Misery Loves Company

Misery loves company. That’s true, but not in the way you might be thinking.

Traditionally I’ve always thought of the statement ‘misery loves company’ as a negative one. It’s something you say about those die hard complaint-niks. You know the people that sit around endlessly complaining about their problems: taxes, crabgrass, hangnails and the like.

I think is more truthful though when we are talking about true misery---about grief and loss—to say that misery not only loves company, it requires it.

Ever since my husband was killed in a car accident in January, I’ve found solace in the company of others who speak grief’s unspoken language. There is peace in just being with people to whom loss is not an abstract theory; they KNOW. They know what it’s like to be “fine” one moment and gutted the next. They know what it’s like to navigate life with a gaping hole in the middle of what used to be your heart; it’s hard to remember to put on pants, feed the dog, or get out of the shower. They know how tiring it is to go out in public, to stay upright, to respond appropriately. Everything hurts. Everything.

It is an amazing, humbling thing to see these people who have lost so much reach out and pull me into their world, to hold me close and show me the ropes. It’s like we are all members of a club that nobody wants to join and yet if it weren’t for my fellow club members the world would be a very bleak place indeed. I don’t have to have known them “Before” to know them well now. Grief is our common denominator and we are finding our way through together. Even though our paths may be very different there is a commonality that binds us, bonds us and brings us at least a measure of comfort.

So yeah, misery loves company. Very much.

Bed Time

It is closing in on that time of year when a gardener's thoughts turn to tucking the garden away for winter...

Or, in my case, when a gardener's thoughts turn to reasonable excuses for not tucking the garden away. As I’ve said I HATE not having a reasonable excuse ready and, instead, have to rely on outright avoidance.

I firmly believe that leaving a few sharp stalks of last summer's phlox will discourage the elk from attempting to eat the tender new growth this spring. That’s what I tell myself anyway, when I look out on gray November days at the scraggly mess adorning the landscape.

This year the scraggly mess was on track to be epic as all outside activates in the garden came to a halt when the hot water tank demanded my total attention. Fortunately for me the elk did not waver in their dedication to keeping things trimmed back. I did take note, however, that even in their enthusiasm to leave no flower behind they did not eat the phlox stalks. Phlox flowers and leaves yes, but the stalks are still standing.

Perfect. I can now claim my neglected garden is not neglected at all but merely a result of scientific inquiry, part of the scientific method; my garden is clearly the control group in my study of Phlox Stalks as Winter Elk Deterrent. Add a few more multisyllabic words to that title and I’m pretty sure I could find some grant money to aid in my research.

I may be on to something here...

Zen and the Art of Home Repair

I have spent the last seven weeks dealing with the sudden and dramatic demise of an aged water heater and the resulting deluge. Said deluge that necessitated the tearing out and removal of all of the flooring; and the packing away into approximately 3,847 boxes –give or take the odd dozen boxes---of “stuff” and “things”.

My life, clearly, was in upheaval.

Oddly though, it wasn’t as upsetting as you might imagine. For one thing, it was just “stuff” and “things.” And none of the things that were damaged where of the irreplaceable, precious variety. I lost no pictures or keepsakes or any of the things that are dear beyond price. Everything that was damaged was just a “thing.” Shane would have told me, “You can always buy more ‘things’. You were probably in search of a ‘thing’ when you bought that one, so buy another. They make more ‘things’ every day.” Wise words, and true.

And as for the upheaval—it felt like my “outsides” finally matched my “insides.” It felt as though my house was just reflecting everything my heart had been experiencing over these last nine months. It felt kind of “normal” actually.

And now I find myself in a rebuilding phase, literally and metaphorically. The old, the known, and the comfortable have been stripped away and it is up to me to recreate my home, to refurnish my life, to decorate my soul. It is both terrifying and exhilarating.  

Because Life? It goes on.  

                     

It goes on.

StrawBaleFinale

The results of the Great Straw Bale Experiment 2015 are in:

Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a harvest!

I grew green beans, tomatoes, cukes, pumpkins---and I can say pumpkins, plural, because I got two—carrots, some onions and potatoes. The onions and potatoes I had totally forgotten I planted until just this moment so I honestly can’t say how they flourished. I shall have to dig into my bales and see.

The literature claims you don’t have to ever weed your straw bale but that was not true in my case. I don’t know if the wind blew the seeds in or if bomb dropping birds are to blame ,but I did have random weeds sprout up in my bales. Still, it wasn’t hard to pluck them. After all, you don’t have to bend over that far to get them.

When the elk ninja-ed my garden earlier in the summer, their tugging and pulling on my veggies caused some of the bales to slump over a little, but not bad enough to affect the veggies growth. (Stupid elk.)

The very best thing about my straw bale garden was having all that zucchini to menace my friends with. Did I say menace? I meant SHARE. I loved being the one to drop zucchini off on somebody’s porch...it was AWESOME!

Would I do it again? I think so! It was easy, fun and we did manage to wrangle a harvest away from the elk. Next time I want to plant more marigolds along the sides of the bales, I really liked the way it looked. And I think I might wrap a hot electric wire along the perimeter to keep the beasties at bay...

Masters of Disaster

PSA Home Edition Part 2

So here’s the situation: it’s 5:20 a.m. on a Monday and your hot water tank has given up the ghost in a spectacular manner all over your house. You are standing in two inches of cold water. Who you gonna call?

I called my insurance company and while I waited for their call back I texted a friend who is both and early riser and good in emergencies. Within five minutes she had texted me back saying she was on her way with a jumbo sized, water-sucking shop vac. So for the next two hours she and my son hauled most of the furniture out of the house and began the task of sucking untold gallons of water from the floors—did I mention she is good at both the friend thing and the emergency thing? I spent my time on the phone answering questions and finding out that the insurance company and the company they hired to “clean and restore” my home would both be at my home by 10:30. (Yay!) The cavalry was on its way . . . or so I thought.

My insurance company was wonderful throughout the entire process, but the restoration company was a disaster. “The Masters of Disaster” as I came to call them, seemed more interested in playing basketball on my court and adjusting the hoop height than they were about pulling out my appliances and drying the floors and walls behind them. I asked repeatedly that they pull out the dishwasher and check for water damage. They assured me that they had checked and it was fine. They assured me that they had removed the flooring underneath the appliances, but on Saturday when my family and I were repainting the house my son pulled out the dishwasher—low and behold there was water, unremoved flooring and what appeared to be mold on the wall behind the dishwasher. Lovely.

So here’s your PSA for this week: have friends that are good with emergencies, sons that are strong –or furniture that is light. And never hire a company that uses all your good towels to clean up a secondary flood they caused mid-week in your mostly dry house, pees in your toilet for a week without flushing it, and not only doesn’t do the job they were hired to do, but lies about it. And if you do hire them, I recommend never leaving them unsupervised.

PSA Home Edition

Attention all those who bathe on a semi regular basis: Walk, do not run to your hot water tank. Stare it sternly in the eye whilst calculating the approximate age of said water tank – eye contact is important. Hot water tanks can sense weakness and will respond in kind. You should not glare at it too fiercely though, as hot water tanks frighten easily and will then pee all over your floor.

If said hot water tank is over eight years old you must immediately turn off the water to your tank, flip the power breaker to the off position and go buy a new hot water tank. No ifs ands or buts. Do it.

Alas, no one shared this tip with me. My hot water tank was 23 years old and while I knew that it was a real possibility that someday I would turn on the faucet marked “hot” and only cold water would issue forth, I never expected it would burst its seams in the middle of the night, immediately dumping 50 gallons of hot water on my floors, followed by untold gallons of water that continued to pour forth. All. Night. Long.

When I awoke at five in the morning I stepped in something cold and wet and cursed my old dog. But the next step I took convinced me that even Buddy’s supersized bladder was not to blame. I waded out into the hall, blinking in confusion –it was 5 A.M. after all—hearing water running but not knowing what the heck was happening. Broken pipes? But it’s not freezing outside. Cat shenanigans in the sink? But there is an overflow drain.

Thankfully at that moment my son Devin woke up, tracked down the source of the water problem and shut off the cold water valve. Then we stood in ankle deep water and squinted at each other—I did say that it was five o’clock, right?

Next week: The saga continues...