Tag Archives: Everyday Life

Civil War Daffodils

02 Monday Nov 2009

Posted by in In the Garden, Life at Home, Mesta Park, The Great Outdoors

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Empress

Empress Daffodil, 1869

There are so many outside chores this time of year, it’s easy to get out of focus.

I go out to spread a new layer of fresh mulch to remember the need to plant my new Daffodil bulbs.  I plant the bulbs to remember the desire to  transplant my tender herbs into containers; when freezing temperatures hit, I plan to move my herbs to the basement so I can continue to use them for winter cooking .  So I get that done to notice the leaf debris nesting under the shrubs and perennials.  I clean up the leaves to remember my desire to sow fall seeds, like Poppies and Larkspur and Delphinium.  And by the time I finally get to the mulch, it’s almost too dark to spread it.  Daylight Savings Time is spent.

This morning, rather than continue with my backyard mulching project, I decided to shift gears and head out to the front to rake leaves.  Our old neighborhood is full of tall deciduous trees — Sycamores, Elms, Sweetgums and Oaks — and right now, it’s the season of raining leaves.  If I don’t rake, the leaf cover can suffocate Cinderella’s fescue lawn.  So today I’ve raked 390 gallons of leaves!  And we still have a good four more weeks of leaf fall with another 1000 gallons of leaves. I should be in shape in time for winter.  

In the meantime — terribly out of shape and with the last two day’s work — I’m exhausted.  So after deciding to call it ‘quits’ for today, I let myself  into the back yard to put up the leaf blower.  I take a few steps up the driveway and run straight into one of my brand new daffodils  —  one of  three I planted yesterday afternoon — sitting on the driveway, naked and alone.  Left for dead.

However, to say Daffodil doesn’t quite tell the whole story.  This Daffodil is no regular big box store bulb.  I have those too. They were not disturbed.  No, the bulb I found sitting on the driveway was a rare Empress Daffodil, —  a plant introduced shortly after the Civil War  —  one of this year’s garden splurges that I ordered from Old House Gardens.0708CatalogThumb

I surmise Cosmo (my Holy Terror who’s been known to dig holes in the garden) was my Daffodil tomb raider.  And knowing Terriers as I do, I know that there’s no use beginning  a civil war that can’t be won.  So I pick up my little bulb, and with freshly manicured nails, but without gardening gloves, I quickly dig a new hole for my rare little beauty. 

For now, the little Empress is safe and sound from Scottie attacks.  And with luck, she’ll stay that way and I’ll not see my rare Daffodil again until it’s time for Spring’s resurrection.  If only Cosmo will turn over a new leaf and become a patient gardener.

Somedays, I do feel like I live in a cartoon. 

All Saints Day

01 Sunday Nov 2009

Posted by in Life at Home, Soul Care

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In the quiet of a Sunday morning, after reading a few selections of the Daily Office, I settled into the pages of May Sarton’s book, Plant Dreaming Deep.  This particular book records the personal story of how, at age 46, Sarton came to own her first home in Nelson, New Hampshire.   I open to chapter one then glance at the title:  “The Ancestor Comes Home”.  It is a hint of grace that this chapter should set the table for All Saints Day so perfectly.

All Saints -- Granddad, Granny, Mom, Dad, Papa & Papageorge

I love May Sarton’s writing — her prose is beautiful, her memories hold power, and her angst over indecision is eerily familiar.  But as I enter Sarton’s world, I find I have more in common with Sarton than a shared angst over decisions.  She unwinds a few frames from the days of her life to tell  how she lost both parents by the time she had reached middle age, one in a lingering death and one in the space of hours.   My parents seem destined for this same divide and conquer method themselves; Mom is already gone, felled like Sarton’s great oak father, while Dad is withering on the vine like Sarton’s mother.

The deaths of Sarton’s parents set in motion the dismantling of her parent’s life.  And without any plan to do so, my thoughts immediately turn to my younger sister.  Christi has been living in the shadow of this reality for the last two months, as she has begun to take stock of my parent’s household and make plans for its destiny, whether it be landfill or another’s lucky home.  Sarton’s words about her death rendered event echo in the chambers of my own heart, just as they will soon echo in the vacant house that was my parent’s home.

“…I flew back through that long day to a house that was no longer home.  It was all sudden, violent, and terrible.  Within a week the house had been sold, and within two months dismantled, the books gone, everything torn apart of the fabric of my parents’ lives together.  I went through those months like a person in a dream, hardly conscious, making decisions because they had to be made.”

Christi too is “making decisions because they have to be made.”  However, I’m very grateful that my sister moves at a slower pace than Sarton, even as each passing day makes more clear that Daddy will never leave the nursing home to return to his home on the hill.  That’s our reality in a hard nutshell.  And of course the reality has always been there, keeping us company, nudging us toward recognition, in hopes that we might see IT for the truth it is and name it into existence.  I’ve never thought these thoughts before — that the hardest part of reality is its mere acceptance.

Last June, when Dad was a new and (so I then thought) temporary resident of the nursing home, I looked Daddy in the eye and told him he was a saint.  Daddy was surprised at my words.  Daddy knew he wasn’t perfect and even in his demented state, Daddy knew I knew this too.  So I went on.  “Daddy, you’re a saint not because your perfect.  You’re a saint because your real.”  And as soon as I spoke these words, I realized their truth, that they explained so much about who I am and what I hold most dear.

Dressing up in a Halloween costume of pretense and assumed identity is fun.  But it’s when the masks come off that the beauty and truth of a person is revealed.  For far too many, the masks stay on until death do it part.  But for others, it happens inch by inch.  We see these as the Mother Teresa’s of our world.    But whether alive or dead, we all become saints sooner or later.  We enter sainthood by owing — accepting the reality — of our own imperfect truth — our own imperfect humanity.  And when we no longer pretend to be other than who we really are — when our eyes open to our own beautiful brokeness —  we become just like Daddy.

Ghosts of Halloween Past

31 Saturday Oct 2009

Posted by in Life at Home, Mesta Park

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A Very Young Witch

The Young Witch Kate

Tonight’s weather promises to be just ripe for Halloween ghosties.  It will be cold, clear and full of fall fun.

Many homes in our old neighborhood really get into the Halloween spirit, turning Mesta Park into a trick-or-treater’s wonderland.  Lights cover mansions while grave markers and cob webs cover front lawns.  And over on 19th street, a few ghosts are already swinging on ropes, hanging high from creepy old tree limbs.

KKB Halloween_resize

Holy Terror Batman! The Dynamic Trio

 

 

Candy distribution is especially brisk business over on “The Boulevard’, an area of Mesta Park that encompasses homes on both sides of the old streetcar curve, where Shartel Avenue transitions into 18th street.  The Boulevard is the gateway to Mesta Park, and for tonight at least, it will be a congested gate full of cars and sidewalks full of excited and happy children.  Next to Christmas, Halloween may be a child’s best holiday.  

It was for mine.  They liked all the dressing up and the novelty of walking through the neighborhood at night.  And of course, there was the promise of all that free candy.  The kids always brought home a lot of sweet loot, especially when young.

I’ll never forget our son Bryan’ first Halloween outing, when he turned into a 22 month old green dragon.  Bry did a get job walking the sidewalks all on his own, and did amazingly well keeping up with two big sisters.  At one point, my husband scooped what he knew was a tired Bryan into his arms, only to see Bryan’s little legs still full of energy, moving as if walking in air.

Hand-made Costumes by Mom

These days, Halloween is a much quieter affair.  Bereft of children and living far away from The Boulevard’s hustle and bustle, Candyland is a much different game in our neck of the Mesta Park woods.  We live by neighbors who believe in leaving porch lights off;  and while our light will be on, our treats will not be that good to attract a big crowd.  I made sure of that. 

The trick is to offer the right size treat; nothing too big and nothing to small.  I learned this from the school of hard knocks, back in the days of early family, when we lived in a new residential neighborhood with oversized lots. At its busiest, our Halloween traffic was slooooow — the houses being too far apart to attract serious gobs of trick-or-treaters.  The few who canvassed our street for treats were often chauffeured by parents, riding house to house by car, then walking to the door to collect their treat.  Older neighborhood children could be found on roller blades as they made quick tracks for treats. 

Bryan-Pirate_Blog

Anchors Aweigh for Candy

One year I decided to be extra generous.  I went to our local Target Store  and purchased two or three boxes of king-size candy bars —  enough candy to more than meet our Halloween demand.  

But word must have got out on the street that the last house on Timbercreek Drive was giving out king-size candy bars.  Who knew kids talked about their candy conquests?  I didn’t.   All I knew then was that we had kids crawling out of the woodwork and that a few costumes were begining to look very familiar.  It wasn’t long before my supply of plenty was none.

At 8:00 p.m., we turned out the lights, glad to have survived without the need to raid our children’s private stashes.  But as we settled in to watch a little television, our doorbell rang.  And rang again.  And then they knocked.  Hard.  The candy goblins were there…knew we were too…and they wanted their king-size bars.  I don’t recall if my husband had to go to the door or not, but somehow, they left empty-handed.  And as soon as they were gone, we turned off our inside lights and watched television in the dark.  It was the spookiest Halloween I’ve ever experienced this side of the door.

So here’s my tip for a safe Halloween.  Buy the appropriately named fun size.  It will keep Halloween fun for everyone —  all the givers, all the takers and even all those candymakers — and may it grant all a ghoulish good night.