The Promise of a Spring Morning

 

I woke up early today, well before 6 AM.

Daylight, well past the horizon, slipping between the bedroom curtain crack; quite a difference from just a few months before.

At this time of day, in February, when I walk out to grab my papers off the lawn, cold stars dot the morning sky, resolute and weary from their long vigil, preparing to close up shop for another daytime of rest.

A quiet, crisp, restful February morning.

The day, slow to start in darkness…quick to end in same.

Now, an arc of gold bends around a backyard swing set and spreads across the sparkling lawn; green sprouts, fresh and newly alive, enriched by morning’s dew.

The days are eager to begin, right now, and through the coming months ahead; the hours and evenings, easily filled.

The morning air is cool; the sun rises; warmth, not far behind.

All... unwinds before us, inviting us to grab hold.

All…declared before us, in the promise of a spring morning.

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The Gracious Gardner

I spent the weekend lying in the weeds.

I mean, I was literally lying in the weeds…

It’s that time of year again when lawns and gardens and all sorts of growing things, need to be tended and in some cases removed.

So I was literally lying in the weeds…and the bushes and the dirt and the hydrangeas

Especially the hydrangeas.

It had to be done.

The old one had gotten a little too comfortable in its roots.

Was getting a little too lippy for its own good—and mine—so out it went.

Replaced by a brand new, already blooming, little hydrangea; one that I can shape and mold after my own image.

 Nahhhhhh…not really…that would be weird.

Wouldn’t it?

In fact if a hydrangea was a lot like me it would be an awful lot like the one I just got rid of.

Of course none of this is true…I mean, except for the part about switching plants.

The rest of it I made up, as I tend to do.

Have you noticed?

Plants don’t have personalities…at least not in the sane rationale world.

So it would be in-sane to think that they did.

Right?????

So in truth, as opposed to in lies, all I did was swap out my old hydrangea with a new one.  I didn't even get rid of the old one.  I just moved it across the way, next to the out of control, bushy bamboo.

You know…the one with authority issues.

Ooops…sorry.

I should probably explain, not that a discussion of hydrangeas is all that interesting, nor one that I ever thought in my wildest imagination I would ever spend any significant amount of time on.

Lilacs and Butterfly Bushes…maybe…but not hydrangeas.

But yet, here we are.

So briefly, which, I know, I’ve already exceeded, the reason I had to do all this hydrangea swapping was because the first spring, after moving into our house, some 11 and a half years ago, we received this tiny hydrangea bush as a housewarming gift.

I later planted, said bush, next to the also newly planted lilac bush, which then led to both Z and I deciding another bush was needed to balance out the other side.

Well, Z decided, and since she is the Master Gardener, I usually just go along with whatever she says.

So I, being the Gracious Gardener, to Z’s Master status, went off, on my own—always a mistake—to the big hardware store to purchase another hydrangea.

Not a big deal…I could handle that, which I did—graciously—only to discover, sometime later, after it bloomed, that this hydrangea was nothing at all like the old hydrangea.

Who knew there were different types of hydrangeas?

Probably a lot of people, but certainly not me.

Hey…I’m the Gracious Gardener, not the Smart Gardener.

I mean, without flowers, who can tell…especially if you don’t look at the little picture tag on the side.

So for 11 years we’ve lived with this “other” hydrangea and told ourselves, diversity was good…at least until I could motivate myself to go back to the big hardware store and find the correct hydrangea.

Motivate being the operative word.

But, as with so many things in life, fate intervened and this past Easter we received yet another hydrangea gift, already flowering, so there could be no mistake.

Everything in is time...right?

Surely a sign from the universe, because the universe has nothing better to do than send me signs concerning my hydrangea situation.

But that was that…in with the new and out with the old.

I even got to swing my badly underutilized pick ax and dug a big hole in the ground.

Always a plus for the Gracious Gardener.

And they tell me I’ll regain full use of both arms, in time.

Plus my back should straighten out in a few days…with or without the searing pain.

But who’s gonna do these things if not me?

I guess a professional gardener, but that would conflict with my penchant for cheapness.

And Z….

The bottom line is it worked out for everybody.

The new hydrangea—who I have not named Peaches—is happy in the first real place of her own.

The Lilac—who is not named Lilly—is happy to now have symmetrical roommates on either side.

And Lacey…I mean, the older, odd hydrangea…seems happy, despite the occasional droopy spell, in her new, sunnier spot next to Barry…I mean, the bus
hy bamboo.

All just a part of another day for the Gracious Gardner….

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Without Moms

Mother’s Day is upon us and it’s time to show our appreciation to the one person in the whole world to whom we literally owe everything.

I mean, aside from my banker.

Without Moms none of us would be here, except possibly my third cousin—twice removed, yet always returns—who we suspect is an extraterrestrial, mostly because of his odd middle toes.

But I digress.

Without Moms none of us would know the joy of a Peanut Butter & Jelly sandwich…even if it didn’t travel well in a brown paper bag that you sat on in 3^rd grade, on an 85 degree day in May.  It was still made with love and still delicious despite its odd coloring and peculiar shape.

Without Moms we would still be walking around with runny noses, even as adults, who may or may not sometimes use their sleeve to stem the tide.

Without Moms we would still be wearing mismatched socks…or wearing them a lot more frequently than we do now.

Without Moms we would never change our underwear…or learned that changing with your cousin still doesn’t count.

Without Moms we would be deaf from all the loud music that she turned down, after we turned it up, and she turned it back down, and we turned it back up, and she turned it back down….

Without Moms we would all have ruined eyes from watching too much TV, too close to the screen, in the dark.

Without Moms our faces would be frozen in hideous contorted shapes...forever…not just on holidays spent with our in-laws.

Without Moms we would never know the healing power of the miraculous mercurochrome bunny on our knee...or our elbow…or…well, you don’t need to know about that place, since it was an isolated incident…really.

Without Moms we would never have understood that we would never learn, never change, never grow up, and never know where the hamper was.

Without Moms we would always ruin our dinner.

Without Moms we wouldn’t even know how to eat our dinner; at least like a human, who knows the proper way to hold a fork, at least in public.

Without Moms we would forget out heads
if they weren't attached to our bodies…or at least we would never have thought of that concept.

Without Moms we would have never stopped fidgeting…or at least cut back.

Without Moms we would have never known who Ish Kabibble was, because, apparently, that’s who we looked like when we needed a haircut…sometimes still do.

Without Moms we would never have had the soundtrack from “The Way We Were” permanently etched into our prefrontal cortex.

And without Moms we would have had to walk a lot more, missed a lot more school, never have graduated, never have gone to college, never been fed, never had a roof over our head, never have been warm, never been nursed back to health with ginger ale and crackers, never have felt safe and never have understood unconditional love….even after discovering that mysterious dent that appeared on the fender of her brand new car, coincidentally on the first day you received your driver’s license.

Even then….

Without Moms we would never have had a lot of things and we would never be sure of a lot of things, today.

Except one….

What it means to be home….

 

 

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Gotta Love the Zen - Redux

Another from the Archive of Retort:

Original Post June 24, 2011
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My brains' still acting out.

It's pouting and grumbling, refusing to give me any ideas to write about today. So, I thought this would be a good time to bring up Zen.

I love Zen.

Zen is the Seinfeld of spiritual philosophies and disciplines.

Zen, in its purist form, its only form, is about nothing.

And that’s perfect for me....

I can do nothing...with my eyes closed.

This is my favorite unattributed Zen saying:

"To know that there is nothing to know,

And to grieve that it is so difficult

to communicate this “nothing to know” to others—

this is the life of Zen,

this is the deepest thing in the world...."

How cool is that!

I've been trying to tell people that exact same thing for years, except my method involves a lot shouting, disdainful looks and hair pulling...sometimes theirs.

And the beauty of Zen is that the less you know, the more you know…

You know?

And that’s alright with me. Especially since my brain is on a time out.

This is a Zen sign called the "open circle". There’s another symbol called the "closed circle", but we’re not discussing that today…because I say so.



From Energy Healing Circle.com :




“The open circle represents the imperfection found in all things, and suggests to the student to stop striving for perfection and instead to allow the universe to be as it is.”

See…just like I was trying to tell them in High School!

“The open circle is a concept that reflects closely with Japanese Zen Buddhism. The Japanese concept of wabi sabi is that all things are perfect as they are…”

So there!

An example would be, oh, I don’t know, let’s say, for no reason in particular, someone collects heart shaped stones on the beach, any beach, maybe even a Stamford beach. But instead of scouring the beach, day after day, wreaking havoc on their C2 vertebrae, they could easily go out and buy dozens of heart shaped stones in a store, someplace, and each one would be shiny, bright and perfect.

But they don't...cuz to the Zenster, these manufactured stones could never equal the perfection found in the imperfection of the real heart shaped stones hiding beneath the muddy shore. Plus, in a way, aren't the stones really finding you, instead of you finding them?

Capice?

And that’s so cool. That’s so Zen…

Buying them in a store is just so retail…unless they’re on sale.

And if that doesn’t make any sense to you, then more the better.

It’s Zen!

Anyway gotta go. My brain is starting to quibble with my body again. I’ve gotta separate them.

But I’ll leave you with this, a quote from the Buddha himself:

“People with opinions just go around bothering one another….”



Gotta love the Zen...








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Devil May Car Care

I had to bring the car in for service over the weekend.

Nothing serious; just normal maintenance plus the yearly inspection.

At least that’s always the hope.

But when you routinely keep and drive your cars across multiple decades, like Z and I tend to do…you never know.

Hey, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it…I mean, literally.

Oh sure, somewhere down the road you’re occasionally going to lose a wheel or something…again, literally…but that’s what tow trucks are for.

However, there’s no getting around the required inspection…and you should change the oil, sometimes as often as once a year…or at least check it.

So I brought it in over the weekend, and crossed my fingers.

One of life’s golden rules to happiness and peace of mind is, once you find a good garage, stick with it.

Don’t worry about price, customer service or even garage décor, such as what calendar girls they have displayed behind the counter…trust is worth its weight in gold.

Of course I have no idea how much trust weighs, but I do know that a license plate light bulb is going to run you 75 buckos, and sooner, but probably later, you’ll get a call that your car is ready…when they need the garage space for poker night…and hey, Miss Rheingold, 65 was a keeper…even if she actually was 65 at the time.

I’ve been going to this one particular service place for close to 25 years, now, and all the guys know me by name.

Of course it’s not actually my name, but I kind of like being Alice, every now and them

I envision Alice as a free thinker, with authority issues.  He knows he only needs to fill his tank with regular gas, but insist on using premium.

But no special oil additives for Alice…“Just top ‘er off buddy and I’ll be on my way….”

He’s just that reckless when it comes to cars, is Alice.

Luckily, this time I got off easy; but like I said, you never know.

The duct tape seemed to be holding on the right rear tire so I only needed to replace the other three.

Last time it was all four.

The brakes were good…as long as I drove under 20 mph and had at least the length of a football field to stop.

The headlights are like new again once he replaced the bulb…or I should really say, head-light…the other one had a short in it or something. But, like they told me, it was lucky I had two to begin with.

And the transmission oil was a nice healthy brown, so I’ll take that…I guess.

What do I know?

And that’s just the thing; why I say being able to trust your car service place is worth its weight in gold.

I mean, let’s face it…most of us don’t really know what our mechanic is saying when he’s explaining why he needs to replace the Differmometer after he adjusts the Hacenbadafortran coupling…and while he’s in there he might as well change out the amatfenature module, because if you wait until you really need it replaced, you could end up spending more, not to mention risk driving without a gas tank, which, to be honest, is just like throwing good money after bad.

So you hate to do it, but you have no choice…you say, “Do what you have to do…and is that coffee fresh?”

And then everyone has a good laugh and the boys behind the counter say, “Alice, you’re a scream!”

Before long, or way, way, way too long, the work is done and they’re processing your credit card payment…while, at the same time, looking through the new boat catalogue.

“Now I can finally get that 55 foot cruiser, with the mahogany decking, I’ve had my eye on,” they tell you, while you high five and congratulate them before heading on your way.

Like I said, while it’s not a day I look forward to, having your car serviced does lead to some peace of mind knowing that you can once again tune in that FM station that was giving you so much trouble, for so long.

That is, when that new sound, reminiscent of a cat in heat, stops for a few seconds....

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Lovelorn May

May arrived, late, this past Tuesday.

Yeah…I was half asleep, half watching Letterman’s monologue, when I heard a tapping on the big sliding door in back; the one off the back porch.

I just thought I was dreaming so I began to doze back off…but there it was again…tap, tap, tap.

 

"Hmmmm, that's odd", I said to myself, and whoever else was listening in.

Since it’s been my experience that maniac, serial killing, axe murders don’t normally knock, especially during Letterman, I figured whatever it was had to be fairly innocuous, so I thought I should go and check it out.

And it was…it was May…silhouetted in the glow of the outdoor spotlight, tapping on my back door like some prodigal son, returned from wherever it is son’s go to be prodigal.

 “May,” I said. “You’re here…early…but not a moment too soon!”

“Yeah…I heard,” May replied. “April pretty much blew it this year, huh?”

“Shhhhhhh…she’s still here, for another 10 or 15 minutes. I don’t want her to go off in a sulk. If she does, who knows what harsh feelings, not to mention weather, she’ll drag back with her next year.”

“You mean if she even bothers to come back next year,” May sneered.

I was surprised by the harshness in May’s remark, but then recalled there’d been some whispers, a couple of seasons back, of more than just a working relationship between April and May...that, as those things tend to do, ended badly...at least for May.

I guess the whispers were justified, which also explained why May had popped in before the official start of his shift.

I said, “Well, she was a bit on the cool side, this year—especially after the warm April we knew  from last year.”

“Yeah…tell me about it,” May muttered.

“But, she relented a bit the last week and a half, especially after I kind of baited her with that whole ‘Sprinter’ stuff.”

“I saw that!” May said, with more than a degree of delight in his tone. “That was an excellent piece of writing…really, really clever!”

(What…that’s what he said. You think I’m making this up?)

“Thanks,” I replied.  “You know, that just sort of came to me, in the bathroom, where most of my ideas come from, so I—”

May cut me off, which I found rude, because I hate missing any opportunity to talk about my creative technique and masterful application of such…even if I do say so myself.

“She’s good at that, you know.  Teasing with, what might have been, just as she’s getting ready to walk. That’s what April does best…tease.”

I didn’t like the look I was detecting in May’s shadowed eyes, so I quickly changed the subject.

“Well, you’re here now, so what do you have up your sleeve for us, this year?  Believe me we’re ready for anything…you know, especially after April.”

I thought disparaging April would make May feel a little better, which I think worked, but only to a point since I noticed his eyes were still scanning the distance beyond me, hoping to catch a glimpse of his star crossed, former soul month.

“Oh, you know, the usual,” May said, fixing his distracted gaze back onto mine. “Of course, there’ll be May Day—my personal favorite—and then we’ll slide right into Cinco de Mayo, The Derby, Mom’s Day, Indy 500…yada yada yada…you know, until we top it off with the big daddy of them all….”

“The American Idol Finale!” I blurted out.

“No…Memorial Day weekend, dum dum.”

“Oh right, Memorial Day. Sorry….”

  American Idol Finale?  You did have a bad April, didn’t you?”

“Well, there were a lot of reruns….”

Just then, there was a rustling from the back corner of the yard, over by the holly bush. 

May, not missing a beat, quickly picked up his shoulder bag and said, “There’s something out there, I’d better go check it out. My shifts about to start anyway.”

“Be careful,” I said. “It might be a raccoon or muskrat.  We’ve been seeing a lot of them around here, lately.”

May turned back just as he was about to step out of the spotlight’s reach and nodded, but we both knew…it was April, slipping out of town, as quietly as she had arrived—could it be—just a month ago.

“What about the weather?” I shouted after May, now, barely discernible, swallowed in the darkness of night. “Is it going to warm up…anytime soon?”

The rustling from the bushes began again and I could hear the smile in May’s voice.

“Oh, I’d say things are going to get pretty hot around here, pretty quickly.”

“So I should put my air conditioners in, now?” I shouted back…but received no response, other than a slight brush of humid air slipping deliberately across the porch.

With that, I smiled; bid farewell to April, and looked forward to my time with May.

Back inside, I fixed myself a glass of lemonade and returned to Letterman.

He was just beginning the “Top Ten”.

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Dandelion Discourse - Redux

It’s that time of year again, so I thought it would be a good idea to repeat this "almost" old gem.  Plus it gives me another day to goof off….

__________________________________________

Original Post 5/18/12

There’re a lot of Dandelions this year…a lot.

Those little yellow headed critters that dot our lawns all spring and summer.

Well, not mine…at least not for long. Let’s just say, they know better than to make a stop on my lawn.

My grandmother used to eat dandelions, which embarrassed the rest of us. I mean she could have put them on a plate …or at least picked them out of the grass first.

No…I’m kidding. It’s not like she was some kind of granny goat. She would trudge around the yard, in the dress she always wore instead of pants, and cut them down with a knife. Then she’d clean them up and make a salad out of them. I was the only other person in the family that actually liked them. A little bitter, if I recall, but hey, so am I, so it suited me.

I actually saw my first dandelion pop up as early as February, this year. They’re resilient little guys and you have to admire that. They just don’t get their due, at least as far as flowers go. In fact, I bet most of you just call them weeds.

Yeah…me too, until I found out the hard way; there’s a lot more to them than that.

I was out the other day; let’s say “dealing” with said dandelions, when one of them starts to chat me up.

I hate that.

Especially when…you know…I have plans for them.

I mean do I really need to assign a face to my dandelions?

Anyway, this dandelion tells me that being a dandelion in this century blows.

That once they were held in very high regard; even given the name of “Lion’s Tooth” to distinguish them from all the other pedestrian vegetation out there.

Now, everyone just sees them as weeds, which they find so insulting. No one sees them for what they are, which, as I said, is really just a flower…a flower like any other kind of flower.

“Well,” I said to the dandelion, “these days folks like to keep their lawns nice and green. In fact they spend a lot of money on it. You guys sort of muck that all up with all that yellow.”

“So what’s wrong with yellow? There’re yellow tulips, carnations, daisies…and what about that obnoxious yellow rose of Texas, who thinks so highly of himself just because someone wrote a song about him? No one complains about any of them!”

Things were starting to get a little heated now, at least from the dandelions perspective, so I thought I’d better try to smooth things over a bit. You don’t want to get a dandelion all worked up. It can take hours to calm them down, once you do.

“Listen, ah…Dan…can I call you Dan?”

“Why would you call me Dan? My name’s Greg…”

“Oh…sorry…I just assumed—”

“Of course you just assumed….EVERYBODY just assumes, when it comes to the dopey dandelions!”

“Okay calm down….”

“Calm down? Why should I calm down? Don’t you think I know what you’re up to with that little spray bottle you’re hiding behind your back?”

“Well, no. I—”

“I bet you don’t know about our medicinal properties? Or all the nutrients we put back into the soil to make your precious little graminoids flourish.

“My what?”

‘You’re lawn, idiot!”

“Oh….”

“We’re good for all kinds of things…we even make a tasty salad…just ask your grandmother.”

“You knew my grandmother? But how…?”

“What…you think this measly little week is all I get? Hey buddy, wise up. You know all those little puffy seeds you used to blow on when you were a kid?

“Yeah….”

“Well, just more of me, cloning myself over and over again, year after year, decade after decade. But one little squirt from your bottle of poison there and that’s the end of that”

“But that’s the problem”, I said, now armed with a salient point. “You just scatter to the wind and spread your seed everywhere…there’s no end to where you’ll pop up.”

“Hey, what do you expect…I’m French,” he replied with a wink.

“Alright,” I said. “You make some good points. I was really just coming out here to deal with the clover.”

“Good idea…they never were lucky, anyway. And take care of that Chickweed and Creeping Charlie, while you’re at it. They’re nothing but a bunch of hooligans that give us all a bad name.”

And so I did.

When I returned a few days later, Greg had already transformed into a little, white puff ball of seed.

Gently, I picked him up from his little patch of earth and recalled our conversation.

Then, I proceeded to blow, gently…all over my neighbor’s lawn.

I don’t need any more obnoxious little know it all dandelions on mine….

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