Things I Saw Today While Doing Mostly Nothing

This morning's feast of light began with peachy red blobs of sunlight catching fire to the western mountain tops. This early morning palette makes me think of paint color strips: peach melba, dawn gray, rising fog. 

This evening treated me to a thick slice of red sunset pie along the horizon, squashed nearly flat by portentous, gun metal clouds.

In between, I went to get my oil changed and strolled over to Harris Teeter for coffee and a little breakfast something while I waited. A young woman, who I presume is homeless, came in for the same thing. She was dressed in Asheville style homeless garb - patterned leggings, athletic shoes, and layers of shirts,  topped by an iconic, colorful afghan and a toboggan. She looked frozen half to death*. She piled her stuff down at the table in front of me and disappeared over toward the cashiers. She returned with a hand full of something which turned out to be about half of the day's supply of free cookies for kids. She proceeded to the coffee kiosk. There was no cream, so she opened the refrigerator, pulled out a case of creamers to fill the caddy, and began emptying about 20 creamers into a cup of coffee.

She showed not the slightest sign of stealth, nor did she attract anyone's attention. She acted exactly like a person who just we woke up and wandered sleepily into the kitchen for breakfast. I call this bold. I left before she finished hers.

What do you think of this person? What do I think? It was bitter cold last night, especially with the wind chill factor. She did not sleep in a warm bed. She slept outside someplace, hopefully out of the wind. Why did she do that? Not a clue. Do I have sympathy for her? Is she deserving of my sympathy? I find myself without a definitive answer. I long for more information, and I'm not exactly proud of that. Exactly how many nights must a human being sleep outside before qualifying for my sympathy? Should it happen to me, I would hope that one night would suffice, especially in winter. I don't know her story. Maybe she chooses to live on the street as so many people believe. Somehow, I just doubt it.

Then there's the matter of the free cookies for kids. If I had taken more than one or two, my mamma would have marched me right up to the manager to apologize and return the extra cookies. So taking more than a dozen offends me deeply. It just isn't nice. I'm only half way kidding. 

I also wonder what is Harris Teeter's role in this? She was obviously not a first timer, but no one seemed to have her on the "take-her-down list". The cookies were not under lock and key. No children were going hungry because of her. So, are they just slack in the morning? Or are they willing to shoulder the cost burden of an entire package of sugar cookies each morning so this woman can eat breakfast? Could they possibly have more charity in their little corporate hearts than I have in mine as we fast-track approach Christmas? 

Ultimately I guess, I just feel sorry about a person who sleeps outside on a winter night and has to bogart the kids' cookies for breakfast in a supermarket. Could be she is saving her money while going for her PhD. I don't know, but I wish her well whatever she is living. I'm just worried about why it is I'm more concerned about the cookies than about her.

*"frozen half to death" is a classic Southern expression. If you don' think this makes good grammatical sense, just skip on down to the next line.

A Morning in Autumn

7:00 am. The light is so lovely this morning, looking west. My horizon has a scalloped edge of mountains, one of the surprises and delights of our new house. We never expected to have a view of the mountains, but we do. It's not a "million dollar view", but there they are; steadfast, waiting. I love the sureness I feel that the mountains will be there each morning.  At times they are shy, hiding behind smokey clouds, but not this morning. Today is going to be exquisitely clear, and so are the mountains.

Our view is not unspoiled. We live in the city, and we have a pole and transformer in our back yard. I realize now that I rarely see it. It has been, well, transformed, by the loveliness and variety of the natural view.

I began talking about light. I am so easily distracted by mountains. This early morning light has turned everything into an impressionist painting. The light softens raw materials of development into pools of color - a shopping center becomes a golden field. A blue house glows with a secret story. It is the dab of color that an artist would use. And just now, the changing leaves - well, I can't think of a single word to describe them that would do them justice. They just deserve to be called beautiful.

I'm certain that three large trees, just across the street, which have enjoyed an abundantly green summer, are hiding a secret. They have been stubborn about holding onto their leaves, but I'm beginning to see the outline of something tall, rounded, and solid. I know it's there. And when the leaves finally let go, I'll have a good view of a big piece of my horizon. 

I draw the blinds from across the sliding glass door each morning, and I look. I follow Chili Dog outside as she goes to pee. She jumps up on a stool and I brush her. I look some more. She is wiggly for the cookie that is coming. I'm besotted with light and mountains. Together we begin our day in blessedness. I remind myself to look again; we have a sunset coming too.

If Charlotte Could See Me Now

March 15, and I am counting this as the first, official day of gardening for the 2018 season. Oh, I've been out there recently, picking up sticks and such, but gardening truly begins when you plant something.

Today it was a little pot of lavender, moved from a sunny spot in the kitchen into the big rock planter out back. Oh, Lord, it is good to dig in the dirt. Possibly, I should have given the little thing a sweater, but we both have great hopes for its future.

I repotted a Christas cactus (to be returned to the kitchen) and did a little pruning. As I bent to the task of giving my thyme a ruthless haircut. I thought of my friend Charlotte.

We moved into separate apartments, at the same time, in a big old house in Tryon years ago. When I first saw her, she walked up the steps as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. In a sense, she did. I was sitting outside on my tiny porch, and I asked her to sit down too.

Among the many common interests we eventually discovered, that first day we shared that each of us was trying to put our lives together after devastating bouts of depression. It just  kind of spilled out; the gray clouds hovering over our heads being a dead give-away. At last, someone who could honestly say, "I know how you feel."

The old house and it's neglected gardens were to be the setting for recovery; for taking hold of the reins of living once again; and for the first time in a long time, laughing and feeling enjoyment in the activities of everyday life. I think it saved my life.

When a third woman moved in, we became a kind of adult sorority: to each according to her needs; from each according to her abilities. We cooked and talked together and spent an inordinate amount of time sitting outside around Charlotte's ceramic fireplace.

Gardening, however, proved to be our strongest bond and our greatest joy. Char was a professional horticulturist; Jane a semi-pro; and I was clearly the duffer in the group. I didn't have the perseverance and patience to do what needed to be done over the course of a long, hot summer, but I was clearly the best hole digger. In that I excelled. 

I was also first rate at looking over the garden early in the morning, wearing my pajamas and carrying a big mug of coffee. I would soon be joined in the coffee, but I was usually first on the scene. Looking over the garden, I learned, was essential to gardening success and satisfaction.

I learned a lot from Char and Jane, much of it about gardening, but my hardest lesson was pruning, at which Char was an expert. I could not then appreciate the benefits of pruning, and I could not bear to cut back the limbs and flowers of a perfectly good plant. It broke my heart. I could not let go.

Considerate of my sensibilities, Char would steal into the garden late in the day, and I would wake up the next morning to see that the painful business of pruning was done. We called her the Phantom Pruner.

She was right, of course, pruning is necessary to encourage new growth and improve the health and resilience of the plant. You have to let go of the old stuff and encourage the new. Pause here to appreciate life's larger lessons contained in this gardening wisdom - they were not lost on me. And during my time there, I grew and got well. 

We all did. We tackled the Big D, and came out on the other side. I got married, and Char felt well enough to take on a big new job - for which she was eminently qualified - and sadly for me, moved to Florida. 

Life had more difficult times for Char. She was in a serious car accident and then cancer took her life. I don't think it was more than 2 years after we said good-bye. 

I have some consolation of knowing that she was happy living in the big old house with her gardening buddies. She was a rarity; a dear friend who came along later in life, but she was as clear a presence and influence in my life as if we had always known each other. I still miss her. I read a quote once, which said everything about her: She was the kind of person who would lean over your broken fence to tell you how beautiful your flowers are.

So here I am, still gardening; somewhat more accomplished, and able to take on the tasks of summer weeding and no-nonsense pruning. (although I still replant the tiny zinnia seedlings that come up too thickly).

I think Char would be proud to see me out there giving thyme a haircut. I would be proud for her to know.