Part two – April in Paris

July 5, 2020 – Part two – April in Paris

This connects back to the April 21, 2020 writing exercise blog.

The prompt for May was:        When he looked at his reflection . . .

April in Paris – Part II

         When he looked at his reflection, ashen grey with a hint of pale blue about his eyes, he grimaced. The long trek had exhausted him. Maybe his doctor was right; he needed to cut back on work and take it easy. Had he been foolishly gallant to trudge up the stairs of the Eiffel tower with the American woman? 

         Splashing cold water on his face and toweling it dry didn’t improve his color, but he pressed on his most disarming smile and straightened his shirt collar and smoothed back his thinning hair.  Was he too old for her, unsure of her age?  She was the first interesting woman he’d met since – well, since his beloved Penelope died.

         Not just interesting, she was intriguing, that sultry Southern accent and those hazel eyes which seemed to pierce his soul at times.

         Tossing aside the towel he addressed his imagine in the mirror, “Take it easy, enjoy life,” he laughed.

         He left the men’s room and waited for her at a place she’d designated for their rendezvous.

         Bursting out of the ladies’ room her eyes found him and she smiled wide as she approached.  Grabbing his arm with both hands she bubbled, “I must admit my knees are still wobbling from the stairs.  It would be lovely to sit for a while, but I bet that restaurant is reservations only.”

         “When it rains, sometimes there are cancellations,” he said hoping the angels would be merciful to them. He steered her to the mait-re-de and made subtle inquires.

         Moments later, they were ushered to a table, not a window table, but seated at an interior table that had a reasonably good view of the skyline of Paris.

         She leaned forward, whispering across the white linen draped table, “That was short of a miracle.”

         After taking in the opulence of the restaurant and the sweeping aerial view of Paris, her smiling hazel eyes captured his for the longest moment, only to be interrupted by the waiter handing them menus.

         He felt a blush coming into his cheeks, admit it you old fool, you are smitten.

This connects back to the April 21, 2020 blog, April in Paris

Southern funeral traditions

July 4, 2020 – Southern funeral traditions

         My next-door neighbor died recently and his funeral was Thursday of this past week.

         Having to verify his wife’s first name for a sympathy card, I jumped on the GIS and checked the tax records. 

         I remember the day his Dad had died in 2000, and I walked across the lawn to his house and Charlie and his brother were there in the kitchen.  Grown men, with tears all around and they were drinking shots.  They even offered me a shot and I politely declined, but I understood their pain, and their trying to dull it with booze. 

         I gave them my condolences, but I never have the right words and expect I never will to ease anyone of the pain of the death of a loved one, and I left.

         My first thought after looking at the tax records and realizing how long ago his Dad had died, only three years after he had built the house and now 17 years later, a second death of the son, the owner.

         All our lives, everything is about life or death and how we handle it as we move up in age.  I know his wife will manage it, she has managed day care centers for years, she is made from strong stuff and she has a huge family to buoy her up.

         But, what struck me more was – WOW, I’ve lived in a neighborhood where the house next door is now on its second deceased owner.  Time marches on, the days and years slip by, as they say, like sand in an hourglass, but that hourglass is really more like a decade-glass.

         Hardly noticeable year in and year out until a death brings you to an abrupt halt to make you sit back and reflect.

         Charlie’s Dad admired the 100 red tulips I had planted on the north side of my house the first year I moved here. He could see them from his windows.  He called out on many occasions to tell me how pretty my flowers were. 

         A few years later, in the middle of the night when the deer came wandering through our subdivision, his car alarm would go off and he using a walker was unable to run out and turn it off.  I’d pull on my robe and slippers and run over at 3:00 a.m. or 4:00 a.m. and get his keys – he’d make it out onto the porch.  I’d turn off his alarm and return his keys.  He was a charming old man.

         As the new owner, Charlie put in a swimming pool and the noise in the summer from his boisterous clan, and pounding loud music often made us retreat from our patio into the house.  While Charlie lived there, lots of traffic zoomed to and from that house over the years.

         Wednesday evening, a car came down the street and hesitated at our driveway, as if to pull in, then slowly moved on.  My husband asked, “Do you know who that is?”

         I immediately said, “Probably someone bringing food to Charlie’s house.”

         “Huh?”

         “You know the gathering with all the family and friends and food, the night before, and then the day of the funeral, like they do here in the south.”

         Earlier that afternoon I had left our subdivision to go grocery shopping and couldn’t help but notice the funeral home sandwich board sign indicating “Thompson’s Funeral Home -Thankyou” at the end of the street.  Ah, yes, Charlie’s funeral is tomorrow I said to myself.

         When I got home I drove down past Charlie’s house to confirm the funeral home had put the “tacky” white fake flower wreath on the front porch to notify those that were not certain which house was the “deceased home”.

         I immediately took down my front door wreath so that I wouldn’t have people coming to my door by mistake, thinking it was the least I could do.

         Later I spoke with my brother Ken and told him about the funeral sign, and taking down my wreath, not sure why it came up in our conversation, but our conversations shift from topic to topic without warning.  My husband calls it “talking in circles”, my Dad used to say that the letters from Mom to me and mine back were “talking in riddles.”

         We got on the topic of the funeral sandwich boards that are placed before the deceased home and then after it to mark for friends and family where they live so that they could visit, along with the tacky white flower spray or wreath on the door or porch.

         “What is that all about?”

         “They do the food thing here, big time. The funeral home thinks they are being helpful pointing out the house to those family and friends that might have forgotten which house it is.”

         Later on during the discussion, I said, “Yeah, makes no sense to me, give the robbers a sign as to which house to break into while the funeral is taking place.”

         We discussed that in great detail. 

        

         “I was told by a southern friend, you have some designated person stay at the house while the funeral is held to safeguard it,” I explained.

         My brother and I shifted topics, and I forgot to tell him that in this area,  basically in the South as a whole, when the funeral procession is taking place with everyone having their car lights on, the oncoming traffic pulls over to the shoulder of the road in respect for the deceased while the entire caravan passes.  That was new to me too, but having been here since 1985, it is now an automatic.

         So, any day, any ordinary day, when there is a funeral in town, and you just happen to be in the oncoming traffic lane and you pull over in respect of someone you don’t even know.  This Southern tradition gives you a moment to reflect on that family’s sadness and on eternity with God, among other things.

        

         In those few moments of respect, you ponder about how you will handle the next death in your family. 

        

         It is a humbling experience, it is a Southern tradition, it is a good thing.

God rest your soul, Charles H. Douglas.

Missouri Primrose – Oenothera Macrocarpa

July 3, 2020 – Missouri Primrose – Oenothera Macrocarpa

         What is a weed?  What is a flower?  Missouri Primrose falls under both categories in my garden. 

         Missouri Primrose is one of those plants that you don’t say, “You never have enough!”  It is an invasive re-seeding monster that you must take in hand and pull out – mercifully – even huge specimens in order to keep some order, but you can’t excavate all of them – or you won’t have any at all in years to come. Then again, it is one of those plants you do say in the early spring, “Oh, good, I’ve some that made it, how many should I keep?”

         They love full sun and they can stand mean soil and I yanked out all but a few this spring in my new front northeast front garden.

         I am glad I wasn’t overzealous about yanking them all, as the ones in the back garden failed to thrive.  This is one of those cases where you can’t put all your eggs in one basket . . . volunteers, be sure you keep a few in different areas of the garden, just in case.

         I noticed them yesterday out of the corner of my eye as I opened the front door in the early a.m. – OH – a flash of bright yellow.  In my pajamas I tipped the door further and leaned out.  Oh, yes, I had saved a few Primrose and they are simply gorgeous.  Yes, I am glad I was not too ruthless. That pop of clean bright yellow.  I will be the envy in the neighborhood!

         Memo to self, don’t rush to clean up the garden, I need the very fine seed of that primrose to sprinkle in a few more sunny places.

         Be sure to save seeds from those perennials or annuals that come easily from seed in order to share with others or to shift your gardens as the natural process of trees begin to shade, or in my current situation, when you cut down trees and now have blazing sun where dappled shade once was.  Those seeds will be a godsend of re-establishing your new gardens in those areas.

         Here in North Carolina, Missouri Primrose – Oenothera Macrocarpa are volunteers, lovely when you want them, and easily eradicated when you don’t want them.  My gardening advice – take advantage of them.

         Also take advantage of going back in time with me to a blog noted below where I discussed the value of other volunteers:

         https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=7025278612896752774&useLegacyBlogger=true#editor/target=post;postID=4557101477046367195;onPublishedMenu=posts;onClosedMenu=posts;postNum=218;src=postname

Haute cuisine

July 2, 2020 - Haute cuisine

         Years ago on our first corporate move, we landed in Kansas City, Kansas imported from New England.

         The land was flat as far as the eye could see, the man-sized steaks hung over the edges of dinner plates and the new, fashionable artichokes were a-plenty in all the restaurants, having finally made their way from the West Coast.

         The Steak and Ale restaurant, a well-known chain at the time, was the hot spot in town and my husband’s boss took us out to dinner and made certain we partook of the new rage, steamed artichokes, recently added to the menu.

         Steaming globes of thistle arrived at the table with a bowl of butter for dipping.  Anything you have to dip in butter to eat is on my good-food list along with lobster, and crabs.  I was instructed to peel the leaf off, dip it in the incredible butter, then drag the fleshy leaf end over my lower front teeth.

         The boss and his wife were experts showing us how to properly eat them.  The first dozen leaves were tough and we progressed circling around the dull green globes, where the fleshy part on the leaves became tastier.  When we got toward the center, again we were instructed that we had to carve out the thistle part, the fuzzy spikey part, cautioned it was inedible. 

         Finally, slicing the delicate flesh of the artichoke heart in to wedges, we dipped them in butter and savored the nirvana.

         It didn’t take long for this corporate wife to find fresh artichokes in the market and after several attempts at cooking them, I found the secret. – SHSSSH - Don’t tell anyone. – When you get them boiling, drop a heavy plate on top of them to weigh them down under the lemon infused water and put the lid on for perfection.

         Several corporate moves later, this time, we were in New Jersey renting a little log cabin at Packanack Lake, which was close enough to invite family to visit.  My brother Ken and his wife came down with the kids, Stef and Jeff.

         In the one-person kitchen, I prepared a feast, mirroring many of the corporate dinner parties I’d given over the last several years.  I kept it simple, steaks on the grill, baked potatoes with sour cream and chives, a tossed salad and steaming artichokes with drawn butter.

         We ate on the patio, having a perfect view of the lake across the street.

         Steamed artichokes were new to Ken and Peg so we showed them how to eat them.  They tried, exchanged funny looks between themselves and eventually we all got down to the artichoke hearts, the fleshy part.

         They weren’t impressed, and Ken finally blurted out, “You actually eat these because you like them, or, because they look, FANCY?”

        

The above was the June writing prompt for our writer's group.  It was my suggestion that we write something funny due to this COVID19 situation.  I hope I made you at least smile, but laugh preferably.

I am shocked, I am shocked – advertisements!

June 22, 2020 – I am shocked, I am shocked – advertisements!

         Now that Garden Gate magazine is over 25 years old, they are taking advertisements.  HMMMMMMMM this is a double edged sword for the consumer reader.  Advertisements are actually useful when they introduce the reader to gardening products.  But, on the other hand, who buys a magazine to read advertisements when you want substance – the meat and potatoes of the topic you want to read about.

         Maybe this is just how it works now in the world – maybe when someone is reading the magazine on line – it is “click bait” advertising and they can X them off.  However, in a magazine, you can’t “un-see” an advertisement, it is right there in front of you, tangible on a glossy page.

         I am a great complaint letter writer and I just zipped off one to the advertising department at Garden Gate to let them know I am a bit miffed and afraid that the 82 pages of substance will suddenly become 20% or more of advertisements.

         I am also curious how they are going to “electronically digitize” their complete magazine collection – on flash drives now.  Include or exclude advertising?

         I watched Horticulture Magazine dwindle into a 60 page vehicle.  Years ago it used to be vibrant with illustrations and information, now it is tepid in most aspects, its only redeeming quality – great photos.

         I can hear some of you saying – it is the new normal, get used to it.  But, I will lament having the printed word reduced to gully location with advertisements filling up two-thirds of each the page.  Yes, I am a dinosaur, I still like the printed page, a newspaper or magazine in my hand to curl up wherever I am. I like to turn down a page to remind me, or to circle a quote, or comment in ink to remind myself to add it to a letter or insert it into conversation, or add to my quote book.

         In fact, today’s quote is:

Social connection is a renewable

 resource that helps address the

 challenges we face as individuals and

 as society.

              - Vivek H. Murthly/Alice Chen

         A friend invited me out to lunch . . . my first toe in the water now that we are in Phase II of the Covid19.  Yes, I am cautious, but we can’t all live at home for the rest of our lives.

         I have managed to slip out to get prescriptions and groceries and necessities since the second week of March. And do an awful lot of on-line buying.  It is time, for me at least, to get out in the world again using precautions before I become a dried, withered leaf which is tossed by the wind.

         And, some of you might wonder where I have been – I’ve been working furiously in the gardens and on finishing up the paved patio and driveway.  I will be back to blogging daily soon.

Book review – “With all Due Respect” – Nikki Haley

May 20, 2020 – Book review – “With all Due Respect” – Nikki Haley

         I ordered this book when Nikki was first interviewed on TV, yet set it aside because of this Covid-19 mess hoping it would go away quickly not realizing it isn’t going to go away any time soon.

         Meanwhile, in the last few weeks I have polished off several paper back mysteries – out of the series sequence - that is always fun. What? Why did the sleuth do or say that?  HMMMM, I’ll have to go back and read a prior book in the series to get a handle on that.

         Then, I decided to do something serious – like dust the library in my formal living room that is now the computer, writing and reading room – my room.  Not exactly a woman cave – more of a writing nook.

         Dust, cat fuzz, clutter . . . needless to say – I rearranged the books and moved a few things around to make things look better.

         I found it strange, yes strange, that after over a year of redecorating this room that I had my stacking sandalwood lined chests in the wrong spot.  I moved them and now the room sings.  And, I will also admit that I have Audubon bird and flower pictures that are framed, but not hung up yet.  Hopefully, I won’t wait another year and a half to do those. 

         So, as I put the Audubon pictures on my to-do list I noticed I had something on my list that has been kicking around just as long – three fresh thresholds from the hall into three rooms that were cut [Thank you brother, Ken, on his last visit]. I had moved them from room to room to room as I have been deep cleaning saying to myself, I’ll get to those soon.

         Finally, this morning I decided to take up the old thresholds and put down the new thresholds and why I put the project off I can’t comprehend.  I poured a cup of coffee and it had to cool a bit before I could drink it so I started the project . . . three thresholds taken up and new ones put down and when I went back to my coffee I was expecting it to be ice cold – it wasn’t – it was the exact hot, drinkable temperature I like. 

         That proves the point – little projects can be itsy bitsy little project – just do them.

         But, as usual I digress, more so than normal as personal contact with the outside world seems so limited now.

         I just read the book “With all due respect” by Nikki Haley – I highly recommend it.  It is well written, clear and concise.  A real eye-opener on how NATO does not work.

         The last chapter – Exiting on my terms: Half of it could be used as “famous” quotes.  Three examples:

“History is easy because facts are real.

What comes next is harder.” - Haley

“And, should life get dicey, I have a couple surefire strategies for coping.  You can say almost anything with both strength and dignity if you start with, “With all due respect.” And a well-timed “Bless your heart” will keep your enemies guessing.” - Haley

“Even on our worst days,

we are blessed to live in America.” - Haley

         I recommend this book to everyone.  It would make a wonderful book to give to a female high school or college graduate to put some fire in her belly to go out and conquer life. Or, a daughter struggling through her career who needs some insight on how to move forward.

         Bravo to Nikki R. Haley on her book – look for it the next time you are out in a bookstore.   With All Due Respect, Defending America with Grit and Grace.

         I can’t wait for that experience again – browsing in a book store!

Goodbye to my prized white birch tree

May 4, 2020 – Goodbye to my prized white birch tree

         Last week we had the huge 40-foot white birch tree professionally taken down that I had planted the first spring we lived here. [That was 22 years ago.] It broke my heart that it had gotten so big and this spring half of it didn’t leaf out with three upper trunks dead out of six or more tall white trunks. 

         My birch, as I lovingly called it was the focal point of my patio garden at the back of the house with its vase-shaped canopy of small soft green leaves that gave me dappled shade for many years.

         Yes, birch trees can be messy with black limbs often shearing off when they get too old or when the winds were brutal, but it always was a picture perfect setting for my red cardinals.

         That is why I planted it; I wanted a living Christmas card out my back kitchen slider where my white birch filled with red cardinals.  Often when friends marveled at my gorgeous red cardinals, I would say, “There are usually seven or more, let’s count them.” I was rewarded in that instant for many years due to my husband putting out quality sunflower seeds faithfully. 

         We built this house and it was an undulating open field and I had to stomp my foot and toss my auburn hair when it came to the contractors who wanted to carve my undulating swales into complete flatness.  I knew their ulterior motive was to scoop up as much top soil as possible and haul it off for their financial gain.

         I adamantly said “No, you can only level what is needed for the foundation and the drive way.  The rest will stay natural.”  I could tell at that moment when the contractor’s smile evaporated from his face it was going to be a tussle – my will over his will.

         Delightfully, I triumphed.  Many times, I have shown my gardens and land to those gardeners interested in the ‘full tour’ and they admire the swales that ripple from East to West across the acreage.

         It is not often a person plants a tree and then has to cut it down because it has gotten too big and too dangerous.  The first two years we had drought – awful drought. [An aside, I was once dropped off at my home by a friend and her teenage son quipped about our front lawn – “Going in for the desert look I see.” 

         Talk about optimism.  I ordered a white birch, ended up with three bare root sticks about 18 inches in length, completely leafless.  I paced off ten feet from the corner of the patio and dug a hole in the red clay, amended it and planted them about three feet apart in a triangle. 

         At first, I merely parked our new red wheel barrow beside it to be certain that my husband didn’t run them down mowing the straggly tuffs of grass that were trying to be a lawn. A few months later, I parked 5-gallon buckets near it to mark its home.

         My husband laughed at my three sticks.  Me, I was filled with optimism; I could picture it in 5 years giving me dappled shade. 

         Those first few years, my husband was a good sport carrying 5-gallon buckets of water to the alee of Bradford pears while I watered the willows and the river birch along the top swale, my white birch at the patio and the maples and the magnolia trees in the yard.  I still think a 5-gallon buck of water is extremely heavy, but as Dad used to say, “It builds character.”

         Well, let’s talk about that character . . . this year, one of our more blustery March winds knocked one of the dead trunks down toward the house and the tip of it bounced off the side of the house. As Murphy’s Law would have it, it fell against the back of the house, kitchen wall, where my prized skylights reside.

         I cleaned up the mess. We had to cut two of the pieces of trunk to get it into the bed of the pickup, and then added all the dead branches.  It knackered two of my aberatives – OUCH – they now look like they have bite marks in their tops from the crashing down birch.  I wonder if they will ever fill out again.

         It takes character to know when a tree has to come down for the safety of your house, not just a couple of limbs, but the whole once beautiful tree.

         We were in the middle of having the roof fixed, new skylights put in, and I immediately called my trusty tree man, Rodney.

         Great fellow, always talks with a warm smile and lilt in his voice.  Never misses a chance to compliment some garden feature and has what looks like red hair, once upon a time.

         “I’ll need the bucket truck for this . . . ,” he was looking at the logistics of it all, letting his voice trail off.  He knew the roofers, they knew him and they talked about other jobs they were both working on.

         Small town friendly, was my thought.

         “You can’t have your men walk all over my beautiful perennials . . .” I lamented.

         “We will be real careful, what else you need done while we are at it?”

         He knew me, he knew we had aging trees and we walked the property and I pointed out the elm overhanging the shed, and the big oak limb down back that we couldn’t lift.

         “I’ll put you on the list and be back.”

         “Try not to do it when the ground is soft from rain . . .” I called to him as he departed.

         The morning I went to the bank to transfer money for the roofer, I returned to my yard where three trucks were.  I came in the front door and my husband said, “Tree guy is here.”

         I immediately walked to the kitchen slider and saw that they had ropes around my beautiful white birch – still beautiful even though it was half-dead.

         I was about to walk out that door and thought better of it – his man was at the base with the chain saw running and I didn’t want to be under limbs if it went awry. The ropes from the upper reaches of the trunk were pulled taunt and the opposite ends tethered to a bobcat, bucket held up in the air on the far side of the lawn.

         I quickly skipped out the front door and just as I was coming around the corner of the house I heard it starting to go, only to witness the final SWOOSH-SWISH of the upper limbs kissing the lawn in my back yard.  All equipment sounds stopped and his men moved into action quietly to get the chipper truck into position in the back yard.

         Rodney came to greet me with a big smile on his face.

         “I was worried about catching your shed, but we done good,” he beamed.

         I was in complete awe at the breadth and length of my beloved downed white birch.

         It was close, but the breath of spring bush wasn’t damaged and two limbs of the Gingko tree limbs bounded back safely once his fellas started cutting my tree it into moveable pieces to feed into a thunderous chipper.

         I wanted to cry, so I fetched my cell phone to take pictures and my sunglasses to hide my tears.