The Gardens of the Aunts

This summer and each of the past four, has offered me along with my parents, a chance to travel into the mid-western states. Twenty something years ago we all lived there, my parents siblings still do, so we visit. My aunts, my mother's sisters, three of them, are in Southern Illinois. My uncles, my father's brothers, two of them, are in the Chicago area and Indianapolis.

Summer's in Florida don't provide the right conditions for flower gardens, but Summer in the mid-west is ideal for these little gems cut out of the kind of green grass lawns that stain little boys knees, to flourish. Each of my aunts plan and care for gardens they can be proud of and enjoy sharing with the appreciative.

Of course, in my appreciation I make sure to have my camera battery fully charged, always at the ready for whatever may suit my picture taking fancy.

I have countless pictures of the pristine hot-house grown flowers we process and arrange for elaborate events while at my Design Studio job at home, and am indeed impressed with their outstanding perfect beauty. Somehow though, to see flowers bravely battle the natural elements and rise proud and strong, strutting their stuff, my appreciation is increased.

Especially beautiful to me are the wild flowers that push up along road sides and unmowed fields. Close-up pictures of tiny flowering weeds intermingled amongst grasses reveal the same impressive detail as their full sized intentionally grown relatives in purposeful gardens.

It is a little bit like going home as the familiar comes gradually into view the further north we travel. Seeing dandelions gone to seed, I remember the little girls who picked them to blow their seeds to the winds, like they do with freshly dipped bubble wands. I remember those little girls pulling the tight purple clover petals from their center to nibble on the sweet inside ends. That seems so silly to me now. How did we ever think to do that? Those little girls also knew that a buttercup placed under the chin revealed if the person whose chin it was under liked butter, determined on said chin by the yellow reflection created on a sunny day. Of course cloudy days would render the experiment unreliable. Wild white daisy's for he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not, are still plentiful. How many have been pillaged by little girls since the days when I myself was one of them? Queen Ann's lace and Black Eyed Susan's feel like home, and childhood.

I searched for horse tails, the variety that grew along the railroad ties lining the tar tab driveway to Grandpa and grandma's house. I only spotted them as they waved in the breeze along country highways to us as we passed at sixty miles and hour, never where I could stop to freeze them in pictures. I will try again one day.

Everything that blooms colorful here in Florida is prickly and thorny. Bromeliads, Bougainvillea, and Crown of Thorns look nice, but trim and prune and bear scars to prove it! It's a fair trade though. Floridians enjoy Pansy's, Petunia's and Begonia's when the gardens of the aunts sleep under thick blankets of snow.

My preference is forever here, but going back there is roots, and it still feels like home.

Sparkle Mountain

The mountain sparkles.

Spring Maid Mountain could be an outdoor girls best friend with her red clay and rocky terrain that appears to be laden with diamonds. Mica and mica dust are inlaid and sprinkled on everything. From sparkly gray gravel one lane roads, to trickling waters of deep mountain gully's cut along those roads and hiking trails, the result of an unusually rainy summer, to small glittering rocks, large slabs, and every size stone in between. Even shoe bottoms carry the glittering particles into the entry of our mountain cabin home.

From our porch in the tree tops one afternoon, sun shone through branches lighting a small area between rails. The only reason I even noticed was that my peripheral vision perceived a glint and glimmer. I do love sparkle and my eyes rarely miss its invitation! Turning for closer inspection I was charmed to clearly see the tiniest weaving of threads sprinkled with that same magical mica dust, transforming the home of an otherwise unnoticeably minute arachnid into a diminutive palace. There all along, but a treasure kept secret if not for that brief ray of sunshine through the dense leaves of our forest home's shady porch. The web and its builder lifted and fell, fluffed by a cool mountain breeze as it sparkled like a jeweled brooch on the Chanel lapel of a rich lady. This Spring Maid of the mountains was donned in a truly dazzling natural beauty.

These are the diamonds that need not be faceted by a jewelers tools. Only the sunshine daily taken for granted beaming through holes in the forest canopy for the eyes of respite seekers is required to showcase these gems, always there, too often unseen.

In the quiet, leaves near the tree tops raise a raucous at the prompting of a mountain summer breeze. Birds whistling, bees buzzing too close for the comfort of ears, a squirrel jumping through branches and an occasional locust chime in with their own Spring Maid Mountain forest notes. Civilization is not too far away as a cars tires press and flick on the sparkly gray gravel road and a distant train horn sounds indicating that this solitude we have found here in the woods, invites others.

There are bigger cities than the one we have come from, there are deeper woods than the one we have come to, still for us the contrast is measurable. It can be weighed by lighter schedules and heavy pocketfuls of rocks. It can be counted by days that blend together in forgetfulness of time. It can drain empty a camera battery and fill full it's memory card. It is the slowed paces in wild places unclouded by narrowed vision. The lucky few in rare stingy moments, trade in demanding over-crowded clamor and mind-numbing rubbish continually in-put, for the unpolluted, for that which is still unspoiled and still sparkles. They, we, come to the glittering mountain that every day sparkles but for these few days, sparkles for us, for me.

 North Carolina's Spring Maid Mountain is a gem. Her treasures are in plain sight of anyone whose eyes are open to them. She is inlaid with diamonds and their glitter is sprinkled over all of her surfaces like magic fairy dust,

and I,

am enchanted.

  
P.J.

Push-ups

Push-ups. 

Not a drill sergeants drop down and give me twenty type. Not the secret undergarment of Victoria type. I'm thinking of the orange sherbet coated vanilla ice cream in a tube type. Remember those? 

Push-ups! 

A frozen dairy and sugar combo, irresistible on a Summer afternoon when heat visibly hovers in undulating mirages over blacktopped surfaces, and youngsters drip with the sweat-caked dust from a parched makeshift baseball field. 

Push-ups were not only scrumptious, their delivery system was so unique that even if they did not taste good, the ice cream man would still offer them because kids would still want to buy them. They were food and they were fun, fun food. 

Push-ups have gone the way of many childhood things, along with childhood itself. They were small, but we were small, so that was okay. 

They were melt-y. On the hottest afternoons only seconds passed before rivulets of orange began to drip from the bottom of softening cardboard tubes onto sticky palms, trailing to wrists, intertwining with and even re-directed by sweaty dirt residue all the way to the elbows of us. Some could be licked clean; orange, vanilla, salty sweat and dirt, all in one who cares if the dirty sugary mess is a little less than delicious lick. For a bit, the dried but still sticky sugary residue glistened on skin. 

 Precious time could not be taken to run in the house for a washing, into the house where Mom may sidetrack with a chore, or lunch, or some other play-time bandit. A garden hose sufficed. We could wash with the sun warmed water in the length of hose strung through the grass and by the time the warm water was used up and the hose started running cold water, we could follow up with a long refreshing drink.
 

Sun-up to sun-down the world was ours. We didn't know it then but thinking about it now, I am inclined to believe there never in history was a sweeter time. Our lives were relatively easy, safe. We lived more comfortable and secure than ever before or since. Our worries were few.

There was for us a nice home, a soft bed. We had plenty of clean clothes suited to any climate conditions. We were not fat, we were well exercised and our mothers cooked every day, no, literally no fast food. Endless hours every day were spent deeply breathing in fresh outdoor air. We were not restricted to eye and ear shot of parents for fear of child predators. We did not wash our hands before we ate our ice cream on sticks and we did lick our fingers, and stuff. We drank out of the hose.

From Memorial Day to Labor Day we were free. Free to roam, dream, imagine, plan, stretch and linger, interrupted only by family vacations, Summer camp and the fourth of July. 

Each fourth of July welcomes gatherings with family, friends and crowds of cheerful strangers to celebrate this wonderful gift of freedom. I remember previous fourth of July's, or at least some aspects of the seasons past, and I am so profoundly grateful.

Things change, it is expected.

 I did not have old enough eyes to see days like today, back in my days of push-ups. These days were a mystery, a far far into the future mystery. But I can see those push-up days from here, and have seen enough since those days to know that they were indeed unusual. They were a gift to be treasured, protected and preserved. 

These days are a treasure all their own. We will look back on them with old enough eyes, to see their once mysteries revealed. 

Things change, it is expected. 

Perhaps in looking back we will not recognize who we have become as a nation. Far from where we began when the push first started. We have pushed up to strength and status, we have pushed on through threats and injuries and we have pushed out of our borders and boundaries. We have been afforded the freedom and independence to push. 

There is such a thing as pushing too hard, too far, for too long; where freedom and independence go the way of childhood.

Treasure freedom this Independence Day. 

It is certain to change.

P.J.

Baby's First Birthday

            He smells like baby. They actually figured out a way to bottle that! He has learned how to open the round cardboard container of cheesy baby snacks by prying the plastic lid off with his bottom teeth like a bottle opener. Then he smells like cheese, little melt-away cheesy snacks made for few toothed chubby fingered babies.

            He slaps open palmed on the Kiddie Keys piano just his size. I show him how pressing a key with just one finger works too. He tries it, ponders that method, and goes back to his open palmed composition.

         

           He hands me a ball, I take it, he hands me another, I take it, and we do this until he has handed me all seven of the balls that the blue hippo carries on his back. I return them to him; one by one he refills the blue hippo. One ball misses and rolls off to the side with an uh-oh from me, and another in a different direction, uh-oh again. He watches me, interested in what will accompany my uh-oh. 

 

            He’s been here at Grandma’s house for two and a half hours and so far in this small window of time we have played piano, passed balls, eaten baby cheese snacks, baby fruit cookies, cereal, and juice. We have had a thirty minute walk outside listening to birds, watching butterflies, and chatting with Alexis and her dog Gizmo.  We admired flowers close-up and squished them, but only a little. We pulled leaves to carry along with us for a bit, and touched bare leafless stems, equally fascinating.

            He made faces, such funny I think I’ll try to cry but I really don’t need to faces, that I laughed out loud! His five and half toothed wide open mouth, and tightly scrunched eyes distorted his little face in the perfect pose to express serious unhappiness, but he knew he wasn’t actually unhappy and could not muster authenticity. He let out an “ahhh” that was unconvincing to us both. He liked that I laughed so he did it a half a dozen more times as the drama of the game intensified, with a grin between each go that he wouldn’t quite give permission to, but his eyes gave him away. This Grandma’s been around that block! He amused himself and found increased satisfaction that he could tickle Grandma’s funny bone too. 

            I wished I had my camera but I knew if I left the room to get it the moment would end. I didn’t want the moment to end. I had to accept that I, only I, would get to absorb the moment, just this once. It would not be forever captured in a picture. Very much like all of these 364 days since his delivery, it was a moment, that was all. Similar ones may occur but none exactly repeat. Even the magic of the camera cannot replay the moment. A photo is still and silent, an offering to the eyes of an image to spark the brain and jump-start the heart. Having been present, I could with a picture almost relive the moment, almost.

           

             He fusses with a dry empty diaper and a contented full tummy, so we walk. He rests his head down against my shoulder, I sing softly. When I stop he picks his head up and hums a few

notes of his own letting me know he prefers I continue. I sing Rock-a-bye Baby, Jesus Loves Me, Jesus Loves the Little Children, the B-I-B-L-E, This Little Light of Mine, and when I have just about depleted my children’s song list I resort to On Top of Old Smokey. He is heavy with slumber as the meat ball rolls out the door. A few bars more and I grin inside and out to think that my soft singing about a rolling meatball takes him that last step over the edge into baby dreamland.

            I lay him down on the couch, tuck him in with my zebra snuggie and go for the camera. There is something so perfectly pure and unblemished about a sleeping baby. I gaze with grandma eyes, click, smile, click click, smile. I click more than seventy photos of that sleeping beauty.

            My chair and I are six feet away from him asleep on the couch and I smell him still, he has rubbed off on me. His Mommy puts baby cologne on him, as if his already perfect little self really needed anything to be cuter, but I do like it. 

             Tomorrow he turns one year old. Tomorrow will be much like today for him and his parents. The days after that will be much like the days previous. Mornings will come, days will be mostly routine, night will wrap another one up, and the next one will come and repeat. New things will be added while some of the old things are dropped, having been edged out by the new. One by one the days will peel away exposing new skin, new shape, new size, new skills, new thoughts, and the baby will be left behind. The toddler will become. He will toddle to school and round the bases of childhood all the way to the home plate of adulthood, one day at a time, one moment at a time. And then just like that, the growing up game will have completed.

           

            So on this one day, for these few brief moments sweet baby boy, grandson of mine, when you awaken from your nap here on Grandma’s couch, I will relish your little scrunched up funny faces with furrowed brow and your chubby cheesy little pointing finger. I will breathe your baby-cologne’d self in and when that aroma mingles with cheesy melt-away baby snacks I will breathe you in still, until Mommy comes and takes you away. Then I will pray. I will pray that she and Daddy breathe you in. Breathe deeply in every furrowed brow, every hamming it up scrunched face, every pudgy dimpled pointing finger, every five and a half toothed gummy smile, as one by one, the birthdays add up, just like birthdays always do, and take you sweet baby, away.
 

            You have been cherished as a something-day-old and so-many-month-old baby. You will be cherished as a one year old. It’s your Birthday, but it is we who have been given the gift. Happy first Birthday sweetest gift ever, may we each strive to be worthy of such a treasure as you.

Birdsongs

Sitting still, with the windows open and my eyes closed, bird calls, squawks, tweets and whistles remind me of so many places and experiences past. The faces of family and friends I shared those experiences with are there too, clearly seen with my eyes closed. 

As with certain songs that come on the radio, I am immediately reminiscent hearing the bird songs. In just these few seconds I hear the same bird chatter I remember hearing as a child camping in the tent camper with my brothers and parents, when nothing more than a thin layer of dew damp canvas warming in the sun, scenting the air, was between their song and my ears. 

My grandparents camped with us sometimes. I can see Grandpa smiling, a little, it's really more of a pleasant relaxed expression than a smile. I think to myself in this moment that the memory is incomplete without the call of the whippoorwill, and then I hear him. He is not one of the more frequent morning birds I hear, but with my eyes closed, listening, there he is, and again. Whip Whipp-oor-will.

I think about the pheasant that flew into the glass of my brother's bedroom window, and the flock of honking geese that dropped by my house for a rest from their flight south, like a travel break at an exit off the highway where there is a Cracker Barrel.

I think about "the big guy", a red tailed hawk, perched on the stop sign at the corner in front of my house. My youngest son, four at the time, charged in the front door from play to announce that the big guy was out there. I was a little afraid of what he meant by that statement and a lot relieved to figure it out! I guess to a four year old that hawk up close was quite a "big guy"!  That same four year old once conversed with a blackbird in the back yard on another open windows day. Standing at the table making himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch, he told that bird in no uncertain terms that it was his sandwich, and no, the bird could not have any, it would have to get its own. 

I remember how odd I thought it was as a new Floridian to hear the beautiful songs of night birds instead of crickets. These little birds in the palm trees outside my open window, were just getting started with their everyday routines when I laid down each night to finish mine. I think of an owl in the small patch of woods where my daughter works. She spotted him in the tree watching us as we watched him. He hooted for us. I'm reminded of the two yellow canaries I had years ago, and of the day I was delighted to discover buntings, green, painted, and even their elusive cousins the indigo's, living happily near the nature center just ten minutes from my house. I have been back several times to sit and watch and enjoy them.

I think of sparrows, and Jesus' sort of dime a dozen reference to them in the bible. The sparrows are many, they are not very distinctive or unique or rare to see or hear, they are plain and easily dismissed or overlooked. But Jesus uses those little birds as an example to clarify His point, not one falls to the ground apart from the will of God the father, not one that He does not notice, has not cared for, and does not value even though they seem in the whole of creation rather insignificant. How much more He values us, his crowning creation, made in His own image. Nothing about us is unnoticed or not deeply cared about by Him, every detail of our life is in His loving Fatherly hands. We may not be held in high esteem in the eyes of other people, but to Him, we are precious in his sight,

I love how this uninterrupted moment , with eyes closed to visual distraction, listening to birds reminded me of goodness. Past goodness, present goodness, and because of these, expectant hope for future goodness. Come what may, no one can take away the goodness that is already impressed in my mind and heart. 

I love what I am able to see with my eyes closed.

A Dress

So nine days before my son’s wedding its official, I am boycotting women’s clothes, in particular, dresses. I have purchased a dress that quite frankly, I don’t want to wear. The fabric is pretty, the style is pretty, with a little nip and a little hemming, on me it will be okay, certainly not wonderful. A mom wants to feel pretty on such an occasion. I will feel self conscious and confined in fabric if I wear that dress, tugging and constantly wondering if anything that should not be showing, is. I have not yet returned it for lack of time and a more suitable alternative. In the end, if it comes down to it I will wear it, tugging and checking its status all evening if I have to. Confirming the abrasive cliche “beauty is pain”.  

I know what I want and I know it exists only in my ideas. I would make it myself if I had the time to do so, but my to-do list is lengthy. I could have made one weeks ago if I had known I would get to this point and still not have met with success. Now time is short.

I don’t understand why it is so difficult. I don’t understand how store after store offers more of the same as the one before it. A handful of designers have obviously decided for the population what the trends will be while the consumer is never even consulted. If they were there would be a far different selection.

I’m tired of clingy jerseys in hideous prints; they are heavy, hot in warm weather and not warm in cold weather. The fabrics I am convinced are made from my recycled plastic milk jugs. All of the polyesters, rayon and spandex are unwearable without a good dousing of stinky Static Guard. Some of those man-made fabrics are so noisy ones clothing announces their arrival into a room just by the crackling and swishing sounds that come with every move. I don’t want clingy or noisy clothes.

I also do not want clothes that are so see through that a second, under layer is necessary just to keep from feeling naked. 

Then there are the dresses with slits up to here and necklines down to there, strapless, spaghetti strapped, gaudy ruching, ruffles and tiers, that make a girl look like she’s wearing a Halloween costume. I said no clingy fabrics that show every lump and bump but neither do I want to be wrapped in wads, clumps and layers of fabric to cocoon me either!

I googled dresses with sleeves. Up came a bunch with a tank top style or spaghetti straps, apparently even the very definition of a sleeve is up for debate these days. I want a sleeve because I get cold. Some girls want a sleeve to conceal upper arm wings that they prefer not to bare. Whatever, I want a sleeve. The only time I really want a dress without a sleeve is in the summer when I will be outside for any length of time, otherwise I am in the seventy five degree or cooler air conditioning. That is good for men in suits but not ladies in sleeveless dresses.

 Clearly designers and manufacturers can mass produce dresses without a sleeve more quickly. It is always the construction of the sleeve that requires the most time and effort for me when I am sewing my own clothes. I could always buy a two piece, simple dress with a matching jacket, but why? Why not just give me a dress with sleeves? I could also carry a shawl, but why? Why must I have yet another something in my already full hands or fumble with a shawl that continually slides off my shoulders? Why?

I know exactly what I want. Can't somebody just give me a springy, semi formal, natural fiber, sleeved, comfortably fitted dress that I feel pretty wearing. Why is that too much to ask?

I know in my heart that style and comfort are possible, I resort to making it for myself most of the time. I just wanted a little assistance in light of the busyness of my schedule. 

Since the fashion world has failed me again, I am boycotting it. All in favor say I!

Maybe miraculously my time will increase and I will yet be able to pull off a custom made. And well, even then it’s only half the battle. Don’t even get me started on shoes!

I Am Happy, Really

Well, there you have it. Six sons and thirty seven years later, testosterone no longer bounces off the walls of this humble Florida address, though it will probably be quite some time before its residue  clears. There is evidence aplenty to prove this has been ground stomped by boys; baby boys, little boys, medium sized boys, big boys, boys with friends who are boys, and boys with girlfriends who enticed them to new addresses. 

Leaving for work this morning the Sable drove easily forward out the crescent driveway. There was no little red Suby to prevent it. Mimi, the cute little Miata that the one daughter drives, was standing guard at her usual post but her sides were not flanked by any of the vintage cars, race cars, VW's, pick-up trucks, project cars, boats or trailers that once occupied the spaces. She looked so little, so alone in that great big driveway by herself. 

In the back yard a bulging PVC shed with corners that had to be screwed together with "L" brackets for all it has contained, will once again become the place for tools, lawn equipment and household fix it materials. Of course the lawn mower's gas can will no longer magically fill, but I will know right where to find a hammer when I need it for those household repairs on my honey do list, that only I will see. Weight benches, bikes, and tires will no longer stow on the concrete slab back there either, which means perhaps patio furniture will. Perhaps it will become a spot where coffee is enjoyed, or breakfast, or a bit of reading at that near future furnished patio. 

If I could devote the time to it I would have the place ship shape in a month, but that is wishful and not realistic. It will likely be years before all that's been left behind of these boys and these years is sifted through and weeded out. 

That's okay. 

I am happy, really.

Already things are being pinked and shoe shelves planned. For the first time pitifully non-functional closets will cease to frustrate. Space will be allotted to various art and crafting stations. Materials will be conveniently accessible instead of the usual move this to get to that as things fall out and down in a domino effect, disrupting the precarious attempt at organization and order. Curtains will be drawn back welcoming the sun to splash on walls through windows delightfully bare. Bare enough to peer into the now still rooms.

All of life is a boohoo or a woohoo, maybe even both at the same time, like now. 

I am happy, really.

I'm happy for my sons who have made a way to pursue and achieve their own dreams and visions for lives well lived. I am happy for my daughter and I to be able to spend girl time together for as long as we have until that too changes. 

Some things have to be left behind, in order to move onward and upward. There is no time for stagnancy. After thirty seven years of fluffing, flurrying and flitting about the nest, I know this well. Now invites the time to primp and preen and prissy the nest in preparation for estrogen domination. I look forward to the change, anticipating a new fullness of life, deepening the bond with daughter. 

The floors will stay clean, and when they have been too clean for too long, I'll send out a ca-caw ca-caw. They will recognize it and fly back to the nest of their beginning, and for a while, all will be as it was, only bigger and better. They'll bring with them their Mrs's and the fledglings. Downy feathers will drift and dive on wing rustled air. Boy-strous chatter will fill up the house and spill out into the yard. The bobble-headed lady birds will smile with a fresh wonder at the comical entertainment until the sun fades, plans are discussed for next time, and well wishes and hugs are distributed. 

When the last one goes, again, I'll lock the doors, tidy up a bit, have a bath, and consider with deepest gratitude all the ways I am the wealthiest person I know. On my slipper footed way to the fridge for a cup of ice to munch while I relax in my easy chair, I'll marvel at how one brief family gathering can so dirty the floors. Drips from sippy cups, stepped on bits of lunch, grass and sand testify to the day's full nest. Tomorrow I'll mop, I will think to myself, mop like I have thousands of times before, only there will be so much more to smile about. 

Peering through the bare window one might not see it, but I do. I see all that's been left behind. 

I guess all that testosterone will forever bounce off the walls of my heart.

I am happy, really.