Dad’s Handkerchief

I’m a saver.  I come by it naturally.  My mom is a saver. She saved National Geogrpahics for 40 years.  All neatly arranged by month and year in a bookcase in the basement.  Seems like they could be a good save. They have wonderful articles and pictures.  On the other, will we ever read them again?  Will anyone ever read them again? No and no.  Schools don’t want them. The articles are too long, kids won’t read them. Even Goodwill won’t take them, they just recycle them.  I know because I tried these places.

I have my share of saved things that have no value to anyone but me. For example,  a few years ago after my father passed away, my mother found several of my father’s linen handkerchiefs.  She couldn’t bring herself to toss them so they went to the next saver in the family.  Me.  And save them I did without knowing why. I use Kleenex. But I held on to them because…well, just because.

But in some of my more practical moments I realize that there is little, if any, point to hanging on to much that I have saved. It’s now the right time of year and the right time of my life to start culling the flock. Either use the stuff for its original purpose, find a new purpose, or  find someone else who can use.  Or toss it. After 40 years of tender, loving care those  National Geographics ended up in the recycle, turning to mulch, which isn’t an altogether bad ending for magazines about our earth.

But I’m now pleased to report that I’ve found a place for at least one of my father’s handkerchiefs.  The June 2012 issue of Women’s Day Magazine had an article  about a woman who also had a handkerchief that once belonged to her father. She slipped it into her purse.  Now, when she rummages around for some item  in the bottomless pit that a purse can become, she finds her father’s handkerchief.  And along with feeling the cloth, she remembers her dad.

My father’s handkerchief has also now found a place in my purse.  And the memories are also there.

The Slugs are Winning

In an all out effort to save my dahlias from the slugs, I have done most everything I can.  I have squished slugs and salted them, baited them with beer and surrounded my dahlias with copper tape.  I have dug up several of the dahlias and put them in pots on the decks.  Still, the slugs are mowing them down.  I may have to wave the white flag of defeat this summer.

I will console myself by admiring my other flowers.  The daylilies are putting on a spectacular show as are the daisies.

And there’s always next year!

What My Chickens Have Taught Me

I am pretty sure I read somewhere on the internet that chickens have a brain about the size of the period at the end of this sentence.  Making them only slightly dumber than us humans. One may conclude that because chickens have such a  limited brain there is nothing we can learn from them.  Chickens eat, sleep, poop, and at times lay eggs.  But even these feathered friends have taught me some lessons:

1.  When it is dark, go to bed.  Nothing good happens after midnight to be sure and little good happens when it is dark.  So go to bed.  Get some sleep.  Then, when the sun rises:

2. Get up.  There’s a new day stretching out ahead of you full of possibilities.  Bugs to catch, seeds to eat.  And if you are not a chicken, there are a whole lot of other possibilities ahead of you.  Books to read, languages to learn, friends to get in touch with, cancer cures to find.  So get going!

3. No matter the size of your brain, or your education, or your background, or your age, be the best you you can be.  Cackle a little, then spread your wings!  There’s a world of possibilities in store.

One Thing My Cat Would Have Me Learn

If my cat spoke “people” he would tell me to learn this:  There are moments when we all can step out of our comfort zone to comfort someone else.

Our cat, Marshall Dillon is a sweetheart.  He loves to be loved.  By his people. Which are me and my husband.  And maybe our daughters, but because they have moved on in their lives and are not around much anymore, they are suspect.

Everyone else is not to be trusted.  At all.  Friends and family who have come to our house many, many times don’t even know we have a cat because they (the cats.  There are two of them) will not be seen. If the cats are in the house when guests arrive they (the cats, not the guests) will wake up from their nap in the sink, and  high tail it outside or under a bed or into a closet until it is safe to come out.  If the cats are outside, which they usually are when guests arrive, they (the cats) will just stay outside.  For days if necessary, until the all-clear is sounded by the departure of the enemy’s car down our driveway.

This has been their pattern for the entire 5 years we have had them.  We got them as tiny kittens and they were never abused or harmed so their behavior is a bit disconcerting.  But it has served them well (other than for the ulcers I imagine they have).  They have survived.  We have had 3 other cats come into our lives while living in the country and none of them lived more than a year before succombing to the coyotes or raccoons or whoever ate them for dinner.  But Marshall Dillon and his sister Miss Kitty have learned that it is wise to trust only a very, very few trustworthies. And by being so timid, they are still with us.

So I was stunned the other day when hubby and I were sitting outside chatting with a friend who is going thru’ a difficult time.  We were sipping iced tea, soaking up the sunshine when Marshall Dillon came strutting across the lawn.  He got closer and closer to our guest.  Then he rubbed against the guest’s leg.  I was speechless and quite sure that as soon as Marshall Dillon realized he had just touched a stranger he’d be gone.  But he stayed and let our guest pet him. Then Marshall jumped onto our guest’s lap and loved and loved on him. Which is just what our guest needed.

Sometimes, when someone you don’t even know needs a lift, you can provide a bit of peace and happiness if you will just be brave and step outside your comfort zone.  A smile, a greeting, a bit of understanding can go a long, long way.

Three Things My Dog Is Trying to Teach Me

There are at least three things my dog is trying to teach me:

1. 1. Be ever happy.

Joe, our mostly Black Lab, is the happiest creature I’ve ever met.  He’s always happy. He’s happy to go for a walk and he’s happy to ride in the car.  He’s happy we came home and he’s happy we give him a couple of treats when we leave home.  He’s happy to play fetch or have his back scratched.  He’s especially happy to play in a stream or river or even in the sprinklers at home.  He’s just a happy guy.

Joe attracts kids and adults alike, as he invites them into his circle of happiness. Being ever happy makes you a lot of fun to be with.

2.  If you aren’t happy, because you are frightened by something, seek help.

Not much fazes Joe.  He’s usually just happy.  But there are three things that frighten him: Gunshots, fireworks, and vets.  When we are out for our daily walks, down our pathetic potholed country road, Joe is on his own mission.  He runs ahead, lags behind, chases shadows, and stops to smell the roses (and other things).  He mostly stays within sight but sometimes he takes off through the brush following some dream or idea that I cannot catch hold of.  Then he reappears with that silly grin on his face letting me know how much fun he had.

But when a gunshot explodes, Joe turns into the best trained dog in the neighborhood.  He voluntarily  heels right beside me and if I start to lag he will give me that look that says, “Step it up lady, it’s not safe out here.”  I’m not sure if he’s protecting me, or if he thinks I’ll protect him, but I am sure that the two of us together are safer than each of us alone.

3,  Never hold a grudge.

Dogs are so forgiving.  You can leave them home alone all day and they will greet you with joy every time you return.  (Well, most of them will.)  Joe doesn’t get carried away with this.  His greetings have become less enthusiastic as he has gotten older.  But he is glad and he never carries a grudge.  If some kink in our schedule precludes our usual special adventure on Saturday afternoons (dogs can tell time.  Joe knows when it’s Saturday) which is often a trip to a river or a creek where he can not only run and fetch but can swim and fetch, he will be sad.  But he will never carry grudge.  A trip to the vet?  Absolutely not part of his happiness.  He quakes and shakes and is sure his life is about to end. But as soon as we are out the vet’s door, all is forgiven and forgotten.

He has no time for grudges. Grudges only interfere with observation Number 1:  Be ever happy.

Me Versus Slugs

I have been fighting the good fight, trying to save my dahlias from the slugs.  Disgusting things slugs.  I used to be creeped out by their sliminess but I am so disgusted with them now that I don’t even care about their sliminess.  When I see one I step on it.  It’s gross but they are gross and having stepped on one I mentally give myself another notch on my belt.  When I go for my morning and evening walk I squish every slug I see and I see a lot of them.

I love dahlias. They are my favorite flower.  And slugs seem to have the same sentiment.  They mow down my dahlias overnight.  I carried my salt shaker with me and salted them.  I stomped on them.  But it wasn’t enough.  So I decided to try beer.  I’d heard it said that slugs are alcoholics and will drink themselves under the table if given the chance.  And it’s true.  I bought the cheapest beer I could find.  I took several old cottage cheese type containers, dug a shallow hole in the garden and laid the container at a 45 degree angle against the dirt.  I poured in a bit of beer.  And the next morning each container had 6 or 7 or 8 bloated dead drunk slugs in it.  Victory for me!

But those slugs kept coming. I had 7 or 8 containers in my garden and I would replenish them with beer every night. . I was getting tired of paying their bar tab.  I needed another weapon.   I finally remembered reading about copper tape that repels slugs. I had to do some calling around but I finally found some of that tape and I enclosed a few dahlias with it.  And then I admitted slight defeat.  I dug up the remaining dahlias and planted them in pots where I can keep a better watch on their slimy enemies.

Now there is hope that I may have some blooming dahlias this year.

I continue to squish slugs.

Retirement

This evening is my vision of retirement:

I’m outside on my deck. The sun has just set and as daylight fades, so does the heat of the day.  I’ve fired up my propane patio heater (a Mother’s Day gift from my kids and husband.  Thank you, again!) The birds are singing their good nights to each other.  My cat and dog stop by to see what’s happening. The deck lights are on, my computer is set up, and the citronella candle and tiki torch are lit. (Okay, that last part about mosquito repellant isn’t in my vision of retirement. But it is my current reality!)

I’m retired (back to my fantasy) so I don’t have to get up early tomorrow. Which means I can stay up as late as I want and type away on my computer.  Ah, retirement!

Then there is my reality:

I was reading an article in an old issue of Guideposts (August 2010 p. 34 Return to Higgins Lake) in which a young mother is talking about her parents arriving for a visit.  Says the young mother about her parents, “My dad bent to scoop up the little ones.  His rigid back was a dead giveaway he was in pain… They were well into their sixties, the years visible on their faces.”

Hold on one cotton pickin’ minute!  That’s me (well, almost.  I’m “into” my sixties but not yet “well into”.  But what’s a year or two among us old folks?)  Sixty is the new forty!  I’m not old or feeble! I’ve still got lots of good years and good adventures yet to go. But then again, if I’m not old why am I thinking about retirement?

This evening is my vision of the perfect end of a perfect day.  Retirement or not.  I’m outside writing and I don’t have to get up early in the morning because I’m off for the summer!

Writers Write

I’m back!  The derelict blogger.  I was so sure I was going to get my life and my schedule together.  Make a date with myself and set aside at least one evening a week for writing and blogging.  It was a great idea.  But as so many great ideas go, it went.

I have a lot of really good excuses:  the end of the school year rush and stress; the beginning of summer rush and stress; sunshine means I need to spend all day and all evening in my yard doing all the things I couldn’t do when it was raining and when I was working; I had to help friends move (sure hadn’t planned on that); summer weddings; lunches with friends I only see once or twice a year.  And my favorite:  my computer is 10 YEARS OLD and I have DIAL UP for crying out loud, (those two things alone should grant me a LOT of understanding and grace) so you know that it takes FOREVER to get on line and blog.  How’s that for a “dog ate my homework” excuse?

Writers write, so they say.  I love to write.  But gardeners garden, and friends are friends, and mortgage holders work, and I am still trying to find the way to balance doing all the things I love, and need, to do.

So here I sit, writing.  It’s too dark to garden, too late to call friends, I’m off work for the summer.  And I’m not even trying to get online.  I’m using my NEW computer which doesn’t have a modum so it can’t even get on dial up.  I will take this computer to the library tomorrow where I can use their electricity and internet and I will transfer this to my blog and I will post it faster than the speed of light.  And maybe I’ll dream of a way to balance my life.

Now, go to bed and have a great sleep.  You’ll need it because tomorrow is another day of weeds, and friends, and words to write.  Good night.