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an everyday life

an everyday life

Category Archives: Life at Home

Gardener at Work

11 Thursday Mar 2010

Posted by Janell in In the Garden, Life at Home

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Dog Tales, Everyday Life, Oklahoma Gardening

Earlier today, something black and fast caught my eye from my upstairs window.

It was my Scottish Terrier, Cosmo, hurrying as fast as short legs could carry her.  Trotting with purpose, as if on a mission, Cosmo was heading  toward her favorite garden spot.   I don’t normally keep close tabs on my garden loving dog, but it is spring and I’ve plenty of garden chores to get through without any extras from Ms. Cosmo.

That Scottie of mine digs holes where I don’t want them.  She’s severed every one of my drip irrigation lines in the last three months — most were completely ripped out.   And in spite of my close watch, Cosmo gnawed quite a few edges off my new back porch steps.

But Cosmo’s specialty is thinning out garden plants.  Last year, I caught her eating my Spilanthes, commonly called the Toothache Plant.  Another one of her forays left several giant Cosmos and Cleome  dead — these showy flowers stand four to five feet tall, but that didn’t deter Ms. Cosmo, who chopped them off at their ankles.  Poor little flower victims didn’t know what hit them.

Once Cosmo harvests a plant, she works more like garbage disposal than composter —  which would be fine, if her definition of plant debris was the same as mine.  I don’t mind Cosmo pruning back last season’s perennial growth — or pulling up the dead annuals by their roots — but Lordy, that girl hasn’t figured out one from the other.  And really — I ask — is it necessary to chew holes in my ‘invisible’ fence wire that keeps my poodle garden stampedes in check?  If I didn’t know better, I might wonder if Cosmo was in cahoots with the poodles.

Cosmo’s favorite spot in the garden lies behind the garden shed at the back of our small city lot.  In the summer, it offers a cool drink of shade, something that comes in handy for a little dog with coal-black fur.  In the winter, it offers shelter from the cold north wind, a good place to carry out her terrorist activities, chewing to heart’s and jaw’s content without fear of being disturbed.

While Cosmo is out ‘tending’ the back gardens, I’ve been slaving in the front, giving a hundred head of  Lirope or Monkey Grass a nice spring ‘haircut.’  The cold winter dulled their ‘heads’ to an olive-green full of dry split ends.   Though some gardeners use lawn mowers and weed trimmers to groom their ‘Monkey Grass,’ I prefer to cut each one by hand with my pruners, to prevent the weed trimmer from injuring the tree bark.  I could use Cosmo’s help if she were willing.  But when in the front, Cosmo has a tendency to visit with her favorite neighbor — Jessie the cat.  If neighborhood gossip is right, Jessie doesn’t like Cosmo’s visits.

Working outside this time of the year does bring plenty of visits with the neighbors.  Folks are always walking by our house since we live near to Mesta Park — even the ones I don’t know call out a greeting.  Then, my next-door neighbor is always interested in what I’m doing in my garden.  After a few minutes of questions, I’m usually left to my task with some final word of encouragement, like —  “Looking good.”

I know they’re talking about the garden  rather than me, since I never look good when working in the garden.  But now Cosmo — that girl always looks good — even when she’s being a very naughty Scottie — which may help explain why I keep her on the gardening payroll.

Changing of the Guard

09 Tuesday Mar 2010

Posted by Janell in Life at Home

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

Aging, Childhood Memories, Everyday Life, Parents

My memories before kindergarten are few — just snips and snaps.

But memories during and after kindergarten are fleshy, full of tastes and sounds and sights and smells.  It was then that Daddy and I became two peas in a pod, since Mom worked nights and Dad worked days.

The weekday drill began with Mom picking me up from a private kindergarten, always with some after-school snack I would eat standing up in the front passenger seat while she drove the Chevy to the plant where she and Dad worked.  It was a quick ten minute drive.

She turned the car off Kickapoo Street by St. Benedict’s Catholic Church, and drove a few blocks west to the parking lot where the road dead-ended into the local Sylvania plant.  Mom turned off the car to wait for Daddy to come out.  I think she read while she waited.  It was my job to sound the alarm of Daddy’s coming, so I kept my eyes peeled for Daddy.

It wasn’t long before Dad walked up.  He walked fast with a spring in his step.  With little conversation, Mom and Dad seamlessly traded places.  Mom walked off in the sunset toward the plant leaving me with Daddy and Daddy with me.

Dad started the car, shifted the car out of park and off we’d go.  We never made it out of the parking lot without me hitting Dad up for a fried cherry pie from the Brown Derby Drive-in.  Daddy never told me no.  Dad’s inability to say ‘no’ was one of his parental weaknesses, a slack taken up by my mother with ease.

Before we finished our pies, I begged Daddy to take me to Richland Park, a small amusement park on the outskirts of town, designed for children under age 10.  Sometimes we’d go, but more often than not, Dad and I’d just go home to watch our favorite television show together — American Bandstand — which at the time, was on five afternoons a week.  This was our drill until the plant relocated to Iowa, some time around my sister’s birth.

These days the drill has changed.  It’s me parking the car in a parking lot with Daddy waiting for me.  Then it’s me starting the car and turning the car toward home, just my brother and I, as we leave Daddy behind at the nursing home after a short weekly visit.

It’s no longer a true visit; it hasn’t been for months.  Today was the saddest visit ever.  Daddy was awake but uninterested.   Dad didn’t seem to notice Jon and I were there.  As Jon slowly rubbed Daddy’s head, I asked Daddy if he wanted to listen to his sister, my Aunt Carol.  I received no response.  I then asked Daddy if he wanted to listen to Christi.  Again, no response.   Daddy was far away, perhaps lost in a daydream.

I found comfort, yesterday, while reading for my Monday evening class.  In the book, Dreams — Discovering Your Inner Teacher, the author, Clyde Reid, writes:

“As we grow old, we often find that the things we have enjoyed over a lifetime are taken away from us — our homes, our cars, our health, our mobility, perhaps even the use of our eyes and ears.  But one thing no one can ever take away from us is our dreams.”

I’m glad Daddy still has his dreams.  My father has always been a dreamer.  If Daddy was daydreaming today, I hope Daddy was once again able to walk to his car in a New York minute like he did during the changing of the guard all those years ago.  And I hope in Daddy’s dreams, Daddy was able to eat something wonderful — something as wonderful as a homemade fried cherry pie —  and that maybe Dad was at a grand old movie palace watching his favorite film.  I mean really watching, really soaking it all in, rather than the hit and the miss that goes on these days.

Today, as we prepared to leave, I squatted down real low, right next to Dad’s recliner, to once again look up into Daddy’s eyes.  As if Daddy were a newborn infant that focuses only when a face gets close enough to his orbit, Daddy’s eyes locked onto mine.  Tenderly, Dad reached down to cradle my face in his two hands.   And looking up into Daddy’s eyes,  I told my father  — “Daddy, you are the Daddy of Fried Cherry Pies from Brown Derby; ” “Daddy, you are the Daddy of Richland Park”; “Daddy, you are the best Daddy in the whole wide world;”  “Daddy, I love you forever.”

With a few trips of his dried tongue, Daddy looked me in the eye, saying, “I…….love…. ____;”   Daddy left his sentence dangling between us.  But being the big girl that I am, I filled in Daddy’s blank just fine.  If only I could fill his shoes.

A Harlequin Romance Afternoon

08 Monday Mar 2010

Posted by Janell in Life at Home

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

Books, Childhood Memories, Everyday Life, Parents

The cool rainy day offers mint conditions for an afternoon nap.

My comfy bed awaits.  A soft bedside lamp glows yellow.   The warm covers are turned down.  A stack of reading material lies nearby on my nightstand.

With my homework finished for tonight’s class, I may just indulge — after I empty my mind of thoughts that have deprived me from sleep for the last three nights.

I wasn’t surprised by my hard night’s sleep on Friday or Saturday.  I sort of expected it, as I’m always keyed up before and after a big project.   Before hand, I’m full of nervous hope that all will go well and that no one will get hurt.  Once the work is finished, I’m too keyed up to relax — the day’s activities cling to me and no amount of tossing and turning shakes them off.

But last night, after a relaxing day of gardening and time spent in a good book, I expected a good night’s sleep.  And maybe I would have but for the late telephone call with my sister, where we made plans to begin a new project this weekend, that involves painting my parent’s house.   Too much stimulation before bedtime — whether it’s caffeine or talking about a big project —  keeps me unsettled.

My mother use to love to go to bed on a day like today, especially if she had her new month’s allotment of Harlequin Romances.  It didn’t matter what project she was working on and what projects were coming up.  She easily escaped her everyday world to enter a new one, one full of  love, conflict and a happy ending.

I can remember my mother buying Harlequin Romances since the late fifties or early sixties.  As far as I know, Mom never threw any away, though some she lent to others may have become unintended gifts.  Except for her favorites that she kept by her bed, every Harlequin Romance that my mother ever purchased was put in a box and shoved up in the attic.  It’s the one place we still have left to clear.

Of late, I’ve been wondering whether there is a secondary market for vintage Harlequin Romance novels.  I learned from looking online that Harlequin is reprinting some of their ‘vintage’ novels.  Wouldn’t it be crazy if these books were the most valuable asset of Mom’s scary estate?  Sounds like the stuff romance novels are made of, though to keep it real, none of Mom’s collection would ever rise to the ranks of  ‘mint’ condition.

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