Playing In The Dirt…

Yesterday, Shane and I went in search of the perfect pansy. He has accompanied me in my hunt every year, so I expected the loud groan and “Oh, Mom….” I heard when I announced the time had come.

“Will it take long?”, he whined.

“Well, that depends. If we’re lucky, they’ll have lots of good ones. If not, we’ll have to look.” My voice was bright in an effort to impart some of the enthusiasm I was feeling, but he didn’t seem to get it as he slumped down the hallway in search of his shoes.

As luck would have it, we encountered flats and flats of gorgeous painted faces in every conceivable color. And today, I got to play in the dirt.

My first task was to remove all the summer flowers, still clinging to life in the warm Georgia sun. This is the part I like the least. I always feel a twinge of guilt at ripping a brave survivor out by the roots, so I grit my teeth, clear my mind, and just start pulling.

And now the fun begins. I don’t use gloves to do this kind of planting, as I like the feel of dirt on my hands. While shoving them, over and over into the aromatic black dirt, I mentally applauded my decision to cancel my manicure appointment on Friday, and a mischevious smile crossed my face as I imagined the reaction of the beautiful, little sprite who tends my hands if she could have seen the way I was treating her handiwork.

I filled all the containers, using bright yellows, purples, and pinks on the patio…

and old-fashioned ruffled pinks next to the house…

And, as I headed to the back of the yard, towards the bench which has long-since been swallowed up by the English Ivy I planted three years ago, I thought back to last summer. My daughter called to say she and a friend were coming for a visit. They arrived in full make-up and skirts with heels, prompting me to wonder at the occasion. My daughter produced a monstrous high-tech/high-end, camera featuring a nearly foot-long snout of a lens, and explained that her friend needed updated photographs of herself for a project she was working on.

“And, I told her we should come here. Your yards are just picturesque!”

It is one of the loveliest compliments she has ever paid me…

And, of course, there was music….

>Playing In The Dirt…

>
Yesterday, Shane and I went in search of the perfect pansy. He has accompanied me in my hunt every year, so I expected the loud groan and “Oh, Mom….” I heard when I announced the time had come.

“Will it take long?”, he whined.

As luck would have it, we encountered flats and flats of gorgeous painted faces in every conceivable color. And today, I got to play in the dirt.

I filled all the containers, using bright yellows, purples, and pinks on the patio…

and old-fashioned ruffled pinks next to the house…

“And, I told her we should come here. Your yards are just picturesque!”

It is one of the loveliest compliments she has ever paid me…

And, of course, there was music….

Hair Trigger Heart

The smell of bacon frying takes me back to my mother’s formica-topped breakfast table just as the scent of a sage-encrusted turkey roasting, ignites an undertone of pine, only I can smell.

The music of my youth digs deep, unearthing the angst and abandon of cloistered nights behind my bedroom door. Green shag carpeting under pre-pubescent bare feet is all that keeps the needle from skipping across black vinyl, as I dance and sing before an adoring audience that exists only in my vividly feminine imagination.

Unless it has a disco beat…

Throbbing bass beats in time to my eighteen-year-old heart, as I stand beside a strobe-lit dance floor, in flustered anticipation of mimicking moves I have only seen on film. Night fever….

A passage from a well-paged book often gently places me back under my flannel blanket, and trains the glow of my reading light on a single, sweet moment in time.

And the sight of a carefully manicured, moonlit shrub can put a leash in my hand, as I walk in a softly southern late-night rain, and remember the joy of feeling.

>Hair Trigger Heart

>
The smell of bacon frying takes me back to my mother’s formica-topped breakfast table just as the scent of a sage-encrusted turkey roasting, ignites an undertone of pine, only I can smell.

Unless it has a disco beat…

Throbbing bass beats in time to my eighteen-year-old heart, as I stand beside a strobe-lit dance floor, in flustered anticipation of mimicking moves I have only seen on film. Night fever….

A passage from a well-paged book often gently places me back under my flannel blanket, and trains the glow of my reading light on a single, sweet moment in time.

And the sight of a carefully manicured, moonlit shrub can put a leash in my hand, as I walk in a softly southern late-night rain, and remember the joy of feeling.

Night music

There is a pattern to my nights.

As I emerge, steaming, from a hot bath, carrying a pile of laundry, I am accompanied by the tick-tap of dog claws on hardwood. My emergence, and the bundle I carry can mean only one thing; treats!

They wait, patiently, as I deposit the laundry, and two pairs of liquid brown eyes follow my hand into the cookie/dog-treat jar. As they crunch their prizes, I walk to the back door and open it, in anticipation of a final trip outside.

As they join me, tails wagging, I close the door behind me in an effort to quell any thoughts of re-entering prematurely.

Freshly bathed, my dampened skin welcomes the soft, warm, Georgia-night breezes, which are not lost on the Beagle, as his nose lifts high and quivers in appreciation.

I walk the walk towards the gate while observing nightfall on my gardens. Brightly colored hibiscus winks as I pass, palm fronds sway, and roses send their scent, lest I forget their presence beyond the swath of yellow cast by the porch light.

As it is occasionally, our quiet exaltation is interrupted by the singing of a siren heading in the direction of those less fortunate. Both animals halt in their tracks, their busy noses still in silent question.

They turn to look at me; at me, Alpha-female, for guidance. It is a position I have won through time, patience, and dogged perseverence, and I know what I must do.

I wait, until the siren has reached it’s crescendo. And, I begin; low at first, then building. My sound becomes louder, the tone becomes higher, until they pick it up; first the half-breed, and then the Beagle; two aquiline noses pierce the air and twitch in unison…and we howl.

The siren wails, as do we, until, realizing that our inspiration is now distant, faint, and failing, I allow the two born to this sound to finish their song, alone.

And, as we turn towards the door, and the interior our quiet house, they smile, and wag in appreciation of my leadership, and my love.

>Night music

>
There is a pattern to my nights.