Housework is Devil's Work

I hate housework. Why in the world when there are so many books to read; walks to take; letters to write; porches to sit on and ice tea to sip; must we do housework? There's a beach and an ocean right out there, for goodness sake.

Yeah, yeah I know, the perfecting experience of attending to menial tasks. In that case, I think I'm perfect enough. Spare me any more face-to-face time with toilets.

If God meant for us to do housework, he wouldn't have created so many delicious and beautiful distractions.

Obviously there is a dirty toilet in my immediate future. Can't someone at least call me on the telephone??

I'm just saying......

 

Are you going to vote? I've never before considered not voting. Recently someone I know and admire said that our duty is to vote for someone who we believe is best able to serve our town, state, country. If we truly don't think that a candidate, any candidate, all candidates are unworthy, then our civic duty would be to decline to vote for them. He feels it would be wrong to vote for someone who we don't think can do the job.

This is counter to what we have been taught about the right to vote, but I have to think that includes the right not to vote as a conscious decision. I usually vote for someone because I can't stand the thought of his/her opponent winning. I'm not sure that is good enough.

I think about half of the registered electorate do not vote in elections, never mind those who don't bother to register. Is this a conscious decision or just apathy? How would we indicate that our vote is to "not vote" because we think none of the candidates are good enough?

I think people are disillusioned with the whole process. I know I'm tired of the endless talk, lies, misrepresentations, and empty promises. I'm tired of all the e-mails I get everyday, from people I don't know; who pretend that they know me, and the complete lack of response I get from these same people once they or their candidate are in office. Have you written or called someone you elected lately? I dare say that unless your name is Warren Buffet or someone with that level of income, you won't get any response beyond an electronically generated letter.

We have a wonderful system of government. I think it has been abused by those who seek power and seek to retain power at all costs. I also see this happening in parts of the world with non-democratic governments. Are we so different?

We are busily working to disenfranchise people and to adjust legislative districts to control the outcome of voting. Sounds frighteningly close to rigged elections to me. Maybe Jimmy Carter should oversee our electoral process.

I think it is important to vote. I know I will do so. I still can't stand the idea of the other guy winning, but I'm worried about our future. I think we have to ask more of the candidate to whom we do give our vote. More than soundbites; more than calculated photos; and misrepresentations. We need to hold their feet to the fire and refuse to be satisfied with generalizations that don't really answer our questions.

We need to disassociate our elections from big money. Thank you Supreme Court for selling our government.

That implies responsibility on our part. That's the other part of the right to vote. Apathy is deadly. I guess I'll keep writing letters.



 

The Young and the Restless

I had a long, catch-up phone call with my sweet niece, Hannah, yesterday. Such a good talk. I'm still smiling.

When I talk with her, I'm forced to override some cognitive dissonance I experience. I visualize a precious, precocious 4-year-old with whom I once experieced many pleasant days. The person speaking, however, is a precious, precocious, just-turned-21 year-old - a fact my brain rejects.

I also have to fight against speaking to her in old-fart aphorisms, but I have only moderate success with this. I believe that one of the chief frustrations young people experience in talking with old people is the tendency of old people to try to sum up what they have learned about any subject in the form of "good advice."

Young people have most of their life experiences ahead of them. They are eager to get on with it, to live, and not to hold still and listen to someone else's life or to accept the distilled wisdom of someone else's experiences. I use the word "wisdom" here advisedly.

I don't blame them. I was the same way.  I well remember fidgeting through my parents' well-meaning stories and warnings - "What could you possibly know about it?" floated, unspoken, through my head. "You couldn't possibly know what it's like to be young."

To my niece and other young people I would say, "Please be patient with us. We can't help the way we are either." We have learned things along the way; we want to share what we have learned; and we want to guide you and protect you from some of the pains of living, if we can. Ah, we just love you. That's all.

It's like Holden Caulfied says at the end of  The Cathcer in the Rye, when his little sister Phoebe is riding the carousel and trying to grab the golden ring. Holden wants to stop her; to keep her from falling and getting hurt. But he decides that you can't do it. You have to let them reach out, to try, to go for the golden ring. I don't remember if he says this next part, but I think you also have to stand by in case they do fall and need you.

To my niece's credit, she is a patient listener, and has never made me feel like an old fart. I love her for that and the fact that she talks to me about her life. What a treasure. I love hearing about it. I try to ask questions more and to give advice less, but it just comes out of my mouth. I am an old fart after all.

Signs of Summer

I think summer is here and not just because it was hotter today. I went down to the beach for my first after-dinner sunset walk this evening. I don't think I've done that since last fall. It was after 7:30, and it was still balmy with a lovely breeze.

Here are the signs of summer:

• people clinging to the beach; wanting just a little longer before packing things up, washing off feet, heading back inside for the night.
• a kid crying because of the above 
• a red-necked man, with white legs and a generous belly, out on the balcony leaning into the sunset, perfectly still, relieved for the moment from the busyness of life. 
• a tall, muscular man, wading in the edge of the water with a 2-ft. little person in a pink-striped romper attached to his index finger - the look of terror and joy on the little person's face.
• a limp kite, half buried in the sand beside a sand-bucket castle slowly eroding into the tide.
•  adolescents walking hand-in-hand, hopelessly in love and lust
• jellyfish, who traveled here to die at Emerald Isle, rolling up and back with the waves.

What a night. What a sunset. How did summer come so quickly?

Chili Red

Ok, I always write about gardening. I'm obsessed: I know. But I ask you, who, among you, could resist a chili-red flowering plant named "Carlos Lantana"? I kid you not.

I think I can hear the percussion already.

Waiting

These are the days which try my soul. My countless seeds, so carefully, not-too-deeply planted into soft, ready soil keep me waiting and watching.

Oh, I'm grateful for those eager, early germinators, who poke their tiny leaflets through the dirt almost as soon as they hit the ground. But then there are those more reluctant ones; hedging their bets for more warmth and moisture. Oh, they are too slow!

And then there are those - too many -  who simply fall asleep where they lay, and never bother with the seemingly arduous task of germination at all. Why, oh why? Do they not see their potential?

That's only the half of it. I've just returned from yet another morning perusal, and there they are - tiny zinnias and marigolds, bachelor buttons and globe amaranth - leaflets as fragile as air. They seem stuck forever in their infancy.

I have a vision of strong stalks and heavy heads of riotous colors. I see flowers so resilient they bend to our endless winds, but never break and with determination and some mysterious fortitude bear their flowers until frost. How will these pale upstarts ever make it and when? It seems the impossible dream.

Lord, I am too impatient for gardening. If looking could wither, my seedlings would be dead. I'm out there every morning, doing my part. We even had rain this week. Waiting is agony. Instant gratification where art thou?

Love on the Beach

You have never truly experienced love until you have been leaned upon and kissed by a 100+ pound yellow lab who has been retrieving an old shoe from the ocean all afternoon.

Ed Camp's Gardenia

I began this day with something beautiful and a happy memory to go with it.


I knew Ed Camp from the Farmer's Market in Polk County, where I used to live. Ed was a sweet and lively old fellow, both wiry and resilient. He was a Polk County native. He had lived the history of the county, and he loved to entertain the market regulars with his colorful stories.


His first job was trapping muskrats in the creeks and selling their pelts. He worked in the Pacolet Valley vineyards, back when locals sold grapes to tourists when the train stopped in Tryon. He was a mill worker and served as a local constable - the source of many of his entertaining stories. He served in the Army during World War II, but returned home to Polk County to live out the remainder of his long life.
  
It would be accurate to say that Ed was the heart of the Farmer's Market. He came for its struggling beginning and rarely missed a Saturday, though he was in his 80s. He sold home-made apple butter, which he cooked in his oven overnight, and he always had a few plants to sell, cuttings which he had rooted from the plants in his yard. He sold a few things, but I think he primarily came to market for the fellowship. He gave away his laughter and his stories for free, and he was more than likely to slip you a little jar of apple butter for free as well. If he met a stranger, he remedied that situation in short order.


He called his gardenias "old fashioned." I don't know the name of the cultivar, but it's a good one. We brought one of his rooted cuttings with us when we moved. Last year, it grew a fine healthy shrub, but not one flower. This morning, as I was out with my coffee for the garden walk-about, I thought a piece of white paper had caught on the gardenia. Oh, no, there instead was this magnificent blossom. I don't think I've ever seen one like it, or one so beautiful. Gerry thoughtfully planted the bush next to the screened porch. It's covered with buds, so we will be enjoying its sweet fragrance as we sit outside.


We made a sign for Ed for his birthday one year - "Ed's Garden Spot: Famous Since 1924". He loved it and displayed it with his market goods every week. We don't have a sign, but I'm happy to say that dear Ed's garden spot is blooming away in our back yard. I'm happy for the lovely flower and the sweet man who gave it to us.


The best plants in the garden are those that come with a story about the person who gave it to you. 

Yah, the days fly by and turn into months. My cousin reminded me today that I have a blog, so here I am. It's chilly and blustery. The wind has roared for days and days, and beat my newly planted flowers to pieces. It really can be merciless. We woke up this morning to a yard that had blossomed into plastic grocery bag flowers overnight. Frost, we feared, and struggled to cover the tomatoes and tender things. Somewhere my horticulturist ex-boss is quietly not saying, "I warned you."

I told myself that gardening is different here, and it is safe to plant things earlier. I have learned that it is indeed safe to plant things on an 80-degree afternoon in March. It's the 40-degree nights of late April that cause chagrin and regrets.

I blame Lowe's and the garden centers. They are tempters indeed, and my gardening genes scream with recognition and longing when the first hanging baskets begin appearing in January! I know better, so I held out until March and April. Sucker! I'm sure these plant emporiums count heavily on the second, post-late frost wave of sales to make their living.

But it's like my Grandma Bryant always said, "Thou shalt not plant thy tomatoes before Mother's Day." The signs are against it, she'd add. Not where I live, Grandma. Here the signs all say: "I'm the prettiest little plant thing you've ever seen. Come in and buy me." Never could resist a talking plant.

Already this Morning

Already this morning at the bird feeder - cardinals, blue jays, chickadees, red-winged blackbirds, doves, red-bellied woodpecker, and countless little sparrows or snow-hoppers, as my mother used to say.

    Morning in a new year. Any thoughts about more frequent posts are way overdue by now. January 23 - already?? After Christmas is the season of regrets and hibernation. Too much lingers on my brain and my hips, and right now I'm thinking TMI.
     2012 and the elections to see who will be the presidential spokes-model. I have little hope that we will actually have a President - as in statesman after this insane debacle. I'm already depressed over the endless talk and the willingness of the candidates to prostitute themselves to whatever their present audience wants to hear. Ten more months of this, and we are just getting started?

    I'm declaring a moratorium. I'm not listening to, watching or reading the news for the next few days. I need to clear my head because I find myself waking up with a sense of dread about our country, our future, and the world in general.

     I don't like to wake up with a sense of dread. I like to wake up with a sense of wonder. I think the constant barrage of bad news and conflict is anathema to waking up in wonder.

     I'm imposing quiet upon myself and my home. I'm going back to bird watching and listening to the sounds of rain and wind and, dare I say, snow? Let's throw in some ocean for excellent measure.  Let the talking bobble heads spew their verbal diarrhea. I'm going to be listening for the sound of the mourning dove. It's been too long drowned out by the endless noise.