
She walked along so slowly,
A smile upon her face,
A drop of blood laid on her cheek,
A sign of death it traced.
I heard her say "Hello John,
It's been so long a time.
Whatever came between us?
I believe it was some crime.
It was you who did the nasty job,
Of that at least I'm sure.
It was a foggy night like this,
The diamonds were your lure.
You set them on the table
And forward I did come,
And when I was a foot away
You shot me with your gun.
I laid there on the bloody floor
And you stood o'er me laughing;
Now that you committed crime
You found it rather smashing.
You hurt my feelings, John my love,
But seeing that it's done,
It's now my turn to laugh with glee
For I have got the gun.
Bang, you're dead! Why you're trembling dear.
Did you think I pulled the trigger?
Don't slip away, Johnny my darling,
I've only to move my finger.
Should I shoot you through the head or heart?
I must take careful aim.
Did you know that is is rather fun?
It's almost like a game.
When you shot me it was quite a mess
So I must take my time.
It really is a shame, you know,
To be shot down in your prime.
They called you 'John the wonderful,'
They called you 'John the great.'
It's sad but now they'll have to call you
Young John Brown, the late.
I'm dead, you know that very well,
But still my ghost walks on,
And so I swear on this cold gun
that you'll be dead by dawn."
Next day did the headlines read:
"We say with quite a quiver.
John Brown now lies in his grave,
He fell into the river."
Copyright 2010
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Moving On
When we were kids, an infrequent but favorite activity was watching family movies together. Dad was both filmmaker and projectionist in the Devitt family. He'd set up the projector in the recreation room and after dark, often on a summer night, we'd all grab a chair or a place on the floor in front of the screen and watch the movies of our lives. We'd laugh at brothers in bow ties and matching plaid jackets and sisters in crinoline dresses, Easter bonnets and gloves. Sometimes an old neighbor or a younger version of my parents' friends or our great aunts and uncles would work their way onto the screen and a chorus of voices would rush to identify the mystery person.
I thought about these days yesterday when I tossed out a box of the photo slides Katz and I used to archive our early life together. There were slides of our wedding faded (and not very clear), of my dog Jody, of Katz with lots of facial hair and me wearing a fall (the 1970s version of extensions), of old friends who are no longer in our lives, and younger versions of my brothers and sisters.
It often takes a crisis to light a fire under most of us when it comes to checking off those projects we put on our mental "I Need to Do This Before It's Too Late" lists. You know, things like writing or updating a will, getting those Medical Power of Attorney documents witnessed and distributed, or signing up for an off-site, online backup for your my-life-as-I-know-it-will-end-if-I-lose-these computer files. I had just such a crisis when the floods came and a single box of slides got wet.
So, after two-plus weeks of schlepping a combination of the utilitarian, junk, memories, documents, and equipment out of the damp down under, then cleaning, drying, tossing, and organizing the basement of our lives,I finally had time to look at the wet box of slides. They were from our Partners in Crime days, a period of seven years that Katz and I consider to be one of the high points of our life. Part business and all pleasure, the mystery weekends we created at local resorts and on two Caribbean cruises came at a time when we were starting our family and stretching our creativity. The business helped me start my writing career, gave Katz a fresh audience nine times a year, made us a little money, and established friendships that have lasted upwards of 20-some years. When I found the slides weren't damaged, I trucked them over to the local Walgreens for a consult. Two days later, they were on a CD, preserved (hopefully) forever.
Over the years, we've shown the slides on a couple of occasions to the PIC group with the same results as family move night. The soundtrack is always voices shouting out, recalling specifics of a night or a group or a resort or a script or a performance, a cacophony of memories. As I tossed out the original slides, I knew I would never have to worry about losing them again, which made me happy. But I suddenly realized that the joy of sitting around a movie screen in a darkened room, sharing memories with people I love to the click click click sound of slides dropping in front of the light, will also never happen again. Like family movie night, those days are gone. And that's a little sad.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Old Manuscript Resurfaces
When I was a kid, my old man, Izzy Bloom, used to tell me my instincts were as off base as a runner from first rounding second just as the shortstop gets around to catching the pop up. When I got a little older, good old Dad kept pace with my libido by saying I had the instincts of a eunuch in a whorehouse.
I have to admit, there were times when I proved him right.
Still, I've always said if a fellow can't believe in himself, who can he believe in, right? And so when I looked at the 8 x 10 glossy in my hand, I accepted my premonition without question. I was so sure, in fact, that if old Izzy himself--God rest his soul--had been standing there betting his last ten bucks that I was crazy to think this dame was going to bring me trouble, I would have taken his bet at a hundred to one odds.
This is the first page of the first book I wrote over 15 years ago. It was right after I'd sold my mystery weekend business, which had been a huge personal (if not financial) success for seven years, and it was an adaptation of one of my mystery weekend scripts.
I signed with a NY agent who found "Drawn to Murder" promising, and she spent two years getting it rejected by all the big publishers. She sent me one rejection from an editor at St. Martin Press saying they'd like to see anything else this "promising" writer had to offer.
I've never been great at handling rejection, and I finally told my agent to throw in the towel. I had written a children's novel that she'd liked, too, but that never found a publishing home either, and in the back of my mind this meant I wasn't as good of a writer as I thought I was. Both books had been hard work, and although to this day I get encouragement/harassment from Katz to write that million dollar book so he can quit his job, I never have sat down and started another one . . . until now.
"Drawn to Murder" surfaced again, soggy but salvageable from the second of two basement floods that hit us in July. The pages are curled and look a little aged, but for the first time in 15-some years, I'm reading the book I wrote so long ago. The tone of the book is humorous, the writing is taut, and I like what I've read so far.
It's nice to know it really was a very good manuscript making the rounds back then, and I'm less embarrassed by the memory of my failure. Even more importantly, I'm anxious to get back to the new book. It has faced the obstacles of multiple power failures, floods, summer distractions, and an all-absorbing garden tour, and has barely progressed this summer. Although the first book had a beginning, a middle and an end before I even started writing it, I remember it took a year of hard work to finish. The book I'm writing now has an idea, a setting, and some characters, and I've given myself the same 12-month deadline, so I'm already feeling the difficulty quotient rise. Still, after seeing what I did once, I am encouraged I can do it again.
I have to admit, there were times when I proved him right.
Still, I've always said if a fellow can't believe in himself, who can he believe in, right? And so when I looked at the 8 x 10 glossy in my hand, I accepted my premonition without question. I was so sure, in fact, that if old Izzy himself--God rest his soul--had been standing there betting his last ten bucks that I was crazy to think this dame was going to bring me trouble, I would have taken his bet at a hundred to one odds.
This is the first page of the first book I wrote over 15 years ago. It was right after I'd sold my mystery weekend business, which had been a huge personal (if not financial) success for seven years, and it was an adaptation of one of my mystery weekend scripts.
I signed with a NY agent who found "Drawn to Murder" promising, and she spent two years getting it rejected by all the big publishers. She sent me one rejection from an editor at St. Martin Press saying they'd like to see anything else this "promising" writer had to offer.
I've never been great at handling rejection, and I finally told my agent to throw in the towel. I had written a children's novel that she'd liked, too, but that never found a publishing home either, and in the back of my mind this meant I wasn't as good of a writer as I thought I was. Both books had been hard work, and although to this day I get encouragement/harassment from Katz to write that million dollar book so he can quit his job, I never have sat down and started another one . . . until now.
"Drawn to Murder" surfaced again, soggy but salvageable from the second of two basement floods that hit us in July. The pages are curled and look a little aged, but for the first time in 15-some years, I'm reading the book I wrote so long ago. The tone of the book is humorous, the writing is taut, and I like what I've read so far.
It's nice to know it really was a very good manuscript making the rounds back then, and I'm less embarrassed by the memory of my failure. Even more importantly, I'm anxious to get back to the new book. It has faced the obstacles of multiple power failures, floods, summer distractions, and an all-absorbing garden tour, and has barely progressed this summer. Although the first book had a beginning, a middle and an end before I even started writing it, I remember it took a year of hard work to finish. The book I'm writing now has an idea, a setting, and some characters, and I've given myself the same 12-month deadline, so I'm already feeling the difficulty quotient rise. Still, after seeing what I did once, I am encouraged I can do it again.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
New Blog Options
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!
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!
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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