My Sister's Ruler - A Quick Blast From the Past

My hand found it while I was Zoom-ing with the 5th grade gardeners.

Our calendula seeds were to be planted 1/4" to 1/2" deep.  Some of the scholars knew which knuckle on which digit was 1", some had no idea what those kids were talking about.  I was at my desk, in front of Lenore the Lenovo, and I couldn't get up.  My left arm reached over to the top desk drawer and felt around for something useful.

I found my sister's ruler.  

She was probably 10 years old when this wooden marvel came into her possession.  We probably bought it at Smiles, the 5-and-Dime store situated right our town square, when we joined the throngs of First Day of School shoppers.  

Smiles is now a funeral home.

My sister is edging closer to Medicare.

The ruler abides.

5th Grade Gardeners

I spent the first part of the morning with a big smile on my face - Mrs. E's 5th graders had planted their calendula seeds and were eager to share their progress.  

We admired the growth that some had seen and commiserated with those who were still waiting for something to sprout.  The seed packet gives a range of 5 to 15 days for seedlings to emerge; there is still a big window of opportunity.

Calendula seeds look like tiny horseshoes; they're about 1/16th of an inch.  The scholars took them out of the box with a pair of tweezers.  The seeds were supposed to stay under the soil and sprout individually.  

One of the scholars had a seed with a different point of view.  Why is my seed on the outside of this plant? he wondered.

Upon closer examination, Zoom style, it was obvious that this was not a pellet of water retention material nor timed release fertilizer, both of which were in the fancy potting soil I provided.  Nope, this was a seed that had gotten caught up in the accelerated growth of its cousin and had become a part of the unfolding seedling.

Thinking about the sprout catching the other seed on its way to the surface made us smile. Maybe, the scholar surmised, because his plant is on the second floor of his house and therefore closer to the sun, it bloomed more quickly than others' had.  The scholars were pretty close on how many million miles away the sun is, and we spent a moment considering the difference between 93 million miles and one flight of stairs.  It's possible, but only in a very small way was our conclusion.

There are so many science experiments going on. Their new greenhouse was put to use when they planted the left over marigold seeds outside and settled the greenhouse on top.  Will the seeds grown outside in the planting bed differ from those raised inside a bedroom, or on a windowsill, on a coffee table, in the classroom, or in cups set out in the sun in Grandma's Garden?  There are so many data points, so many compare and contrast situations, so much to think about and learn and discover.

It was 50 minutes of intensity, broken up by Emily Dickinson reflecting on grass.  

It was 50 minutes of love, going both ways, with smiles and waves to boot.  It's Virtual Garden Club, and we're making it work.

Goggles and Giggles

There was just a little bit of extra stress in LIttle Cuter's life yesterday.  She called on her drive home, knowing that TBG does not approve of phone use while operating a motor vehicle.  Recognizing this as a sign that we were needed, I listened and he managed to keep his angst below the level of explosion as we absorbed the information, applauded the plan, and agreed that America's response to Covid 19 sucks.

All she wanted was someone to tell her what to do.  Between doctors and clinics and the CDC and the FDA and POTUS there were just too many notions and not many facts floating in the ether.  She's right, the answers shouldn't be this hard to find, especially 7 plus months into this.

Giblet squealed as they turned the corner into his neighborhood, and we left our girl with a rueful smile on her beautiful face.  

I felt the distance between us opening, chasm-like, yawning ever wider.  I wanted to do something.  There was nothing to do.  It's times like these that make us consider relocating to Indiana.

Fifteen minutes later, my phone announced a message.  The Halloween package of goodies to replace our physical presence for the first time in FlapJilly's life had arrived.  There were two Talavera pottery mini-pumpkins, Grandmother and Grandfather Pumpkinski, there to share the joy since Gramma and Grampa were stuck in Arizona.  There was a book and some cooking extras and, for reasons that deserve a post of their own, two pairs of brand new Speedo goggles.

We got to peel off the stickers!

SHE IS THRILLED!

Thank you, Priority Mail and the USPS for bringing me to my daughter's doorstep when I couldn't be there myself.

That face is just what I was after.

BRRRRRRRRRR

My phone greets me with the news that it's 68 degrees outside. I look at my outfit and I start to shiver.  Possibly it's time to retire my sleeveless tank tops.

There was a little red exclamation point sitting beside the temperature notification, just begging me to click it.  I'm delighted even further - there's a freeze warning tonight.

It's a damn good thing we turned off the pool heater.  Today's temperatures look to be heading downward, with an overnight low hovering in the low 40's.  

I need to have a talk with the weather gods..... this is not Indiana, this is Tucson.  We don't do freeze warnings until after Thanksgiving, thank you very much.

I found a smile in the fact that I'd uncovered the shade cloth and other coverings this weekend; my still to be planted rock roses will need comfort and succor for the next few nights.  

Tomorrow's high is 59.

I know that if you are sitting inside watching snowflakes cover your patio, this seems like a very small thing.  But for me, right now, it just says winter is coming.........

VOTE - someone in charge needs to believe in climate change.

Fall in the Desert

We have six wonderful weeks when the temperatures are in the 70's and 80's and the breeze is cool and the sun is shining but not burning through your skin.  I can be outside without a hat shielding my face and my neck.  My long sleeve shirt and gloves (necessary and essential for these spiky garden tasks) are not impossibly hot.  There's no sweat rolling into my eyeballs, requiring glove removal and finding a clean spot on my shirt to wipe the drips.

I turned on Pod Save America and got to work.  The aloe vera along the side wall gave new meaning to overgrown.  The brown, dead leaves crunched off with a gentle tug of my fingers.  

Once they were clear of what was no longer viable, I pruned the burnt tips and the chewed upon outer leaves of the main plants, and began to remove the newbies which grew from the roots.  

The pups spent some time in buckets of water

while I admired my progress

I ended up with 31 pups which I potted in containers which have accumulated over the past 14 years.

They'll go to the classrooms at Prince, where the scholars can nurture the plants and the plants can soothe the pricks and scrapes of childhood.  Garden Club has seeded  knowledge throughout the student body.  They know what to do.

I can't be there in person.  I have to find new ways to stay connected.  

 

The Debate

I watched the first one, where, as one focus group member said, our President acted like a deranged crackhead.  

I flipped my eyes over to TBG watching Joe answer questions on the big screen while I watched Savannah Guthrie scold our President on my phone as I made dinner.  Every giggle from me led to an explanation for my sweetie on the couch.  All the best moments were replayed later for his amusement, but it was fun to share.

And so tonight we have a debate with a mute button and a strong, female moderator.  Our President is in full melt down mode as he's holding superspreader events all over the country. Joe Biden sent his best surrogate to a parking lot in Philadelphia while he holed up for debate prep.

Our President doesn't need to prepare. His aides, looking for post-debacle employment, are heard cautioning him to be measured and stick to the script.  That, of course, would take some preparation, if not a character transplant.  It's unnecessary. He knows where he's going - China and Hunter, with a dash of 33,000 emails on the side.

The Biden campaign has effectively recast Joe's surviving son as a lost soul, wandering in the wilderness, always held in the loving hand of his doting and devoted father.  His daughter, Naomi's, Twitter thread amplified the story, and it's a good one.  

This is how it starts:

Though the whole world knows his name, no one knows who he is. Here's a thread on my dad, Hunter Biden - free of charge to the taxpayers and free of the corrosive influence of power-at-all-costs politics. The truth of a man filled with love, integrity, and human struggles

It's a fine read. It puts our President to shame.... or it would if that word existed for him.

Perhaps, while our President is babbling on, Joe could accept a phone call from one of his grandkids, the calls he never lets go to voice mail.

Do you think that our President knows the names of his grandkids, let alone has them in his phone? 

Virtual Gardening

Mrs. E invited me into her 5th grade's Wednesday Zoom meeting.  I had more than a week to prepare.  I have come to a conclusion:  Teaching is not for the faint of heart.

Grandma got into her coat of many colors, organized her notes and her demonstration items, and then I realized that my computer was on an endless loop of rebooting itself and Grandma was gone and I was in a panic.  With two minutes to spare, I connected via the iPad mini perched atop a box (that was happily out of place) and leaning against my water bottle (I was thirsty but thwarted).

I found the gallery view (with a little bit of encouragement) and then there they were, bigger but still the same.  Their faces filled my heart.  I could feel it expanding in my chest.

But there was no time to dwell on the wonderfulness of it all, because suddenly the introductions and instructions and reminders were over and it was time to talk about xylem and phloem.

They are two of the strangest words to spell and say.  Somebody knew exactly what photosynthesis meant, and what it did, and the role of of sunlight in the factory that made its own food.  And we ate some of that food, as somebody else agreed that syrup is sap and that's food for plants and also food from plants and I stopped before I got caught up in it entirely.

We all took a moment to let it sink in.

Meristematic tissue - growth tissue - was next on the agenda, and then tree rings, and then the whole thing from roots through stem to flower.  I read  them Joyce Kilmer and an ancient Norwegian prose poem on trees.  We went over the instructions for the marigold seed planting project they'll do when their cohorts return to in-person learning on Thursday or Friday.  

Fifty-eight minutes had passed.    

I spent an hour or so finishing the project materials, then drove to pick up the soil and drop it off at school. 

That was 58 minutes of presentation, without worrying about running the call, or managing the questions.  I knew that the teacher would step in if I got stuck, or ran out of things to say.  The topic was one I loved. 

I was exhausted.  I was exhilarated.  I'm still smiling.

Random Thoughts on Aches and Pains

I noticed that my hip doesn't hurt.  

Brother said, halfway through this adventure in perforation, You never get a break, do you?  It's always there.  He was right.  It was always there, until suddenly, it wasn't.

Sure, I can make it hurt, but the dull ache of chronic pain centered in my hip is a thing of the past.

*****

Of course, right now, after Pilates and swimming a quarter mile's worth of laps, my newly discovered adductors are announcing their presence with authority.

As always, so long as the pain sensation keeps moving around, everything's good. 

*****

It's not pain.  It's a sensation.  

A wise physical therapist counseled  me to assess the threat value of the sensation before I decided it was pain and not discomfort related to getting better.  It was very good advice.  

I feel the sensation and I re-adjust my posture so that all my muscles are working together and, while it takes effort to hold myself erect, it's also exactly what I need to do in order to continue to heal.

*****

I remember when the orthopedic surgeon told me that my only job was to heal.  I've added other jobs as I've been able, but I've always deferred to healing over everything else.  

I stop before I do damage.  I rest when I'm injured and I don't repeat the offending movement.  I'm not 30 years old any more; my mind refuses to believe and my body reminds........

*****

And so I can work in the garden for an hour, bending and twisting and carrying and lifting and kneeling and sitting down and getting up.  When I'm done, I'm done, but while I'm working I'm intense.  

My body is not getting in my way as I'm doing the things I love to do.

The assessments always want to quantify how much my injury took from me.  How much of my life have I been able to resume, they wonder..  For many years, I've been stuck at 85%, and felt grateful to have that much.

Lately, though, 90% seems like a more accurate description.

*****

There's still more work to do, but I have a new mantra that makes me smile and gives me hope. 

This is where I go when that last set of whatevers is just too much to consider, 

My 90 year old self will thank me for this.

Voted!

We drove to the public library to vote today.

Not the one around the corner, the one where we've voted in the past, where I've met my friends serving as poll watchers, where I signed my name just below TBG's and walked to the booth with my ballot in hand. I'd smile as I deposited the paper into the slot, nodding thanks to the worker who handed me my
I VOTED IN PIMA COUNTY sticker.

Nope, not that one at all.

Instead, we put on our shoes and drove 5 miles north, turned right onto Naranja..... and TBG came to a quick and unexpected stop.  There was a line.  A car line, moving slowly, steadily down the hill then turning into the driveway and going up the hill, through the parking lot, and around to the front door.  

There were smiles.  There were thumbs up.  There were masks and thank yous and a paper reminder of how and where to track my ballot.  TBG pulled into a space so that I could return my library books (any deposit box in the system is fine) and then we were done.

The line was as long when we left as it was when we arrived.  

And now I've done it all.  I've written postcards.  I've written letters.  I've written an op-ed.  I've donated.  I've attended. I've stickered my car and signed my house.  I won't phone bank (I don't answer those calls myself so I can't inflict them on anyone else).  

I am done.  There's nothing to do now but wait.

I am not good at waiting.

Grandma's Garden - The Disastrophe

FlapJilly created that word, a portmanteau that captures how I felt when I saw the garden on Sunday morning.

I was there in March, and then I was not. I stopped by to collect the tools and take down the hanging baskets, but today I brought gloves and pruning shears and loppers (giant clippers).  I should have brought a saw.

Hint for gardening in a small space - avoid borage.  I spent a lot more time than I wanted bent over the most stubborn, prickly, juicy branches of this weed.  Remember the definition of a weed?  It's a plant in the wrong place that you don't want to transplant anywhere else.  These hardy survivors of the wildflower seed packet my garden helpers sowed before everything ground to a halt have escaped their enclosures and are now weeds.

    

When Kamala asks what I'd have done had I known that a deadly pandemic was approaching, I go straight to Grandma's Garden.  I'd have been sure that the irrigation was flowing to the apple tree (it wasn't). I'd have had the scholars harvest the plants and take them home (they didn't). We'd have turned over the beds and turned off the irrigation and let the soil rest.

My involvement in all of that would have been to direct the physical labor while sitting in the shade on The Big Rock. 

Instead, I worked alone until my hip was no longer able to continue.  When I sat down I saw that things were beginning to look better.  Certainly, The space was neater, more tended, more loved.

The plants which survived are healthy and thriving.  The scallions are pungent.  The aloe vera, 

even the ones dwarfed and smothered by the raging borage, were green and gooey and perfect for soothing my rashy forearms.  (Note to self:  remember to wear long sleeves in the garden to protect tender skin from prickers and allergens and sap.)

And what, you may wonder, is that luscious pile of greenery? 

That is the what I raked, clipped, lopped, pulled, tossed, and otherwise moved from where it shouldn't be to its current location.  

That's as far as it got.  My hip and my hands and my back decided that they were done and I've learned not to argue with them when they get that way.

I'll ask the school's grounds keepers to take it away before animals begin to nest in what is, to the smaller creatures around here, a very enticing habitat.  

As for Grandma?  After a day in my garden everything hurts, but in a good way.  I was outside and I accomplished something tangible.  Physical labor that was once routine, then unimaginable, is now doable.  Every moment was a memory.  It was a really good day.

Our scarecrow's head refused to stay put, but the rest of Tom (or Jerry.... we can never remember) is nestled in his tree, ready to greet the scholars as they return to campus tomorrow.

It's as close as I can get to them right now. 

What To Watch

Did you know where I was going with this just from the title?  

I'm so angry at MSNBC and NBC and whatever other outlets they have.  There are never any consequences for this man; he bails on a debate and get an hour of free air time.  Watching Rachel Maddow and Kamala Harris try not to say aloud what was in their hearts last night was worth watching again this morning on-line.  

But I'm not laughing. 

The airways are the property of the United States.  They are given in exchange for news coverage... theoretically.... back when tv was a novelty and there were but three, lonely, 18-hours-per-day channels.  I don't like to see them abused.

Would I be able to stand Trump for an hour?  

Would I be able to stay awake for Joe for ninety minutes?  

We're looking for a screwball comedy, or maybe a British detective series.  I'll let the Twitter-verse alert me to the highlights.  

I've already made up my mind.

Things I'm Having Trouble Figuring Out

I have a lot of time on my hands these days.  It's giving me a lot of time to think.  Today, I was in a funk, and my thoughts were funky, too.

How can a woman be a Constitutional Originalist when the framers didn't consider her worthy to enjoy the same rights as they gave themselves, chief among them the right to vote?  If there's an answer, I'd love to hear it.  

How can a woman with two black children stand with a man who won't decry white supremacy?  I'm trying to imagine all the hugging and crying she talked about when the central issue is that No, honey, the President really does not care about you or your brother.... not one bit.

How sad and lonely it must be to wake up every morning and see Lindsay Graham's face in the mirror.  I am having a very hard time understanding how a man who loved and was loved by John McCain could have come to this.  

Where have Ivanka and Jared been?  I don't know why I miss her face so much, but I do.  Maybe it's because I could always let off steam with a good scream or two whenever she appeared.

Why is NBC counter-programming against Joe Biden?  How in the world is this in democracy's best interest?  And did anyone else notice that it took Dr. Fauci signing off on Trump's health status before Savannah Guthrie et al agreed to share a stage with him? 

How can Rudy Giuliani believe that anyone would leave three laptops to be repaired and then forget to pick them up?  And where has Rudy been these last few months, anyway?  

Finally, why, when I had a bang up finish for this post last night, did I get distracted and walk away, leaving the idea and the post to float away into the ether?

Sorry this is late, denizens.  As I said, I'm having trouble figuring things out.

Happy Birthday, Daddooooo!

My father has been present lately.  It's somewhat disconcerting, this feeling that he's hovering and judging.... always judging... and loving, always loving even if he didn't quite know how to show it without getting in his own way.

My children loved him.  My grandchildren and he would have made the most marvelous group of creative if somewhat bossy and demanding humans.  

He'd be celebrating his 104th birthday today, which took me a moment to get my head around.  He'd have been so angry at Donald Trump for his attitude, my father who put an American flag on his car during the Viet Nam war just to rile the hippies, who was a contratrian by nature, but who was, at heart, a good man.

I miss him.  

*****

This is the post I was going to schedule on its own.  But I read it and it got me thinking, about him pulling us on sleds across Bethpage Golf Course, of flying kites on the beach and the high school field, of Carvel in our pajamas and pizzas at Vincents, and of how glad he was - always - to see me.

****

It was always very confusing - was his birthday the 12th or the 14th of October?  One of them was Columbus Day and the other was Herb's Day and to this moment I'm still not sure, especially since the bureaucrats moved Chris's Day to the generic second Monday.

He was a confusing person, so this is not surprising.  I never knew if I wanted to hug him or throttle him.

Deaf-as-a-door-nail, hearing aid batteries constantly squealing or dying or resting comfortably in the breast pocket of his plaid wash-and-wear shirt, he monopolized conversations so that he would know what was going on. That works well until your audience hits second grade or so; after that, it becomes a full fledged "Herb Attack."

I know this because I have been guilty of them, myself.

His tales were fascinating.  If the facts weren't really facts, well, they should have been.  He went to City College with Richard Feynman.  He lived down the block from Jonas Salk. He knew every cobblestone, every cornerstone, every brick and street sign in Manhattan.  Serving as tour guide in The Big Apple made him about as happy as anything else I can imagine... and I've been sitting here thinking about it for a while.

Surrounded by his grandchildren-of-a-certain-age, those who were sentient but not yet sarcastic, he could sit for hours, regaling them with stories about the chickens they raised in the backyard on Hessler Avenue; about the boat he and his brothers built one summer... the boat that almost floated; about the time it rained frogs; and about all the times he got into trouble at school, because he just wouldn't stay still.

He probably deserved a diagnosis or medication; born in 1916, he was "just being Herbert." He continued being just himself, sui generis as I called him in the obituary I wrote for the New York Times, until the very end.

He died at home, between the first and second commercial of the 10 o'clock episode of Law and Order on the Saturday night before Thanksgiving.  There's some confusion about the date, since the hospice nurse didn't get there to sign the death certificate until early Sunday morning.  Like his birthday, I need cues to keep the date straight.  Like most things Daddooooo related, this is not now nor has it ever been easy.

The funeral home attendants gave her a moment in the hallway before they wheeled him out the front door.  G'ma leaned over, kissed him, and then admonished him, one last time: "Behave yourself, Herbert!  Don't give them any trouble."  The paramedics were bemused.  My mother looked right back at them.  "If you'd known him, you'd understand."

Happy Birthday, Herb, you strange and singular father of mine.  Happy Birthday to YOU!