Unintended Consequences

I’m not one to complain about the weather. Why would I? What difference would it make? It’s like when you ask someone…usually an older someone…and often a male someone…how he’s doing. Sometimes he’ll answer, “Can’t complain.”, and a voice inside my head adds, “And it wouldn’t do any good if you did.”

Despite my physical aversion to colder weather, I never complained when spring took her time getting here. I adapted instead. I looked upon the situation as an excuse to purchase a few more sweaters with three-quarter-length sleeves. I love sweaters with three-quarter-length sleeves. They are some of my favorite things. I especially love them if they are made from cashmere.

One of my friends was particularly irritated by people complaining about having to wear shoes in Atlanta in April. As it happens, she was born in South Dakota. I don’t think she’s lived in Georgia very long which would explain why she isn’t aware that, by April, most southerners are organizing their flip-flops according to outfit and/or occasion. She took to Facebook, warning anyone bemoaning cooler temperatures that they had better not complain about sweating in July or she’d be there to remind them they’d gotten just what they’d asked for. I’m guessing she hasn’t had to make good on that promise. Not because she’s a particularly scary person. And, not because people finally realized that complaining about the heat doesn’t cool things off.

My friend hasn’t had to remind anyone how they wished for Atlanta heat because Atlanta hasn’t gotten hot yet…not really hot…not Atlanta hot. Atlanta hasn’t gotten hot yet because during the month of June we received 9 1/2 inches of rain. And, since that time, it’s rained every day in July. So far this year we’ve accumulated almost 42 inches of rain which is more than we had for the entire year last year.

Sometime around the middle of June people began to complain. Often, mine was the lone voice of dissent. As the minder of a garden, I didn’t dare complain. For years I watched my garden literally burn to the ground because of lack of rain. There’s no way I would complain now…unless it is to bemoan missing melons. I planted melons, you see, and something ate them. I assumed the culprits to be rabbits until I spotted a pair of deer strolling casually through a neighbor’s yard. They stopped, on their way down the street, to nibble on roses.

Back then, in the middle of June, when only about 30 inches of rain had fallen, melons seemed like a good idea. Thirty inches of rain is enough water to fill lots of watermelons. Now though, some twelve inches later, I’ve begun to see that too much of a good thing really is too much. A melon, you see, begins as a blossom. A bee spies the blossom, and then he sees another one, and another one, and so on, and so on, and before you know it…mini-melons! But bees don’t like rain. Even in a light rain, a bee can’t leave its nest. And a blossom without a bee is just a flower.

So much water in such a short time changes things.

The chicken pen is under water. Seeing their ugly little toes disappear into the muck time after time as they rush to greet me reminded me of jungle rot, a podiatric malady soldiers in Vietnam often battled. Last weekend I put down boards for them to walk on. My chickens haven’t had as much as a sniffle in six years. Its bad enough they’ve had to learn to eat off a dinner plate. I can’t take a chance with jungle rot.

My flowers are drowning.

My floors are muddy.

My dogs are smelly.

And, don’t even get me started on my hair.

I’m willing to concede that, aside from the health of my hens, most of my worries are negligible.

And then I read about the snakes.

It makes perfect sense when you think it through, which I never would have done if I hadn’t read that a local newscaster was hospitalized with a snake bite. The sequence goes something like this: many bugs don’t do rain which means things that eat bugs are forced to forage. Foraging, as it happens, often requires travel outside of one’s usual hunting grounds and, thus, increased time outside of the nest. Guess what eats the things that would eat bugs but are now having to hunt?

Snakes.

And, here’s another twist. Just like my chickens who now spend ninety percent of their time inside the henhouse, snakes are tired of being wet. Only they don’t have a house of their own, so guess what? That’s right! They’re not picky! They’ll use yours. Right now, in Atlanta, the average wait time to have a pest control company out to your house to remove rain weary vermin is two weeks; two weeks of sharing your house with something that slithers. No. Way.

My seventh grade teacher, Mrs. White, marched with Martin Luther King. She played guitar and taught us folk songs and regaled us with stories from her past. One story involved a snake. It’s the one I remember.

She’d gotten up in the middle of the night to pee. For whatever reason, she didn’t turn on the light in the bathroom until after she’d done her business. That’s when she saw the snake, coiled around and around and around the inside of the toilet bowl. Having carried this image around in my head lo these many years, you can believe I toilet with the lights on, and only after careful inspection. And there’s no loitering. When I was a kid, my father’s bathroom always smelled like newsprint. He obviously hadn’t heard the story.

Yesterday the rain held off until rush hour. This is not unusual. In fact, yesterday was the second time I’ve sat in traffic and watched marble-sized hail gather on my windshield wipers before being swooshed off to ping the car in the lane next to mine.

By the time I arrived home, hail had given way to torrential rain and pounding thunder. My dogs don’t care for storms. Usually they’re too nervous to eat. But when it rains every day for weeks, something’s got to give. Murphy, my boxer, followed me into the sunroom willingly enough but minutes later, after I’d gone back inside, I heard his super-sized claws hit the industrial strength screen we installed to protect the French door from just that type of abuse. He gave a jerk of his head when I opened the door; our signal that he wanted company. I sank into one of the rocking chairs I’d drug in off the patio during an earlier storm, and immediately wished I’d grabbed my Iphone. For a few seconds, I considered going back in to get it. I could play a word, check in on Facebook, or read an email. The sound of rain hitting the roof called me back. I realized this was an opportunity to just be, and I don’t get enough of those.

I give the rocking chair a push and fold my arms over my lower abdomen, appreciating the softness of a little extra padding. Looking around, I realize I never really see this room. I’d forgotten, for example, about the funky wine bottles and vintage tin signs I sat on shelves next to the ceiling. I’ve downsized from a plethora of plants to a table covered in cactuses and hung, above them, twinkle lights encased in aluminum stars separated by wind chimes. I’ve left my mark here.

The sound of azalea branches scraping windowpanes turns my attention outside the room. The wind is blowing. The sky is unnaturally bright. Maybe the sun, too, has had to adjust; taking any opportunity to shine.

I wonder how the chickens are faring. It’s cooler now, after the hail.

When did my head tilt to one side…ever so slightly…the way it does just before a nap?

When did my eyes close?

The rocking has slowed.

Sleep could come.

Would he be disappointed if I slept through dinner?

>The Forecast: Rain

><!–[if !mso]> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } <![endif]–>

It rained today. As often happens, the storm coincided with rush hour. A colleague wished me luck as I left the office since it’s a well known fact that people in Atlanta don’t know how to drive in rain, or snow, or ice, or at night, or any time except daytime as long as the sun is bright and traffic light.

Other than the obvious road hazards, I don’t mind rain. I’m an avid gardener, and even though I am not actively gardening, I think of water soaking the ground and I know we’re putting in reserves for next summer, when all the hand-wringing in the world won’t make it rain.

I’m not crazy about the old adage “raining cats and dogs”. I’m a visual person and this is not a pretty picture. It doesn’t make sense. Who decided domesticated pets best describe heavy rainfall? Wouldn’t it be more descriptive to evoke elephants and hippos? Couldn’t we could just say, “Wow! It sure is raining.”?

I remember the first time I heard “It’s Raining Men”. I loved it immediately. It is a big song, sung by big women, with big voices and even bigger personalities. The song skidded in on the last lap of the disco era and hearing it today reminds me why we all loved disco; even those of us who won’t admit it.

On Monday, it rained birds in Arkansas. On Tuesday, it rained birds in Louisiana, and today Sweden reported the same. Some scientists are explaining the deaths by speculating that large flocks, alarmed by New Year’s Eve fireworks, might have flown into each other.

Call me cynical, but I don’t think so.

Daddy’s Girl

My father fathered four females.

I am the eldest.

“My name is Stacye, and I’m a Daddy’s Girl.”

Of course I am. We all are. We have a Daddy…we are girls. And, like all good southern girls, we actually call him “Daddy”.

Addressing him that way comes naturally. Admitting to it conjures images of Orson Welles, syrup dripping from the corners of Joanne Woodward’s unlined mouth, and a discomfort that smells like warm gardenias.

By now, you have an image. My blonde hair is long, as are my legs. My eyes are large, and probably blue. There’s a natural curve to my lips, which are carefully painted pink; never red. And, you would be right.

Except, the image is that of my sister, my baby sister to be exact; the one who still throws her limbs on either side of his recliner as she sprawls across his lap, the one that bakes for him, calls him daily, and houses him when he leaves the crystal sands of his beloved beach for important family events, such as his birthday, Father’s Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.

But I was there in the early days…

On Saturdays, we logged hours in his two-toned El Camino, driving around town doing errands. His “Honey-Do” list became our “Trip for Two” list, as we traversed suburban side-roads between the post office, hardware store, garden nursery, and occasionally, the local mechanic.

Mostly, we talked.

“Never forget who you are!” I especially loved that one. “You’re a Howell!”

He said as though it meant something. He said it as though mere mention of our name was enough to garner the respect of anyone within hearing distance. He said it so often that I believed it.

He told me stories of him and Joe Wiggins. It was always “Joe Wiggins”, never just “Joe”. Perhaps there was another Joe. I don’t know, he never said. But, he never mentioned his childhood friend without inserting his surname.

I remember the sun being particularly bright one Saturday afternoon. We’d probably just dropped my car off…again. The dilapidated shop occupied most of a block-long side road. They specialized in foreign “jobs”, such as Hondas, Toyotas, Datsuns, and Cortinas. They didn’t actually specialize in Cortinas. No one did. Because, no one east of the Atlantic drove one…except me.

“Why don’t you divorce her?’ My right hand swept blonde wisps from my face. The air conditioner in the El Camino had stopped working weeks ago.

“Because Howells don’t divorce.” He said it as though it were true. He said it as though he was raised by two loving parents instead of a crotchety grandmother who insisted he sweep their dirt floor each morning before mounting the newspaper-laden bicycle he later rode to school.

And I believed, because I didn’t know.

He taught me about cars. He didn’t change his own oil. He had “Eddie, The Mechanic” to do that. But, he taught me to change mine.

He lay under the car, while I leaned across the engine. We changed the oil, added water to the battery, and checked all the other fluids. When we were done; large, continent-shaped swatches of my flannel shirt were missing.

“Battery acid.”, he said while ordering me inside to change my shirt with just a look.

But I kept it. I kept the shirt. I even wore it a few times. Now, I’m sure it lies alongside my holey Peter Frampton t-shirt; the one I kept for almost twenty years before deciding that I really never would wear it again.

But I will…

Angels will sing, harps will play, and there I’ll be…Daddy’s Girl…wearing a holey flannel shirt over a faded Peter Frampton t-shirt.

“Do you feel like I do?”

Frayed Strings

No one loves their children more than I do. My youngest is thirteen now, which only goes to prove that all the minutes I spent wishing he could be my baby forever were for naught. But I knew that…

To my credit, I’ve turned those mournful minutes into reasons to be grateful. When he recounts an exchange with another student in school, I pay attention. The day will come when sharing won’t be so easy. When he calls “Mom”, as I walk past his darkened room, I stop and listen before reminding him, again, to go to sleep. When he allows me to take his hand as we walk, I feel it as I hold it. And, when he wraps his arms around my waist, and rests his head against my chest I thank God for the blessing. Every little boy hug, every little boy kiss, could be the last.

He turned thirteen last week, three days before school let out for summer.

“Do you want a party? You could invite your friends from school, the guys from your baseball team, and some of your football friends. We could go to the park. You guys could play baseball, and we could cook-out.”

Shane sat silent, looking through the window to the backyard. Movement in his eyes told me he was considering the offer. He’d attended several birthday parties this year.

Valerie invited him to his first boy/girl, night-time party. There was dancing, which led to sweating, which provoked Shane to stealthily comb the health and beauty aids aisle during our next visit to the grocery store.

Chelsea’s mother went one better and rented a pool-side clubhouse. As we pulled up, the outer walls of the building seemed to vibrate in time with the disco ball sparkling through an upper-floor window. Expecting hesitation from Shane, I turned in my seat to offer words of encouragement from someone who has personally experienced countless disco balls. The backseat was empty, the car door slammed, and by the time I turned around Shane had mounted the walk towards the door without so much as a wave good-bye.

A pattern began to develop, and I saw my mistake.

“Oh…I just realized all the parties you’ve gone to this year were given by girls. Boys your age don’t have birthday parties, do they?”

Relief colored his face.

“Not really…”, he smiled, lowering his head.

“Ok! So what do you want to do? We could go out to dinner. Your choice! Or we could go to the movies. You could take a friend….You tell me. What do you want to do?”

“I want to spend the weekend with Josh.”

Josh is his oldest brother. He married just before Shane’s birthday. He and his wife live in a rural area seventy-five miles away.

Shane left on Friday.

Friday night I had dinner out, and for the first time in a long time, no one offered me a children’s menu. My companion and I enjoyed uninterrupted adult conversation. And when we left, there were no tell-tale crumbs beneath our table.

Saturday I slept in, and woke to a quiet house. I never realized how much noise is generated by the simple act of breathing until mine was the only breath drawn. I took my coffee to the patio and never felt compelled to grab at the table beside my chair in hopes of steadying it. Birdsong fell on my ears without accompaniment. No one asked me any questions.

I spent the rest of the day doing as I pleased. I shopped without uttering the word “no”. I turned my Ipod up as I gardened, never giving a thought to what might be going on inside the house. I gutted the playroom, and in so doing generated quite a pile for the next charity pick-up. He hasn’t touched those toys in years…

I organized his dresser, and added several threadbare t-shirts to the aforementioned pile. The one with the hole in the collar has bothered me for months.

I baked cookies for the neighbors and no one whined, “You always make the good stuff for other people!” I watched tennis on TV without giving advance warning of an imminent takeover of the den. Music wafted from speakers mounted beneath the eaves as we grilled on the patio and no one asked me sardonically, “Why don’t you like rock music anymore?”

As I turned out the lights above the mantle and closed the sunroom door against the night I thought, “So this is what it will be like when he is gone. I can do this…”

The phone rang and I jumped to answer it.

“Hello?!”, I never gave a thought to sounding casual.

“Hey, Mom.”

Those two words began tales of Clydesdale horses, front flips from diving boards, and a dog Shane loved enough to bring home.

“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

“Ok, Mom. Gotta go.” Male voices parried in the background. I understood the distraction.

“Ok…” Silence in the line told me he had hung up already.

For the first time in thirteen years Shane hung up without saying “I love you.”

But he does…

Garden Party

My sister held a garden party last Sunday to celebrate the graduation of her 2 children who, though twins, only bear the usual family resemblance. She had invited nearly one hundred people and hoped frequently occurring spring showers would hold off long enough to accommodate the crowd her modest house would not.

Her landscape-architect husband keeps their backyard in immaculate condition at all times. For the party, they sat circular tables upon the lush green carpet of grass, at alternating intervals about the yard. One table offered a modicum of privacy, sat as it was just to the left of the deck. Several tables swept up the center of the yard, while others were placed next to irregularly shaped islands covered in cedar bark, from which an assortment of hydrangea, azalea, and rhododendron competed with hand-picked annuals to achieve an overall effect of floral serenity. My eye was immediately drawn to a weather-beaten antique planter, featuring flourishes covered in rusted paint chips. The urn, itself, was immense, and the spray of green spikes that sprung from the center made it appear even larger. A carefully selected assortment of summer flowers surrounded the spray and swooned down its rusty sides, as though the entire arrangement had been plucked from a centuries old English garden, and placed there just for this event.

My father suggested I choose a table, and I did so in deference to his “bum knee”. He had the left one replaced several years ago. The right one will have to wait until golf season is over.

As we sat, I watched my sister’s friends scurry about the yard offering platters, and pitchers, and beribboned packages of plastic cutlery. A social animal, my sister has never been without a bevy of devoted friends. While not particularly envious, I admire her on both counts and know that she never fails to return their favors.

As always, when present, my father held court at our table. He asked about family members who were not present. We discussed work, and praised the cuisine, until my nephew approached, sinking into an extra chair with an easy grace that belied his years. His hair was longer than when I’d last seen him. His shoulders were wider, his waist smaller, and his neck thickened by off-season weight-training. And, as I listened to him speak, I imagined his effect on his female classmates.

“I feel like I have to stop and talk to all these people.”, he confided, breathlessly.

“Well, you do!”, his grandfather encouraged.

As the conversation continued, my nephew became animated as he discussed the college he would be attending in the fall. His efforts on the football field earned him a full scholarship to a school that fosters athletics, while maintaining an emphasis on academics. He described the recruiter he’d been working with, who had recently accepted a coaching position in a larger, more prestigious program. He praised the facilities, and appreciated the diversity of his fellow recruits. I watched as he spoke with an easy confidence that gave way to self-deprecating laughter, and silently praised my sister and her husband for their part in his maturity. Too soon, he turned in his chair.

“I guess I’d better be making the rounds!”, he said, with a smile.

Soon after, my niece floated towards our table on a wave of purple, Grecian elegance. She was taller and thinner than she had been at Christmas, and her blunt-cut, long, blonde hair framed her mother’s face.

“Have you ever known anyone who just gets prettier every time you see her?”, my father asked no one in particular. “Well, she does!”

My niece blushed prettily around a wide smile, as we all agreed. Her voice was soft as she answered questions about her future from her spot behind my sister’s chair. Holding her future firmly in hand, she was hoping for an academic scholarship from the school of education. She didn’t stay long. She had other tables to visit.

As she walked away, my father resumed the earlier conversation in which he shared his secrets for longevity. As he spoke, I rose in search of the after-dinner coffee I knew he’d soon be calling for. I dodged a pair of the twin’s classmates I recognized from years of Friday nights spent watching my nephew play football. Heads down, hair hanging over burdened plates, they never saw me.

The kitchen was a busy place.

“Why are you bringing those in?”, my sister’s voice carried more than a hint of exasperation.

“It’s too good to spoil.”, her friend declared in a voice that brokered no argument, as she rested a tray filled with cupfuls of elegantly dolloped banana pudding on the countertop.

As my father sipped his coffee I surveyed my surroundings, and noticing others beginning to leave, took my cue. Finding Shane, I kissed my father, and hugged my sister while straightening my skirt. Mounting the stairs to the deck, with family in tow, I reached for my hostess’ neck.

“We’ve got to run.”

“Noooo…”, she wailed. “I haven’t had time to visit. Who knows when I’ll see you again?” Her voice was truly plaintive and, for a moment, I waffled. Slight pressure on the small of my back reminded me of other, more urgent, responsibilities.

“I’m sorry…I’m working…”, I answered, taking a step towards the door.

My sister wiped her hands, again, on the dish towel that doubled as a name-tag, reading “Hostess”. I moved in to kiss her on the cheek as she wiped me with her name-tag.

“I want that recipe.”, I said into her ear before we parted.

“The pudding?”, she pulled away, dish towel in tow, as her eyes darted to the right in anticipation of further leave-taking. “It has a secret ingredient.” This time her eyes sparkled as they are wont to do, and for a moment she was there.

I watched as she worked the towel with a haggard smile. Her face was different; tired but something more. I scanned the length of her for signs of weight loss. and decided it to be a plausible explanation. She talked, a mile a minute, about the party, her children, and their lives. And, then she laughed, as she always had; a loud laugh, long and raucous, a laugh that started from someplace deep and rolled to the surface with lots of noise, forcing her body forward. The noise of it infused her voice as she spoke.

“…I know! I sure hope I like him!”, and I realized she was speaking of her husband. That’s when it hit me. My sister was losing her babies. Eighteen years ago she’d given birth to more than children, she’d undertaken a vocation. And now, her job complete, her life yawned before her.

And, it’s not just my sister. I’m surrounded by people who are bidding their children “goodbye” with parties to celebrate their combined accomplishments. And this is where I would be, had I not made the decision to have another child at an age that put me in the unfortunately named category “elderly multigravida”. At a time when I should be sharing her loss, I am but an interested observer.

Some of my friends seem excited; poised on the edge of a new life, and eager to exercise the luxury of eating when they please, sleeping where they like, and living, in general, their own life. My sister, on the other hand, as she threads damp cotton, once again, between her worrying fingers, seems hesitant.

Birmingham is just a few hours away, and football is my favorite sport. Saturday afternoons are a busy time for me, but I’m sure I can find a few to share, as we let go.

From First to Last

I’ve had occasion, lately, to consider my “firsts”; my first kiss, my first sleep-over, my first job…

Days after completing the survey, I find myself still considering. While applying make-up, my first pair of boots walk through my mind. They were black patent leather, and the sound of those heels on institutional tile transformed me from a twelve year-old, angst-ridden seventh-grader into a confident, edgy, prepubescent force. While driving to work, I hear the sound of horses’ hooves on pavement as I relive my first carriage ride. It was mid-afternoon. We were in Chattanooga, on streets packed with tourists. But, the fact of him beside me dimmed the sun, stilled the crowd, and isolated our love to a single point in the middle of a busy thoroughfare wherein we were the only two souls that mattered.

I wish I’d appreciated my “firsts” more. I wish someone had reminded me, before I turned back to make sure no one was watching through a front window, that I would be allowed just one first time to surrender to Jimmy’s embrace. I wish someone had been there to whisper in my ear, “This will be your only first date.” It would have been helpful if, before placing her into my arms for the first time, the nurse had looked at me knowingly as she said, “This is your first, and only, daughter.”

I’ve reached the age when thinking of “firsts” leads, naturally, to consideration of a growing number of “lasts”. I’ve birthed all the children I will ever bear. I will never again feel the sweet pull of infant lips upon my breast, or feel the rush of emotion in realizing the miracle inherent in our relationship.

Since the age of twenty-one, sex has been a repetitive act. And, while each encounter offers a new and wonderful experience, nothing is like the first time; the virgin time. As synthetic fibers scratched against my bare back, I wish I’d had the wisdom to consider; is this the right place, the right time, the right man? Are you ready to be a mother?

What if, before you first stepped onto your college campus, a guide stopped you, taking you by the arms? “Stop!”, he might have said. “Stop, and look around. This is the only first time you will walk upon the ground that will change your life. Your next step will forge your destiny. The decisions you make now will determine your life course, because tomorrow will be your second time.”

I enjoyed driving my first car, but might I have enjoyed it more if I knew that I’d never see another one like it? Would I have relished the feeling of pumping the clutch, and finding the gears, if I knew I’d never feel that again?

I will never again reap the harvest from my first garden. I can never again get my first perfect score in English, or Math, or Spanish, or bowling. I have already baked my first birthday cake.

I know there are more “firsts” ahead of me; my first stress test, my first colonoscopy, my first AARP card. And, I hope for more; my first published book, my first trip overseas, my first healthy dill plant. I can’t grow dill. I’ve tried, and tried.

One day, I know I’m going to find just the right spot…

Ordinary Origins

I love to sing. I used to be pretty good at it; good enough to be asked to sing in a band. My stint there afforded me the opportunity to work as a background singer in a local studio, but family obligations sang louder, and I retired my tambourine.

I now perform in very limited engagements. With my IPOD as accompaniment, I sing as I clean, and croon when I garden. And, playing Beth Hart wide open, in my car, has been known to illicit a throaty growl or two. On one such occasion, when my son and I were running Saturday errands, he asked, “Where did you learn to sing like that?”.

I’m an avid gardener, and surround myself with growing things year-round. My vegetable garden satisfies my preference for fresh herbs while providing a variety of fruits and vegetables for friends and family. And, I never met a flower I didn’t like.

For years, my gardens were populated randomly, by an assortment of annuals. Lately though, I’ve tended towards more permanent plantings and the creation of gardening environments, my favorite being an “English Garden”. The space is a constant work in progress, as the drought we’ve suffered for the last two years has taken a toll, but I love knowing that a feeling of peace and connectivity is as close as a stroll through my own backyard.

Last week, a friend and I shared a glass of merlot on my patio, surrounded by a cacophony of pansies in hues ranging from deepest purple to palest yellow. She remarked on their beauty, the way they winked in the breeze, and their fragile strength. “Where did you get your green thumb?”, she asked.

My family has always been appreciative of my writing. They comprise a large block of my readership. It was, in fact, at the persistent prodding of my youngest sister that I began to blog.

I’ve written since I was a young girl, though not always on paper. An ongoing saga, detailing the lives of a homeless, orphaned girl and the brother she cared for, provided pleasant distraction for what seemed like hours and hours as I mowed the front lawn. Recently, I’ve come to regret that I never gave the story permanence. I have attempted, on occasion, to recreate the drama, but only tiny bits and pieces remain in my much older brain.

A high school English teacher took an interest in my work, asking my permission to submit two of my poems to a literary journal. She provided me with a copy of the finished product which was left behind, along with my music boxes, Barbie dolls, and a complete set of Nancy Drew mysteries, when I struck out on my own. I wish now I’d packed an extra box…

Last week, my aunt sent me a nice note in praise of my writing, and for at least the second time mused as to its legacy. “Where do you think that talent comes from?”, she queried. “We don’t have any other writers in the family!” I hadn’t thought to ask that question. I’d never pondered the parentage of my propensities.

Yesterday, as I aimed my pencil at a sketch I’ve been working on, my mother’s unbidden image swam into view. She sat head down, at the kitchen table. Using one of our number two pencils, she transformed a simple sheet of blue-lined notebook paper into a work of art. And there are more memories; of sitting in the back seat of our station wagon and wondering why she wasn’t singing on the radio, and of plants, rows and rows of growing green things. Later in life, she took painting classes, and, even now, her needlework hangs on my walls.

I brought the pencil closer to the paper, angling the point to achieve shading that suggests shadow, knowing it is her hand that guides me. And, I appreciate the legacy…

Growing Things

He is thinner than the last time I saw him. His t-shirt flutters over his abdomen in greeting.

Shrimp dance about the pan as he shares the mundane.

“Went to Ace Hardware today!”

“Oh, yeah? What did you buy there?” I add a splash of Worcestershire.

“Oh, you know…those flowers you always had.”

I smile into the steam of sautéing shellfish.

“Honey, that doesn’t help me.”

“You know! The ones you always pinched the dead blooms off of…”

Another smile, as I moved the pan to a cooler surface.

“Ok…”

“I think Nanny had ‘em…Four-o-clocks? Were they Four-o-clocks?”

“Yes!” I turn to face him. “Four-o-clocks! You got Four-o-clocks? You know they spread. You will have lots of Four-o-clocks!” I smile at the image of my son in his garden. I never pinched Four-o-clocks. Four-o-clocks don’t require pinching. But he remembered. He remembered the pinching. The flower is of little consequence.

“I know…” I see the smile spreading underneath his hanging head. He did it for her.

“Heather picked ‘em. I told her they spread. She got those, and the others you always had…Begonias? Didn’t you always have Begonias?”

“Yes.”

“And, Bachelor Buttons. She got Bachelor Buttons!”

“Ok, the Bachelor Buttons are small. You need to plant them in front of the Four-o-clocks.”

“Ok…”

The conversation continued as I relished the memory. He never came out with me. He never accompanied me on my walks through the garden. He never commented. He never asked a question.

But, somehow, he knew. Somehow, he was there, as we grew together. And, when the memory surfaced he acted on it, creating new memories…his memories, and hers.

Mother’s potted plants lined our patio. I never went out with her. I never accompanied her as she watered each one. I never commented, or asked a question…but, somehow I knew…

The First Garden

Unless you count the few pots Hillary strategically placed about a second-floor balcony, The White House grounds will feature a vegetable garden for the first time since Eleanor Roosevelt called it home. The news came drifting into my kitchen as I seasoned a large filet of Steelhead Trout. Wiping my hands on the first piece of cloth I could find, I scurried into the next room to get “the rest of the story”.

Children from a nearby elementary school assisted Mrs. Obama, and several others who actually appeared to know what they were doing, to break the ground for the ground-breaking garden.

And, it is ground-breaking on more than one level. There is something charming, and sweet, and sentimental, and secure in the thought of our First Family growing their own food. It’s an old-fashioned thing to do.

My father grew tomatoes. I say “my father”, because that’s what he would say. The truth of the matter, however, is that I grew tomatoes while he supervised, and of course, reaped the benefits. As a child, one of the first harbingers of spring was waking up on a chilly Saturday morning to the sight of post-hole diggers resting against the backyard fence. My first inclination was to busy myself with other activities that might preclude the chore, but this never worked. Just as the southern sun reached its apex, my father sought me out.

We planted in the same place very year. We walked there together, he in anticipation of juicy, red fruit, and me, with dread. He marked off the space next to the fence with booted feet, taking big, bold steps that dictated where a hole should be dug. When finished, he ceremoniously sunk the post-hole diggers into the spot furthest to the left and gave me the go-ahead.

“Thwunk!” To this day, I really dislike the sound made by post-hole diggers eating the earth.

I started planting my own garden, minus the assistance of post-hole diggers, when my children were very young. I was inspired by the garden next door, tended by a conglomeration of elderly people who were all related in some way or the other. Hoke was wizened, and in my experience, mute. He filled the role of laborer. His sister, Lottie, at twice his size, harvested, securing produce in the over-sized pockets of her ever-present apron. Ruby, their sister-in-law cooked the fruits of their labor, and her husband, their brother, ate heartily.

I have gardened ever since. I grow a mixture of herbs, squash, peppers, eggplant, beans, berries, melons, and of course, tomatoes. Fittingly, my vines still provide the fruit for my father’s favorite summer-time sandwich. In a good year, I ship once or twice a week.

I’ve always tried to interest my children in gardening. Two of my older children planted last year. My son harvested a literal plethora of peppers while my daughter watched her efforts go down in a blaze of summer sunlight, unabated by rain.

One year, when Shane was still quite small, he was inspired by an episode of “P.B. & J. Otter” to plant “Giggle Melons”. We made the trip to a local nursery, and purchased plants that were marked “Cantaloupe”, but looked like “Giggle Melons” to me. Shane planted them, and tended them, and marveled at their growth. I watched, as the juice of one of his melons dribbled down his chin, and onto his shirt, and thanked God for the presence of mind to fulfill his dream.

Yesterday, I broke ground for this year’s garden. The shovel slid into well-used earth effortlessly, releasing an aroma that smells like life. I tried, several times, to enlist Shane in my efforts.

“I have to practice, Mom!” A baseball sailed from his hand into the waiting net.
“Did you see that? Strike one!”, he called.

I grunted under the weight of a twenty-five pound sack of manure.

Chased inside by a waning sun, I washed the grime from my hands and pulled a piece of fresh trout from the refrigerator.

“Mom! Come here!”

I wiped my hands on the first cloth I could find as the news carried into the kitchen.

“Look!” Shane stood, with a basketball sequestered securely under one arm, in front of the television. “The Obama’s have a garden like ours! Cool, huh?” He gave the ball a toss.

“Yeah…” I answered. “Cool!”