The Gardens - In the Beginning

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

I was thinking...

I'd been giving the gardens a good soak this last weekend, as all the scattered showers have made a wide detour around my parched grounds that are starting to form those cracks in the earth that water flows into and surprisingly never fills up to overflowing.  Watering the gardens really means watering the entire yard, gardens cover it all; just like a walk to the wild side when one leaves the front or back door.

Andee was racing through the house yowling those horrible yowls of wilderness hunter out for the kill, and Zoe joined in bolting throughout the house with her red fur jingle ball clasped between her teeth.  Dustin was outdoors munching on a bribe of meaty rib bone while his K9 advantix super duper flea and tick killer did a poison number on him.

I had been thinking about my blog, blogging, how it all affects my well being.  I thought 113 follows was an unlucky number, I was misunderstood and demoted to 112, and yesterday to 111, hahaha :(  Loosing follows is life, loosing the comments is deflating.  My original core of commenters is almost extinct now, replaced by new ones that I adore, but I would have liked to have grabbed the whole cake and eaten it too...I would have liked to have kept the older gang along with the newer one...I do want an awful lot, don't I :)

I've been asking myself the reasons I blog in the first place.  It really was on a whim...someone else set me up...I didn't even have a vague clue what it all involved.  I don't think you'll ever learn much reading my posts, I don't print recipes because of copyright laws, there's hardly ever a swear word in any of it, although in person I am just a bit more colorful.  I don't write to improve my writing style (what writing style??? I'm all over the place), to publish a book (wouldn't that be two hoots and a half), or build up the follows to astronomical proportions (whoops...please don't demote me to 110 or 109 just because I'm doing what I've always told myself is death in a post).  It's evolved into telling snippets of my life present and life past, and when I've told enough I'll be gone.  Poof!

Blogging is a time gobbler and swallow me upper in my world.  I'm on my computer way too long, I ignore playtime for myself and pets, I sleep too few hours before the alarm reminds me of the reality that I'm yawning my life away.  Taking into consideration daily chores involving house, yard, pets, and me, commuting, working, evening phone time with husband, and exercising; I have ruffly zero hours for relaxing at the end of my day and that just isn't working for me.  I'm trying to figure out how to approach it all in a sensible way...still trying.  I do have the opportunity of sometimes writing up a post at work (shhhhhhhh...) since I'm a one person office, and I do have the luxury or druggery of slow times each week and absolutely no one to talk with since we're in a blackhole when it comes to cell phone reception.

It's a half hour past bedtime and I have to skedaddle, leaving you in this one sided conversation I'm having of everything and nothing and all that is in-between about my blog, blogging, and how it all affects my well being on this quiet evening.


   

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Just tea for two and two for tea, Just me for you and you for me...

"You can't think how I depend on you, and when you're not there the color goes out of my life."     Victoria Woolf
Happy 24 Years Together!


Monday, August 22, 2011

Island of Suburbia

Far and few in-between, our yard of lush native nature, an extension of the wild and wooly countryside that city folks often run to on their escape mode weekends...we are not the darling of the city planning association.

The wild ones visit us less often then before, as the expanding neighborhoods isolate us from natural nature.  The box turtle migration is relegated to past memories, and the raccoon tots filling up on ripe juicy grapes haven't been back for many, many years.  Rabbits surprise us seldom with our yard now far from wooded terrain.  We lament their babies are no longer viewed in the gardens.  Skunks still roam the nights and some days, but they must be one of the most misunderstood creatures to roam our world.  I've researched their ways, and have successfully gardened with them close at hand, but not out of worrisome eye sight.

I know I have lizards in the rock piles, but they are impossible to be viewed easily in all this haphazard greenery and fluff.  Pond frogs plop-plop into water before I get close for a view.  Tree frogs have delighted us visiting on the sliding glass doors.  Garden toads are sometimes viewed in the early evenings as they make their rounds for yummy ants and garden slugs.  The leopard frogs haven't been seen for more than a decade, and one summer a Norwegian rat caused quite a stir.

A pair of voles busied about a few summers ago while friends panicked and assured us they would overpopulate the grounds; but you know they disappeared with hawk and owl visits.  I miss them munching about the wildflowers and grasses.  Mice are few now, but amazed once to stand in their path as they crossed in front and behind me until I uttered a sound that sent them scurrying for cover with their bad eyesite not to their advantage.  And those wonderful winged and earthbound creatures we call bugs, insects, beetles, arachnids...their varieties numbering into the multi-thousands...totally amazing.

It's mostly about the birds, though; those angels and devils of the heavens that are always searching for new digs as man wipes out the old.

The ones you don't give two hoots about...house sparrows and starlings.

The ones you give one hoot about...northern ravens, american crows, rusty blackbirds, common grackles, and rock doves.

The ones you give a lot of respect to...cooper's hawks and barred owls.

The ones you give ten hoots about...northern mockingbirds, blue jays, cardinals, house wrens, carolina wrens, tufted titmouse, black-capped chickadees, song sparrows, white-throated sparrows, white-crowned sparrows, flocks of american robins, american goldfinch, downy woodpeckers, red-bellied woodpeckers, the common flickers that haven't been seen in the gardens for almost twenty years, eastern bluebirds, red-breasted nuthatches, cedar waxwings, mourning doves, common nighthawks, tennessee warblers, slate-colored juncos, purple finch, common redpolls, and on and on and on.

Nature's always in flux as species thrive and species die.  She adapts the best she is able...I'm a mere dot on the horizon in my small efforts to give her half a chance of at least lasting my lifetime.










            No Hope

            She has enslaved my weary heart in chains,
            so demanding and much unforgiving...
            only on me will I lay any blame,
            such vanity so intoxicating.





Pink Turtlehead







Wild Senna




Light orange Butterfly Weed




dark orange Butterfly Weed







Dark Green Bulrush pond plant






Southern Bush Honeysuckle 'Butterfly'



            The Nature of Beggers

            Weet weet
            weet weet...
            two mockers
            in baby fluff
            call impatiently
            for momma
            and food.
            She stuffs
            them plump
            with sunflower
            chips stolen off
            the deck railing.
            That same railing
            the night before
            found an opossum
            in search of
            bird treats;
            with Dustin barking,
            growling with intensity
            safely behind closed doors
            at that long tailed intruder
            adorning the deck trellis
            watching safely
            from his perch...
            for drought has a way
            of bringing nature
            closer to my backdoor.





Woke up one morning to find this 3 pound
concrete statue in a new position.
Maybe the opossum?






Clematis viorna seed heads




Spicebush berries




American Beautyberry-White










            *why two cats and a dog
            should never have adopted
            a gardener*

            sweat burned eyes
            peek through wisps
            of wind frizzed hair
            aching fingers still
            in a death grip
            around those
            dulled pruners
            as the sun rests
            below the horizon
            with the job
            half unfinished
            and resignation
            is erasing the
            determination
            of a tomorrow
            absolutely free
            of #%!(&* work
            because
            Andee,
            Zoe,
            and
            Dustin
            are wondering...
            will dinner
            become
            breakfast
            as they wait
            and wait
            and
            wait
               *





Coolest place in the gardens




Persimmon just before Dustin gobbled it up...crazy pooch!




Prairie Patch Dragons









May all your problems be ittsy bitsy ones
and
all your blessings more than a hundred hands full.



Wednesday, August 17, 2011

A bad day is all about perspective...

Harmful, destructive, deadly...toxigenic individuals...we know we must run like hell in the opposite direction when they are on an intersect with our life; but knowing and doing isn't always a choice with the proximity of toxicity.

I've noticed a pathological condition resulting from too much closeness of toxin-antitoxin pairs at the job.  A T-personality's ratings are given a boost while the A-personality's descent into purgatory is a guarantee.  Praying for an antimatter intervention just isn't a workable solution if you're hoping for timely results...you know...results that bless your life with positivity while you're still in the breathing stage.

Most of us must suffer the slings and arrows of a split multi-personality to get a leg up, so to speak, on the tremendous problem at hand.  We're just brimming over with love embracing our toxic waste work buddies on the job, and bitching up a lightning storm about our toxic waste work buddies after escaping to the home.  We're oxidizing all over the place where we make a living, and stuffing ourselves full of antioxidants to survive another round the next morning.  We're the very model of a modern aptitude for a schizophrenic attitude.

Escaping the job today had an enormous obstacle to overcome.  A hurdle that grew thirty feet tall in two seconds and caused my world to come to a screeching stop as I hurriedly scanned all my options while evacuating my vehicle at the speed of light at the park exit stop sign.  A half inch orange fat ant-like creature navigating my arm, refused to be crushed in my panic at detection time and fell off said arm somewhere below.

Looking back through the car door, I caught a glimpse of the little orange bugger disappearing over the edge of my seat into the world under my seat.  My heart sank to the bottom of bottom, and a dark cloud instantly positioned itself like a crash helmet of doom over my head as I moved that seat a hundred times back and forth, flipped the back up and down, swiped a magazine over and over again underneath jabbing every which-a-way with an answered prayer of I love that little orange bugger better than you.

I knew I had to position my unwilling butt onto that seat, and either drive the 40 miles home risking the possibility of a nasty bite, or the 100 feet back to the office and insecticide that little orange bugger to smithereens.  After a very short drive back to the office that seemed like way too long and much too time consuming, I grabbed what was available...flea and tick spray...dousing the living daylights out of my baby on wheels.  Not wanting to go the way of my little orange tyke that hopefully expired curled up in a crevice of foam under my seat cushion fabric, I made my way home with all the windows rolled down and the air conditioner blasting in my face...the roar of wind surrounding my head was alarmingly deafening.

Has anyone noticed that no one on the freeway is friendly anymore except you?  At first I thought it was just demented truckers getting their daily perk-me-uppers by seeing how many cars they could play chicken with, but the hapless drivers of those little put-puts have joined ranks with the truckers at pretending the merge lane full of cars is just a figment of every one's imaginations.

Reluctant at coming to a dead stop on the freeway entrance, it takes extraordinary skill to maneuver my little red streak into a whisper of space between giants and midgets on that freeway.  I've become thick skinned.  Honk at me all you want...give me the dirty evil eye...intimidate me with your one foot space between your bumper and mine...I'm going nowhere but home tonight.  Oh, how I hate taking the freeway that every other driver thinks they own for themselves.  Nothing free about any of it these days.

On my two lane country road, no sign of the little orange tyke, although I swear I've felt him crawling all over my legs a hundred times in the last twenty miles; my mind's filling up again with that dread and fear of will the money I'm putting into my savings account still be there this time next year.  As long as my government can do what they say we cannot do without dire consequences; you know...borrow money that never gets paid back, I think some call it stealing...I'll be okay.

Will they be able to borrow and keep raising the debt ceiling until I am no longer of this earth?  I need to know!!!  Husband says to not worry.  Not worrying is like me coughing up a furball...it's not going to happen any time soon.  My pessimism has a strangle hold on my optimism.  I've had to shift my endorphin production into overdrive to stave off that headache brewing in the nether regions of my noggin.  What ever happened to the simple life?  Life just keeps compounding in complications the older I become. 

And last, but no way least...my blogging experience is pushing my patience to the outer edge of endurance.  In the beginning all seemed as it should be, and I was contentedly happy.  Then Preview took an extended vacation escaping my world, leaving me in a bind of having to publish, then tweaking it all after-the-fact.

After six months, it's re-joined my little family, and polishing my posts would be so sublime if it didn't change the spacing every time I close out before publishing.  While Mr. Preview was on vacation, Ms. Scroll Vertical threw a tizzy fit, and refused to work any speed but excruciatingly SLOW.  She does this mostly on my blog, she taunts me so, but a few other blogs she has taken a dislike also.

Miss Comment says she's working too hard, come on...how she could be so tired is a mystical mystery.  Sometimes she works, sometimes not...sometimes she likes you, sometimes not.  She's a capricious obstinate little one with a bit of a temper.  It's a journey into the abyss of black holeness, as I mickey mouse my way around to finalizing a post.  I do not see a future of bliss in this...



Thursday, August 11, 2011

Death on Hobson Pike






Mindlessly cruising down Hobson Pike, powered on coffee and totally void of motivation; I'm heading to that last place on earth I would ever visit if I weren't in need of a roof over my head, vittles on my table, and a few rags in my closet...THE JOB.

I've been passing this congregation of blackest black buzzards for the last three days, munching on something humongous in the grasses...a deer...a cow...perhaps a hiker???   Humongous because that's where the whole gang is except one.  That one dolt is munching on a small speck in the roadway.

That evening, as I travel faster than the speed of light in my escape from THE JOB, that poor roadway munching dolt is discovered to be just a wad of broken feathers plastered to the asphalt.  The next day...being mindless...remember, I'm on my way to work...I begin to ponder, as I swerve around that wad of broken feathers still plastered to the asphalt, if buzzards ever munch on a buzzard that is road kill.

It's a valid inquiry.  A friend of a friend of a friend knew someone that unhappily had a buzzard commit suicide under his 60 mph right tires, and he claimed he was blessed with a rotten puking date killing stench that lingered around his beloved vehicle for weeks.  Not even skunk removal concoctions could peel off that cloak of death from his set of wheels.

I google it at work, being the inquiring soul I am; and hey, it's important to satisfy curiosity, even in the work place.  It's a valid question that could pertain to some aspect of my job, inside or out.

Well, I'll be a monkey's auntie!  Buzzards are related to storks...kind of like the black sheep of the family, so to speak.

They carry around their own portable air conditioner dribbling crap on themselves to stay cool...okaaaaay.

A buzzard's digestive system will cremate anything, so disease organisms are history when gulped down hitch hiking on that putrefying snack.

Buzzards have even been known to snack on young defenseless itty bitty creatures that are still briefly in awe of that wonderful world before their eyes.

They prefer herbivorous road kill, you know, a muncher of greens; although last year I did see a trio flipping tiger striped kitty road kill around a bit, perhaps praying for a tastier grass grazing mouse to pitter pat along sooner than later.

The human consensus is that wad of broken feathers plastered to the asphalt will stay that wad of broken feathers plastered to the asphalt until it disintegrates.

Do buzzards ever munch on a buzzard that is road kill?  The answer from any respectable buzzard, even if his stomach is shrinking to the size of a marble, is "HELL NO!!!"


               

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

All I am is half my mother's fault!



Middle childhood did not always shape me in the most positive of ways, but my mom did open that door for me to the world of music, art and finer things, though she seldom ever had any of these in her life, whether by choice or not by choice. 

She had albums upon albums of 78 records, and a few 16 inch records.  I never saw her play any of them.  They must have been from a time before her marriage, and just laid in cardboard boxes until I began to explore the closets.  I played them on an old portable phonograph.

I also, for my own special keeping, had those little yellow vinyl 78 records that looked like miniatures of the regular sized ones.  I still remember Dean Martin singing 'when the moon hits your eyes like a big pizza pie, it's amore'...someone else singing 'somebody stole the wedding bells'...and who knows what else.  I had a small stack of them, but those two are the only ones I still remember at all.

The day a floor model credenza type stereo was delivered to our front door and mom turned the delivery man away, refusing to accept something she hadn't order; was the beginning of her personal lifelong deprivation goal giving new meaning of ones dedication to obstinacy.

Dad, without conferring with mom, decided to put themselves in more debt, more debt that mom totally did not want, debt that she had to accept to squelch all the arguing that ensued between them when dad discovered the stereo he ordered was turned away.  She lived with that stereo that took up one end of the living room floor.  Dad had it blaring away all the time, records and radio; but mom never, never, never ever played it in his lifetime or in hers up to the day she sold the house and gave the stereo away or had it trashed.

The only movies I remember mom ever watching were the ones when we all piled into the car with sleeping arrangements in the back seat, and spent the evening at the local drive-in movie theater.  The only movie that made such an impression on me that it has been impressed in my brain in indelible ink to this day was 'The Blob'.

Mom NEVER went to the movie theater houses with us except in our little tyke years, and dad went with us only a few times when we were older; but we almost always had permission, so it was just me and my younger brother Eddie, or just me, watching those 25 cent movies with a 10 cent bag of popcorn and a 5 cent Popsicle. 

I absorbed magazine culture from the constant supply of current women magazines mom kept in our home, and slowly built up a storehouse of knowledge of all the finer things in life, and was dismayed that none of them existed in our home.  A one income household with five hungry mouths to feed, five growing bodies to clothe, and five inquiring minds to satisfy...the finer things in life for us were only all those things that money could not buy.

In later years, I would go antiquing with mom, sometimes buying small babbles to decorate the shelves or walls, mostly for mom, but sometimes for me.  I loved and still love old doilies and runners that are crafted with a fine hand and eye for art.

As an adult, I've gone through times when I've had nice things, sometimes very nice things; but I've also gone through times when I've had crap...just crap.

I do enjoy all types of music, art, and finer things; and the seeds of these loves were planted by mom...the records, the movies, the magazines...even though she had very little of her own.

All the finer things in life, those things that money could not buy, I also learned from mom; but that's another story, another post perhaps later.



Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Sometimes life's like a giant clothes pin clamped to my head, and the headache never ends.



I'm a bit melancholy today.  I get that way when I have too much idle time on my hands, as I do this day.  I feel myself wanting to wish my life into something more than it is, to rise above those feelings of mediocrity that choose to hang out with me this morning.

A good movie, workout in the gardens, or a cat on my lap will break this spell, but for now as I'm taking a break from working on the layout of my cluttered workroom and putting together the babies breakfasts before they begin to eye me as vittles, I'm just a little blue as my life crawls before my eyes in all its mediocre ways.

Raised to get married and depend on a husband, I feel like I've spent a lifetime trying to pry off those shackles of limitations.  I attract what I am, and have set my family's heads spinning with the number of husbands that have come and gone; husbands that I had hoped would be salvation, but of course never were.

I had one year of college accomplished, a degree was to be my meal ticket to better days; but life has a way of throwing nuts and bolts into the works, and the support was never there with the ones I aligned myself with.

My home seems so little, and way too small for pets, but it is my home.  The front porch is a quiet place to sit and watch the neighborhood surrounding me slowly fading into deterioration.

I like wood furniture, but I've settled for metal, glass, particleboard and a few very nice pieces, only a few.

Children would have been nice, but my picks of spouses were ones already with children living elsewhere; and their unkind past tense spouses were excruciating footnotes in my life.

I have a tiny book, a present, with the tiny letters Acceptance imprinted on the cover.  I grumbled a bit when I opened that postal package...I grumbled about what a crap present it was, and stuck it on a shelf out of sight in my closet.  To me it was a negative word, the equivalent of giving up, a big time loser word...I hated it.  It meant living in denial to have that feeling of perfection I craved, and we all know denial is imperfection at its max.

Then I was given a little secret of enlightenment, as I lightened my pocket book in therapy.  The more I say something, the more I think it, and the more I think it, the more I believe it, and the more I believe it, the more it becomes my life...so I'm reminding myself again this morning; this morning that's dragging on forever and ever, that I really do have a life that's been worth living, even though it's been riddled with all those imperfections.

I did find that tiny book hidden away in my closet, with those tiny letters Acceptance imprinted on the cover.  That little book of short quotes that seem quite positive after all, and I'm on my way back to my workroom right now to read a few more pages from it again.







Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...