Picking My Battles

I couldn’t help it.

Thing2 had used h is superhuman social butterfly skills to extend an afterschool play date from 3 hours to 5. That’s how I found myself at 7PM standing in the backyard of his best friend’s parents trying to remind him and myself that Thing1 and the Big Guy still needed to be fed.  There was no way I was not going to notice it.

The setting sun cast a golden glow over the plot, neatly bordered with small gage fence.  Our hosts had carefully laid pavers around the bottom of the fence to keep out even the squirmiest chipmunk. From my vantage point, however, all I could see of the actual garden was the dug potato row with its early leaves poking out of the soil.

“Do you mind I take a look?” I asked the other parents, nodding my head toward the gated plot.

“Sure,” answered the other mom, and the dad led us all to the fortified collection of beds.  I felt my heart beat faster as I studied the layout, neatly framed by a layer of newly-installed gravel… Install.  Here was the spinach, and there were the tomatoes.

I always get a little excited when  I see a new idea that I could break into my own plot. It’s usually fantasy (the only new idea I can incorporate into my own garden is to make it smaller and more manageable), but the fantasy is part of the fun and excitement of looking.

Before you write me off as some garden-peeping Mom, however, understand that I’m not just in it for the thrill of looking at something new.  Whether arranged in rows or beds, each new garden is a perfect patchwork marriage of practical and pretty.  They are an excuse to create and connect with others who love to create something valuable, if fleeting, from their good earth.

So if you see me parked outside your yard I can only claim curious inspriation as my excuse. And hey, in the spirit of encouraging creativity – and food – to grow, if you show me yours, I’ll show you mine.

It’s a pretty unusual Saturday in that we have nothing scheduled except to work on things we’ve been needing to work on for weeks and months.

For me, the need to work on is my eBook, It’s a Sketchy Life. Today’s adventure is made possible by a generous grant from our social life which has agreed to take a few weeks off of being in plays, and going to workshops or parties. It’s being made more fun by the fact that today I’m writing between breaks from painting a magnetic wall in my new studio (more on that in another post).

Thing2 was kind enough to observe that my masking tape outlines were a bit off but that it was clearly a design choice (it will all be white when I’m done). I’m not sure if it’s the glow of the coloured pencils or the fumes from the magnetic paint, but I think I’ve just discovered that watching paint dry – under the right circumstances – can be really fun.

 

The flower stand was at the corner at the bottom of our hill for as long as any of us can remember.  It was really more of small shed with a shelf for extra cuttings from a local flower farmer and an honor box.  I meditate on it whenever I park at the corner to wait for the school bus.  There are daffodils in the spring, sunflowers in the summer.  Turn right at the flower stand, and you’re almost home.

It’s slowly been falling down for the last few years, and today when I went to wait for the bus, it was gone.  It was time.  I’m sure the owner of the property was rightly worried about safety, but I already miss seeing the extras from the flower farm.

Snoop, the fatter of our black cats, was sitting in the middle of the gravel path when I got back from dropping the kids at the bus stop.  In the winter he’s a committed house cat, rarely moving except from bed to bed and then to the food bowl.  Spring comes, however, and a young cat’s thoughts turn to chasing chipmunks, and the morning’s victim was already wriggling in Snoop’s jaws when I came up the path.

I’ve watched this dance often enough to know the game had just begun.  I never interfere in animal kingdom games – I figure Mother Nature knows what she’s doing (and, as a vegetable gardener, I do have a dog in this fight).  Today, though, the cloudless sky and lush trees newly-dressed for spring created a such feeling of peace that I couldn’t believe she had allowed another torturous game of cat-and-chipmunk to begin.

Snoop stopped near the daffodils and dropped the chipmunk.  The chipmunk shook its head and started to run, but Snoop got in his way.  The fuzzy rodent backed into the forsythia and then, deciding humans were less dangerous than cats, raced over my foot and into the woodshed. Apparently cats are susceptible to fits of arrogant laziness because Snoop waited and watched the chipmunk for a minute before barreling past me and trying to corral his victim again.

I started walking toward the door, reasonably confident how this would end, but as I glanced over my shoulder, I saw the chipmunk make one last heroic jump into a crack in a pile of firewood.  Snoop pounced, but he was too slow, and the peace was preserved.

As usual, Mother knew best.  Remember that kids.

The kids are in the school yard when seven-year-old Thing2 hops out of the car.  He never climbs out.  He hops.

When he’s done hopping, he runs up to one friend.  Then they run to another friend.  The three boys run from spot to spot because why would you ever not run from spot to spot?

Watching them, it’s impossible not to wonder what secret they have that infuses every movement with happiness.  I would ask, but I’m not sure they even know what they have.

Here are some questions to try to answer honestly.

1.  Have you tried to stop gardening for a season but started drawing up new plans before the last frost?

2. Do you wish people would stop telling you to just buy your vegetables at the grocery store?

3. Do you drive buy farm stands and mentally calculate how much more space you’d need to start your own?

4. Have you ever switched from rows to beds to moderate your gardening?

5. Do you occasionally start the day with a walk out to your garden for a quick eye-opener?

6. Do you stop to pull one weed and stand up two hours later with a bucket full of dead dandelions?

7. Do you envy others who can control the size of their gardens?

8. Do you ever stop at the grocery store and walk out with flats of flowers or veggie starts instead of the food items on your list?

9. Do you tell yourself you can stop gardening anytime you want to?

10. Do you have Garden-Outs?   Do you wander into your garden at 7AM on Saturday morning and wander out at 5 wondering how so many new beds appeared fully planted?

If you answer ‘Yes’ to four or more of the questions above, you may have an addiction.  You are not alone, and you should know that there are other gardening addicts who are willing to tell you it’s not a problem.  Go ahead and feed it.  If you answered yes to six or more, your addiction may be severe.  It’s still not a problem, just be sure you keep another set of books to hide from the non-gardeners in your family who may not understand that the $165 willow trellis really necessary to support the pole beans.

Most of the images on this blog start with my pencil and a look at one or both of my kids.   None of the images are photorealistic, but I can watch my kids grow and change if I click through the pages of the site.

Most of the time, the kids are just getting bigger, but yesterday I drew something I’d never attempted before.  It wasn’t difficult to add a few elongated dark dots on what was supposed to be my son’s cheek and upper lip.  It wasn’t even bittersweet.  It was just sweet to realize that this person I admire more everyday is crossing the divide.

It was also a reminder to keep watching to make sure every small step finds its way to my sketch album.

 

Thing1 is going to hit high school next fall, and, even in out-of-the-way Arlington, VT, stories of adolescent bacchanals fill most parents with dread.   Thing1 and I have talked about booze and consequences, but everyone in a while I get an unexpected bit of help helping him resist temptation.

On the TV, little yellow minions were shepherding a dozen kinds of fruit down a conveyor belt into a jam-making vat.  When the fruit hit the vat, the stars of Despicable Me2 began stomping the grapes and apples into jam.  One of the minions got stuck in a jar on the way to the next step, and seven-year-old Thing2’s curiosity crested.

“Is that why the jam tastes so bad,” he asked.

“Because there’s a million kinds of fruit in one jar?” Thing1 asked looking for clarification.

“No, because they’re stepping on the fruit with their feet.”

“Maybe,” said Thing1.

“I think it’s the conveyor belt residue,” I said.  Then I added, “Anyway, that’s how they still make wine some places.”  Thing2 gave me a funny look.

“They step on it?” he asked.  “Is that why wine tastes so bad?”

I was quiet for a moment and then said, “Ye-e-e-ss.”  Thing1 doesn’t really like the taste of wine, but he was dubious about the source of the bad taste.   Thing2 was quiet as he mulled over the science of wine making.

“So basically wine is just foot jam with water,” he said after a few more minutes of watching the movie quietly.

“Wow,” groaned Thing1. “I’ll never be able to get that thought out of my head when I look at a bottle of wine again.”

When my own stomach finished doing backflips over the thought that I’ve been drinking glorified fermented fruity foot-jam-juice with my pasta all these years, I gave Thing2 a quiet kiss on the head as Pharrell’s ‘Happy’ began to play on the TV screen.