The Promise of A Seed Catalog

            It’s that time of year again – it’s time to plan the garden!  Several weeks ago I ordered catalogs.  I couldn’t wait any longer.  The snow keeps piling up and there’s something about a vegetable and flower catalog that brings hope before you even open the cover.  The bright photos of peas, carrots and tomatoes evoke mornings of patient weeding, with a break on the porch and the transplanting of flowers along the house or in containers in the afternoon.  I think of ice tea and porches and waving to neighbors and listening to the neighborhood children ride their bicycles up and down the block.  A seed catalog brings back my sanity at a time when I think I could forget that the sun will ever warm me again.

            I love gardening.  I am by no means an expert.  No, I am a trial and error girl and I try to remember my Dad’s garden.  He died about a year after I decided I actually didn’t mind weeding when it was MY garden and not a chore but a means of escape from being anything – a mom, a lover, an employee, a bread winner, a daughter, a friend.  I had so looked forward to discussing the garden with him, possibly trading plants or vegetables.  But then he was gone. 

             I garden now still as an escape, but I also feel my Dad with me then.  There are times when I’m out in the soil, with the sun beating down on me, and I wonder about something as my mind opens, whether it has to do with gardening or some other conundrum, and I think that I’ll give him a call when I’m done.  Not a second later I realize with a twist in my gut that I can’t.  It’s been nearly fifteen years and I still can’t believe he’s gone.  And I can’t believe he left before I could be a full-fledged adult child, so that we could talk and understand each other on the same level.  I was an adult when he passed away, but I was still in the stage where my parent’s really had no clue about what they were talking about when it came to me and my life.  

            I do talk to my Dad out there, and I believe he listens to me.  I believe he would be proud of the way I’ve taught myself and others around me in regards to plants and sunlight and where to plant and near what other veggies or flowers. 

            I lost my Dad on the first day of spring, 2000.  Every year since, sometime in May, I get him back for the summer.  I know he would love our garlic, that we planted it at all and just tried it out would have pleased him.  Cooking with it would have given him great satisfaction.  I like to think, that if he was alive today, that he would be satisfied with me, too.  I like to think my gardening would have made him proud and that he would come over just to walk in my little gardens and sit on the porch and watch my birds and listen to the water falling in our homemade pond.  I like to think our talks would start with seeds, move on to soil and plants and then grow a little deeper.  I like to think that just as my garden grows, so would my knowledge of my dad and he of me. 

            I look forward to receiving the seed catalogs every year.  They promise more than just beautiful vegetables and flowers.  They promise hope and hard work, ideas and memories; and for me especially, they promise that my father will be with me once again, guiding me through my hands and heart.

            I can’t wait dad.  I can’t wait.

Firing Winter

          Winter has been at my door for the last several months, bright and early, until late in the evening.  It seems like I can’t go anywhere without her being right there and it’s a bit tedious if not completely annoying.  Yesterday I gave her her walking papers.  “You have to go Winter”, I told her with all of the authority I could muster.  Her coldness has worn me down every day.  I don’t think she’s taken one day off in months.  The last several weeks she has been absolutely frigid to everyone and everything.  No one is immune and we are all hoping she’ll go away.  Sooner, rather than later.  When I told her she had to leave she stared me down.  I eventually went down the hall, griped about her to one of my co-workers, grabbed a cup of hot cocoa, and went back to my desk.  I refused to watch for her the rest of the day and then this morning she showed up again!  I wish she would get the hint that no one wants her here!  Of course she loves snowmobiling and ice skating and skiing, but there’s only a select few that will join her.  I do believe the majority want her gone.  If she would just warm up a little she wouldn’t be so bad to have around, but this bitch is cold!

 

To Pose, Or Not To Pose, That Is The Question - Or Not

            I saw the ad in the paper today.  We are lucky to have a school that promotes the arts with many different outlets, including pottery, painting, fabric, etcetera, and drawing.  The ad was looking for folks to pose with or without clothes.  If I was going to pose I would have to be nude.  There is no doubt in my mind that I could do it.  I just can’t locally.  We are such a small area I just couldn’t risk running into a colleague or a customer, friend or foe.  But if I was in a strange city, just starting out, I like to think I would volunteer. 

I am not an out of the ordinary beauty.  In fact, I’m the plain Jane in the next cubicle.  I try to stay low key in the workplace because they just wouldn’t “get” me if I was really just me.  Only one place ever really embraced me and I will probably be searching the rest of my life for another just like it.  These are some of the things I could do, and people just understood:

·         Breaking out in song when a phrase was uttered that reminded me of it.  Example “Always something there to remind me” referencing the previous sentence!

·         Talking about a coffee commercial (Maxwell House) or a Hallmark commercial and falling into a bucket of tears as I’m describing it.  No biggie – that’s Jen.

·         Saving baby birds when they fell out of a nest over the office window by standing on chairs held by employees so I wouldn’t fall.

·         Whistling “If I Only Had a Brain” when the mood struck.

·         Decorating for holidays.

·         Organizing parades and getting everyone involved.

·         Hitting up my co-workers for donations for various charities I would walk for.  (Side note:  In my experience I have found that when you work with people who are living paycheck to paycheck, they are more generous with donating to charities, as opposed to people who are making a good living.  They hold their quarter until the eagle screams, and even then won’t let go).

·         Putting my photos on the wall at my desk.  My co-workers would ask who they were or what we were doing or where were we and comment and talk about what they did or if they’d been there, etcetera.  No one has asked me one question about my photos or cartoons in the last almost three years.

These are just a few small examples of me that I am unable to expose in my present position.  How I got here from posing naked, I’m not sure.  I guess it’s because I exposed a little bit of me, for you.  There has to be a better way for me to make a living.  I gotta get outta this place, if it’s the last thing I ever do…

My Dark Eyed Junkos - love them!

 

My Heart

I was the first to hold you under my heart.

I was the first to smile into your eyes.

I was the first to realize I would fight unseen enemies to keep you from pain.

I was the first to feed you, clothe you, bathe you, comb your hair, plant kisses on your face.

I was the first to fall in love with you.

Mine was the first heart you broke.

 

 

Practice Has Begun!

It’s been a couple weeks, but I have started rehearsals for my chorus part in the play “Spoon River Anthology”.  I even have a solo.  I whistle a stanza of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” at the end of a monologue.  It does sound haunting in the quiet theatre.  I love it!

The music is hard to memorize because it isn’t something I have on disc to practice with in the car, and although I have it on MP3 I can’t seem to get it to transfer to my IPod.  It’s an older model and I’m guessing that is why.  When we practiced as a group I had a partner to sing with, but she is also one of the main characters of the play so last night was the first time I sang without her and it totally sucked!  We kind of carried each other. 

I also found out last night that I need to find an outfit that would have passed in 1915.  We’re talking a dress or a blouse and skirt, shoes and a hat or hairstyle.  This I’m kind of freaking out about because I have no idea what to look for.  I’ve gone on-line and searched 1915 Women’s Fashions and I’ve gotten ideas but I’m not sure where to find them.  One of my friends suggested thrift shops and I will look there but I can never find anything!  However, I will try.

 

I'm partial to the one in the middle

 

I tried to prepare my boyfriend for the temporary loss of me.  I’m going to be practicing for the next three weeks almost every night.  He’s pretty bummed about it – he loses his Jeopardy partner more than he would like, but he knows it is temporary and it will be worth it in the end.

Meanwhile, I am loving being on stage again!  The nerves, the bravado – seeing the acting, feeling the emotion, putting stories together, real and make believe.  The actors are awesome – all community members with the love of acting as a common trait.  Some with amazing talent, but all with something to offer.

Yes, it’s good to be back on the stage.

Morningmare

This morning I had the strangest dream.  D and I were visiting this house in the country.  I’ve seen this house before, either on TV or in a magazine.  The visit was uneventful and we then moved on to some sort of school building, but inside of it was a swamp.  D got in a boat and started rowing while I swam in the clear blue water around it.  Sky, our dog, was there exploring, apart from us.  We saw gigantic sleeping frogs but it was soon time to leave.  I held on to the boat while D steered and got out of the water at the door.  I then called Sky who took a while to get to me.  As I turned to scold her for taking so long I realized her back legs were missing.  I looked over where she had been and there were alligators on a sand bar.  No one had told us the area was dangerous!  I gathered her into my arms and held her in my lap, while I called for D.  I could feel her slipping away even as she gently licked my face.

When I woke myself up my heart was beating a mile a minute.  When I went downstairs and called her to me she put her head to my chest and just kept pushing into me.  I swear she knew what I dreamed and how sorry I was that she was dying in my sleep.

 

 

My Thoughts on Ferguson

I wish I had the whole file on Michael Brown and the police officer who shot him.  I keep reading news stories and editorials and they all have different opinions.  I’d love to know what exactly happened.  Everything I write today is about what I have read.  I was not there.              

             The latest editorial I read was about the number of black men shot by white policemen and how it compares to the number of people shot in Britain, which is apparently very low.  My question to the writer would be this, Are the police officers treated differently in Britain than they are here?  And, Do the Brits have the same sense of entitlement that Americans do?  Do the parents in Britain go off on their children’s teachers when the kids misbehave at school?  I don’t think that’s asking too much.  I have a feeling that Britain’s children are brought up very differently than American children.  Do the Brits spank their children; teach them right from wrong and to respect authority?  Because I have to believe they do.  Lack of respect for authority is ingrained in our children from a very young age.  I believe it has to do with single parent households with no strong male figure to enforce rules and set a good example on how to treat people. 

My dad was a fair man.  He was not a violent man.  I was lucky to have two parents in my home to raise me up.  My mom was the nurturer.  My dad was the provider.  They loved me and I knew it even when I told them they didn’t.  I was a rebellious teenager, yet I knew that they were teaching me the right lessons.  I got into trouble, but I never tried to wrestle with a police officer.  I never did something wrong in front of someone and pretend I didn’t.  When I got caught I knew I was caught.  I didn’t fight it.  Why do today’s youth think they can fight it, that it is their right to fight it?  We had the Beastie Boys fighting for their right to party and we still knew that when we were told to stop we had to actually stop.  Maybe it’s the culture. 

I hate to say it’s a black and white thing, because I feel that if a black police officer fired on a white criminal, it wouldn’t be as big as the Michael Brown case.  Michael stole something before he was shot.  Michael was warned before he got shot.  Michael was supposed to start college this past fall.  He was smarter than he was acting, apparently.  Why didn’t he stop when he was told?  Why did he advance on the officer?  I’m sorry.  If it were my son I would be devastated too, but he was wrong to do what he did.  What about the officer?  I can’t imagine shooting someone, much less killing them.  Of course they are trained to fire, but it still has to have a major emotional impact.

The other thing I hate to read about is how Martin Luther King Jr. would have condoned the riots after the hearing.  I’d think he would not have liked it at all.  The riots afterwards were anything but peaceably assembling to make a statement.  Another boy was killed during the riots.  I wonder if he would still be alive had the riots not happened.

What happened in Ferguson should be a lesson to us all.  Respect others, respect authority, be honest, and take responsibility.  Treat others as you want to be treated.  Think before you act.  If we all did this, instead of trying to be better (stronger, smarter, faster, etc.) than everyone else, then I think we would be a stronger nation.  We all would be better for it, no matter what our color.