Oh, Christmas Tree 2020 Edition: Never Mind, I’ll Do It Myself

It’s 3 o’clock on a Sunday afternoon in early December. My Christmas tree has been up and fully illuminated for over 24 hours. I’m still in my pajamas, completely covered in glitter, and my Christmas tree is mostly naked. 

I can explain.

Actually, it would probably be better if I just summed it up. My Famous Designer Friend from NYC was here and ruined Christmas with his tasteful editions to my usual decor. He gifted me with a beautiful table arrangement of woodland greens, dried corn leaves “locally sourced” from my garden, cones, beautiful fairy lights encased in muted gold mesh globes, and just a hint of glitzy, glamourous-glittery gold spirals to kick it up a notch.

Homespun meets glitz

Unfortunately, kicking it up a notch resulted in knocking it out of the park; making everything else around it seem drab and overwrought by comparison. Try as I might to convince him to make my tree match my table décor, he wouldn’t fall for it. Even my subtle hints about “spilling the beans” on his Great Gramma Goode fell on deaf ears.

Not what I had in mind...

After he left on Sunday morning, I decided that I was perfectly capable of glamming up my own dang Christmas, thank you very much. I’d just do it my own, little-red-hen, self.

Step one: change out the 36 bows I usually use on my tree to 36 new ones. The new ones would add just the right touch of glitz—white ribbon with a micro glitter red and silver candy cane stripe—complete with a sprinkle of oversized glitter to really kick it up a notch. Lovely!

Q: How long can it take to cut and tie 36 bows? A: No matter how long you guessed, double it. Then factor in my—having yanked the bows good and tight in my efforts to even them up—forgetting to insert the wire needed to attach them to the tree. And I don’t have any Christmas ornament hangers. And the hardware stores are now closed.

Using a toothpick to loosen up the knots enough to slide in some tomato wire--we McGyvers use what we have--took much longer than expected.

Suffice it to say, that as of this writing, my tree has 1,660 white lights; 36 handcrafted bows, eight tiny reindeer, one large reindeer and not much else.

Can we call this done? I believe so.

Glamour is hard. “Homespun” really is more my speed, after all. Or maybe it’s not too late to go “Minimalist” after all... 

Oh, Christmas Tree, 2020 Edition

 In Christmas Past, I have long been an advocate of The Perfect Christmas Tree; get a tree, string a MINIMUM of 200 lights per foot—visible from space is the goal. Then garnish in the style of your choosing. With enough lumens illuminating your tree, any lapses in judgement/taste or imperfections of execution will be impossible to see without sunglasses.

Some people do themed trees, and I like to think I do as well. My preferred style has been called “homespun”—I’m not sure it was meant as a compliment—and my theme every year is “Christmas thru the Years.”  Which basically means that every year I just load on all the “stuff” from every year pervious, plus all the new “stuff” I bought the current year. It’s a work in progress. Some years my tree falls over.

This year, my Famous Designer Friend from NYC, who shall remain nameless (Hi Philip!) was “Out Town” doing a Christmas Design for a customer in Gig Harbor. Of course I invited him to visit me-- he’s my FRIEND—we go way back. It was purely a coincidence that my Christmas tree was delivered just a head of his visit.

When Phil—when my Famous Designer Friend from NYC--you might remember him from the three Sume weddings, where he had a starring role as The Only Floral Designer our family would ever even think about using UTILIZING-- he immediately set to work crafting beautiful wreaths, swags and garlands for friends and clients, using woodland materials that were “locally sourced.” And by “locally sourced,” I of course mean I turned him loose in my back yard with a pair of clippers and a bag for moss. I even unplugged the electric fence for him.

Being generous to a fault, my FDFFNYC made me the most beautiful centerpiece for my holiday table while he was working on his planned creations. Then he also whipped up two lovely woodland toppers, complete with beautiful bows, for my two lanterns! My house was beginning to look a lot like Christmas!

Nature--with a touch of glitz,

I suggested to FDFFNYC that he might as well glam up my Christmas tree with his special brand of magic while I took a break in the hot tub—watching the creative process was exhausting. Imagine my dismay when I came back to find my Christmas tree looking like this:

Philip Ruins Christmas

 

I guess there’s just no accounting for taste....

 

Next week: Sue does it herself.

Survive Grief Again

 In November, Mom passed away at the age of 90 and I’ve been thinking a lot about grief, again. I didn’t get to say goodbye to her, except in my heart. 

It has now been five years since my husband went out to get gas for his truck. I never saw him again. I had casually said goodbye, and it ended up being so.

In the days and weeks and months---and now years---that followed, I was given a crash course in grief.  I was also given a front row seat to seeing love in action. Loving people willingly walked into the darkness with me and held my hand. I learned much during that time and in the years since. 

I don’t think Americans are comfortable with the thought of grief; we don’t want to look at it, we don’t know how to deal with it. And, to be more honest, I don’t think we realize that you don’t “deal” with grief at all---you just experience it. Grief is not really “manageable” ---it just IS.

I can hear you saying “Gee Sue, thanks for the tip! Survive grief by NOT managing it. Awesome. Very helpful.” I know it seems counter intuitive, we want to DO something, FIX it, stop it, control it. Make the pain and the soul numbing sadness GO AWAY.

But you can’t. And it won’t. Eventually, the pain either lessens, or we become more accustomed to it but I don’t know that it ever STOPS.  At five years in I’m still learning as I go. 

Hydrate. Cry. Repeat.

 

But I DO know how to survive the First Worsts, the first awful year following a loss. The best advice I can give you is to go ahead and GRIEVE. Let it in. Weep. Mourn. Find comfort in Ritual, even if you need to invent one for yourself. Don’t shut off your feelings and don’t let others---as well-meaning as they might be—try to shut your grief down. 

Grieving takes time. Lots of it. Everyone is different, don’t let anyone tell you that you need to “move on.” That’s probably just their blissful ignorance talking---they don’t know the hard truth that you know. You are moving through grief, tears and pain and sadness are a part of that process. Stay hydrated. Seriously—when all else fails, go drink a glass of water. It’s one tiny thing you can DO to make things better. And if it’s not “better”? Well, at least it didn’t make things worse. Some days, that itself is a victory.

A New Gathering Season

 The mornings start off crisp. Frost delineates and magnifies all of nature’s rich detail. The last of the leaves still illuminate individual trees and they blaze when struck by sunlight; a torch raised against the coming of winter, lighting our way.

‘Tis the Gathering Season. We gather the last of the harvest, celebrate the season past and look inward towards the pleasures of the Great Indoors.  We usually gather our friends and family, crowd around a table, snuggle on a sofa. We break bread, we share a toast, and cheer our favorite teams. This Year, we do these things at a distance. We Zoom, we FaceTime, we Socially Distance.

This is still the Season of Gratitude. We count our blessings, inventory our gifts: love, time, health---and whatever the current state of these gifts--- we appreciate what was, what is and what is yet to be. 

Perhaps it is no accident that as the days shorten - we turn our gaze inward, counting our blessings. Instead of cursing the coming dark, we light candles. Candle after candle, blessing after blessing. Once you start counting, more gifts reveal themselves.

There is no shortage of Darkness, maybe even more this year. The Darkness seems closer at hand. But it is not the darkness that draws our eye but the light that stands in opposition. Count your blessings, the song says, name them one by one. Gather your blessings, reclaiming light from darkness. Hold those you love close, in your heart, be they family or friends or furry ones. Remember those you have lost, weep if you need to. Find a way to honor their memory that brings you peace.  

 Breathe in, breathe out. Your body, whatever shape it is in, has brought you to this moment. Give thanks for the body, beautiful in the miracle of its complexities.

Take a moment. Find some quiet in this season to list your blessings. Once you start, the length of your list may surprise you. 

Happy Gathering. 

The cousin bubble: John & Aiden

Even if Socially Distant.

My Problem is I Think I'm Funny

I’m the funniest person I know. Seriously.

I always laugh at my own jokes, no matter how poorly I tell them. Perhaps it’s more accurate to say I always laugh at my own punchlines—because I’ve often forgotten the joke’s set-up and only recall the payoff. Still funny though, even if you had to be there. In my head.

Someone once said, “Blessed are those that can laugh at themselves, for they shall never cease to be amused.” Of course, I don’t remember who said it because remembering the author is more “set-up” than “pay-off”, so there you have it--proof of my earlier assertion. Feel free to know trust me about the Funniest Person thing, too.

Being a Funny Person isn’t without its drawbacks. Occasionally, other people don’t find me as knee-slapping hilarious as I actually am. While I prefer not to have to explain my jokes—or my thinking-- I’m willing to do so if the need arises.

Take, for example, this anecdote: I’m driving home after a successful shopping venture to buy my oldest grandson a Big Boy Bed. We have achieved the bed—now his parents get to convince him that this truly is an upgrade and not part of a clever ploy on the part of his Soon to Make an Appearance Baby Brother to usurp his rightful place in the crib. Since this battle will not affect my sleep quality, I am in a Very Good Mood.

I decide that stopping by a coffee stand and treating myself to a Venti* hot chocolate would be a very celebratory thing to do. (*Venti—from the Latin, meaning “next to biggest size beverage you can buy, it’s a LOT, but since it’s not the BIGGEST, you can still feel as though you are exercising some self-control.”)

I tell the barista that I would like a “Cheery Hot Chocolate,” because, hey, I’m feeling super “cheery” today.

“Cheery?” she asks.

“Cheery!” I say. 

At this point in our exchange, I probably should have added more information, that by “cheery” I meant festive, seasonal, and possibly including sprinkles in my vision of a “cheery,” celebratory hot chocolate. I say none of these things, instead I make another joke, something about “does anybody ever really say no to whip cream?”

To make a long story only slightly shorter, suffice it to say I drove way, sipping a venti hot chocolate that had the weirdest flavor I couldn’t quite place. 

It was, I believe, cherry. Without whipped cream.

I laughed.

So very cherry...I mean CHEERY

I guess you had to be there.

Thoughts Then, Thoughts Now

 

Compiled from excerpts of past Garden Gate columns, by my friend and co-worker, Haze, during the week I was in no shape to write. Thanks Haze!

Life, like any garden, has seasons.

I often speak of the Circle of Life, of season’s coming and going, of the natural order of things. It seems to me, however, that there are parts of the whole Circle of Life thing that I’d really rather just not think about, except in distant theory.

That is until the theory becomes cruel fact and I must spend time thinking about the reality of Life’s circle. this week, My mom passed away...And I am suddenly a motherless child, in a cold world, weeping on the floor, wondering who will take care of me now?

When the unthinkable happens--- when I am changed in that horrible moment from who I was into who I now must be, when by circumstance I am remade into someone new-- I am full of broken places and sharp edges and I am made suddenly immune to heat or cold, or hunger or sleep. And yet in that awful place of finality, in that place of no second chances, no do-overs, no one more I love you, no last goodbye ---in that dark place there is still a light. 

I know that grief is not simple—that it is not only ONE BIG THING that overwhelms, I know that it will be a million little things that will crack us wide open all over again, time after time. I know that we have a long journey ahead and there is probably a lot left to learn about this process. But in the dark, there is light, and I can see it.

We push back against the darkness with light—Christmas lights, candle lights-- the light shared with those we love; the light commemorating those we have lost.

“...Reach so far in your sharing that you hold the sun in one hand, the stars in the other, and no one between is hungry...” (“In Dark December,” by Ralph Murre)

The simple beauty of those words, the truth and hope in them, are a candle all their own, a reminder to “Be kinder than necessary, because everyone you meet is fighting some kind of battle”-JM Barry.

If I am sad at times, then I will be happy in between those times. Even on this journey of grief, of missing someone so dear to me, I will count my blessings and I will call them happiness. I will stitch together happiness out of little pieces of delightful memories until it becomes a whole cloth and I will wear it.

I am starting my happiness collection today. I will number my blessings as the stars are numbered. There are so many signs of kindness from so many people, so much concern and care. The spirit, the traditions, and the memories will live, even though the physical being no longer does.  There is love, all around me….It goes on.

Oh, My Mom...

~ Remembering Nova ~

Nova Elaine Leathers Mullins
April 29, 1930 - November 7, 2020

Nova was born amid the Great Depression, the youngest child of Iola Elenore (Jenkins) and John Carrol Leathers. She transitioned 90 years later during a world-wide pandemic. The thing that matters most about her was not the tale at the end, or even the story of her beginning—but how she lived her “dash.” 

Nova’s zest, her love for life, for learning and teaching, her absolutely unquenchable spirit—these are the things that make us smile when we remember her. The youngest of six Leathers children--brothers Ed Carroll, Robert, Neel, Shirl and her sister, Elizabeth “Sue” (Davis).

Nova spent her childhood in Bird City, Kansas, riding her bike to deliver the newspaper. She often had to pedal faster to keep her dog Sailor from scrapping with the other town dogs. When it was time to do chores, one would have to go find her, because she would be tucked away in some cozy nook quietly lost in a book. 

Nova was a born teacher. She taught in both Kansas and later in Washington. She was drawn to the Randle area because, while she appreciated the beauty of the Kansas prairie, she wanted to live between the mountains and the ocean. One of her second-grade students suggested that Miss Leathers should really meet her “Uncle Woody”, and eventually, Nova and Willis Mullins were married in February of 1960. They had two daughters, Sue Ann (Sume) and Wilma Jean (Smale). 

When Wilma started kindergarten, Nova returned to full-time teaching at the Packwood Elementary School. She taught fifth grade for many years and remains famous for her insistence that her students master their ‘times’ tables. It wasn’t unusual for student after student, class after class, to be able to successfully complete 100 multiplication problems in under a minute. She also taught second and third grade; Nova loved the opportunity to teach her young students the joys of reading. “Seven-year old’s”, she would often say, “are magical.” 

Besides her love for teaching, Nova’s faith was one of her defining attributes. Her faith was deep--- personal, immediate, and abiding. Every Sunday she would fill her car with kids—often making multiple trips insuring that everyone who needed a ride to Sunday School got one. While Nova would never be known for her ability to carry a tune, you would never question her enthusiasm for worship. She rejoiced in the Lord, in all His works, and was certainly a member of the “Make a Joyful Noise” choir if there ever was one.

After she retired from teaching, Nova became a passionate gardener, declaring a full-on war on dandelions. Woe be to the yellow weed that dared to show its face in her yard! During retirement she logged many miles walking her dogs, volunteering for the Soup & Bread Brigade, attending exercise classes, donating to her favorite charities, and feeding the birds.

Nova was consistent at successfully spoiling her grandchildren, Jordan, Devin and Cameron Sume. She cheered at every single one of their sporting events. Nova also has three great-grands: John Shane, age two; Aiden Allen, nine months; and coming in February, yet another boy! 

Even as Alzheimer’s began to steal her from us, she never lost her love of family, her passion for song, her flirty nature, and her desire to do things “Right.” Nova flourished under the loving care she received and spent her final weeks recovering from hip surgery at the home of her daughter Wilma in Yakima, Washington. 

We will miss Nova greatly, but we rejoice with glad hearts that she is no longer tethered to an earthly body with its many frailties. We know Heaven is much the better to have her in it. 

“Well done, thy good and faithful servant!”

 

NOvember

When my kids were in Preschool, Marilyn—the Best Pre-School Teacher Ever—taught them about each month with a clever little ditty. For November, it was “No flowers. No leaves. November.”   

I’m also old enough to remember that, back in the day, when we were offered something mood-altering we were supposed to JUST SAY NO. Now that November has arrived with all its moody, gray skies and volatile temperature changes, I seriously considering putting that advice to work.  

NO, I will say to November, no thanks. Take your waning daylight and your bare branches and skedaddle.  I’m not interested.  

No flowers? No leaves? No thanks! Let’s just skip right over the month of November—perhaps with a small pause on the final Thursday for some family, football and food, if we must—and then get right into the Season of Light.  

Let’s string lights, and light candles, and toss some glitter around—anything that will brighten the shorter days and shorten the long, long nights. 

I don’t care if you’re not into carols or candy canes, I don’t know anybody who doesn’t appreciate Christmas lights—provided you’re not asking them to actually string the lights from the eves and trees and assorted shrubberies, that is.  

So let me offer you this free piece of advice: if the darker days are dragging you down, don’t be bound by the calendar and conventional wisdom; go hang your Christmas lights up now. And by hang them up, I of course mean try to get somebody else to do it for you.   

And if they agree, please send me their name and I’ll go dig my lights out of storage and await their arrival.  

So November? I say just say NO and let it GLOW.

VOTE

 

Fried Green Tomatoes Part Two

 

There is a piece of well-known Life Advice that opines “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade,” and this is adequate advice-- as advice goes. I must confess, however, that I much prefer the sentiment “When life gives you lemons, find somebody whose life has given them vodka, and have a party.”

Life, it seems, had given me a lot of green tomatoes and I was at a loss for what to do with them. To my knowledge, nobody has ever heard of green Bloody Mary’s, so adding vodka to my problem wouldn’t seem efficacious.

 

I do remember in one of the Little House on the Prairie books, Ma Ingalls’ life had given her a lot of green tomatoes. If I remember correctly, it was locust, not elk that had left her in that predicament. Or maybe it was a plague of blackbirds. Whatever the reason, being a hearty pioneer woman, she rose to the occasion and turned her green tomatoes into an ersatz apple pie, impressing Pa and securing her place as the original Pioneer Woman to offer recipes.

I suppose I could turn my green tomatoes into “pie” but I don’t really want that much pie, apple or otherwise. Then I remembered the movie “Fried Green Tomatoes.” What could be better than frying a vegetable? Balance out all those vitamins and fiber and whatnot health benefits with some cholesterol and fat. And salt—salt makes everything taste better. Off to google “fried green tomatoes” and find a recipe. Tawanda!

In the interest of fact-checking myself, I first decided to google “green bloody Mary.” Alas, Gentle Reader, it turns out I was mistaken. Someone has heard of green bloody Marys ---oh wait. False alarm. The recipe calls for tomatillos and RIPE yellow tomatoes, and while the concoction is green in color, the tomatoes used to make it, aren’t.

When life gives you green tomatoes, it better have also given you a deep fryer.

Fried Green Tomatoes Part 1

 I planted way too many tomato plants this year. And because I planted way too many, they all preformed admirable. I was looking at a harvest of epic proportions—I could make salsa, and sauce, and paste, and juice, and—well what all can you make from tomatoes? 

 I was almost at the stage of scouring the internet for tomato recipes when the universe decided to have a little fun at my expense. While I was away for my son’s wedding, elk breached my electric fence and partied in and amongst my plants. (Full disclosure: I had unplugged my fence because I was afraid a wind-blown limb might short out my fence and start a fire. Remember fire? When it was so hot and dry we were afraid to shuffle our feet on a shag carpet, lest we spark a blaze that could take out Smokey’s mother? With the absolute deluge we’ve had the past few days it seems far fetched that I unplugged my fence out of safety concerns and not out of my usual “Oh crap. I forgot to plug it back in” forgetfulness, but I swear, this is the case. Safety first.)

Elk being what they are—in this instance, big and insatiable— ate my tomatoes, plants and all. All they left were some green tomatoes, and a couple of red ones with big, old bites out of them. Stupid dang elk.

I had hoped we might get enough of a lingering summer to ripen all the green ones that were left, but such has not been the case. And considering the fire danger we were facing, it’s probably just as well. So just ahead of the downpour I picked all my nearly ripe tomatoes and placed them on newspaper in a cool, dark to ripen. That still left a lot of very green tomatoes—what to do, what to do?

Next week: You’ll never guess...or maybe you will, who knows!

October Magic

In a contest between the most beautiful months of the year, I’d say it comes down to a tie between May and October. Here in the beautiful Pacific Northwest, May is the month of blooms. Maybe it’s not actually a state law, but it seems that everyone and their credit union has a rhododendron. Or an azalea. Or, both--because more blooms, “most better.” Mother Nature is at her greenest, leafy best. The hills are purple, blue and green—the clouds dramatic, the sunbreaks glorious. May is clearly the Most Beautiful Month.

The Season of the Great Pumpkin

Then October rolls around and makes me rethink my belief system. The daylight is waning, but the days are still warm. The nights are a crisp counterpoint, and who could argue with the magnificence of a harvest moon? The leaves catch fire and their colors blaze out the close of summer, the scent of them intoxicating. Every sunny day seems like a bonus, deserving of celebration. 

 

October is the season of Pumpkin Spice Everything—and I’m ok with that. Since my strawbale garden pumpkins took over my back yard, I’ve been looking forward to the day I could go kill harvest them with out fear of retribution. October seems a reasonable time to do that; pumpkin spice bread with cranberries a worthy end.

The end of the tomatoes

Since we have yet to experience a killing frost, my zucchini is still putting out fruit, but not—thank God—as prolifically. My tomatoes haven’t really recovered from the elk attack, but that’s ok—I had planted WAY too many of them and they were producing WAY too well. I am sorry that they ate the little sweet orange tomatoes plant—that one was amazing as bruschetta topping, and I feel the opposite of forgiveness when I recall it. Stupid elk.

Bruschetta goodness.

It’s still too early in the fall season to plant my bulbs, the ground hasn’t sufficiently cooled and I don’t want them to try to grow above ground before next spring. That means I’m free to ignore other garden chores until I can do them all at once. I’m all about efficiency. 

Or avoidance.

Whatever.

 

Because Happiness Is the Truth: Pony Edition

 I know what you’re thinking: with all that’s going on these days, she’s going to complain about Weather Whiplash again. And you are --kinda, sorta-- right. While also being wrong. Welcome to 2020.

There is a lot going on, and the weather has not been the least of it. We’ve had drought and smoke. We’ve had fires “next door.” Then the rains came—and like all good Pacific Northwesterners, we greeted its return.

 Three days later, it was hard to believe that imminent conflagration had ever been a concern. Also, could it stop already; and who forgot to turn the winds down to low, because I’m getting really tired of retrieving my canopied porch swing out of the daylilies. 

Now my phone’s weather app is insisting that the weather is going back to sunshine for the foreseeable future. I’m planning on a glorious autumn, while simultaneously trying to figure out how to effectively bargain with Mother Nature to keep snow out of my driveway this winter. Because el Nino/la Nina—whichever one it is that dumps snow in my driveway--has been forecasted to close out 2020. Based on my previous experiences with 2020, I tend to believe this will not be a lot of fun.

Still—even in the midst of all that I could—and often DO—complain about? 2020 has seen some incredible blessings. Not the least of which is the birth of my Grand Aiden, and the marriage of Cam to his beloved Beth. I’ve developed closer bonds with my neighbors; my pumpkin vines didn’t actually impede traffic. I’ve appreciated the small, daily blessings that often go unnoticed—Look! An actual LETTER! In the MAIL! I’ve witnessed random acts of kindness, made new friends. (I know! During a pandemic! But it’s true.)

My wish for all of us, as we head into the last flurry and fury of 2020, is that we are like that optimistic little boy who, when confronted with a room full of horse dung, gleefully said “Thank you, Universe! There must be a pony in here someplace!”

Here’s hoping you find your pony. 

]

A Toast to Love

The wedding was—as most weddings are—magical. Big or small, in pandemic or in prosperity, it is the love that matters; not the location, or the guest list or—sorry Philip—even the beauty of the flowers. It is the love that shines thru and illuminates the day, that is both the beginning, and the end, of everything. Love is both magic and miracle.

And so it was that the tasks were accomplished, the flowers were arranged, the guests arrived. Pictures were taken, vows were exchanged, happy tears shed. We feasted, we toasted, we danced.

Florals by Philip

This wedding completes the Sume Family Trifecta. All three boys are now married to their Beloveds. All three have chosen amazing young women, all three have joined families that are warm and welcoming. I often say that it was not my place to choose their brides—but if it was? I couldn’t have done any better. As the mother of only sons, I have long waited for this last shot to have daughters. I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself for having such great women in my life; all without having had the expense of prom dresses and the trauma of my inability to create “princess hair.” Genius move, on my part.

I have a small suspicion that my boys might have made a friendly wager to see who could get me to shed the most tears during the festivities. Was the winner Cameron, when during each rehearsal walk down a long hillside to the wedding arbor, told me of all the things he adores about his Bride? He told me how long he had waited for this day, how happy he was that it had finally come, and how he looked forward to their future together.

Or was it Jordan, who recited a private toast in my ear? Recalling family moments and jokes, perfectly balancing laughter and tears, toasting my past and future role as “Mom.”

Maybe it was Devin, who undertook his best man duties with such serious joy, making sure that all went well for his twin. Devin who supported his wife Staci’s role of both bridesmaid, wedding coordinator, and mom of Baby Aiden. My heart rejoices to see such partnerships, and some of that can’t help but leak out my eyes.

As for myself—I did not make a toast at the wedding, but I offer one now. It is my favorite, all-purpose Sume Toast and I share it with you. “Here’s to the Love that began us, here’s to the Love between us, and here’s to the Love that multiplies us. Here’s to Love!”

Here's to Love!

Beth and Cameron

 

PRE Post-Apocalypse

I’ve always been a reader; books have long been my drug of choice. I enjoy a good dystopian, post-apocalyptic tale-- probably more than most. Lately, though—I’ve come to reconsider my preferences.

 We seeming to be living in that awkward period right before the apocalypse kicks in; a period I hadn’t ever considered before. The entire west coast seems to be on fire and what isn’t, seems to be poised on the brink of immolation. Add to that mix the crazy winds that gust, and swirl, and switch direction. It’s so bad I’ve begun to even question my apparel choice: This outfit isn’t too reflective, or frictional is it? I would hate to cause the spark that sets my neighborhood ablaze. 

 I was away from home most of last week, and in my absence I decided the only responsible thing to do was to disconnect my fence. I was worried that the wind might drop a branch across my electric wires and spark a conflagration worthy of Mrs. O’Leary’s cow. A little fame is nice, but I don’t want to be cow famous. Besides, elk have really left my fence alone. They’ve probably forgotten all about my flowers. I’m sure it will be fine. Probably fine? Hopefully fine? Responsibly fine, anyway. 

  Narrator: you can stop reading if you’ve already guessed how this tale ends, but here we go: It was not fine.

     Sometime on Saturday, a couple of greedy little juvenile delinquents climbed through the no-longer-hot-safety-first wire and did what elk do. When I left my garden last week I had way more tomatoes than any sane person needs, pumpkin vines so vigorous I was afraid to stand near them, green beans, a modest amount of corn, and “some” zucchinis. By Sunday afternoon I had—had I planted tomatoes?? My corn was trampled, tossed and torn. The beans were cropped and chopped. The broccoli was bitten, the pumpkins smitten—well, there were a few pumpkins that didn’t have teeth marks in them, but many had been nibbled and/or stomped...they had even eaten every leaf off my two baby cherry trees.

Huh. Whatever could have done this?

Wanna know what DOES survive the apocalypse--besides cockroaches? And Zombies?

Zucchini.

The Third Wedding Draws Ever Nigh, Third Son, Dahlia Edition

 Love in a time of Pandemic is even more precious. We are reminded of the terrible beauty of Life—that is oh-too-short, and that we should cherish the moments we are allotted. Trying to implement a wedding that has been in the works for over a year-- but now the details and the concerns change from week-to-week—has certainly been a lesson in priorities. Guest lists get slashed to the bone, plans for refreshments have new guidelines, and scented hand-sanitizer is the new fragrance du jour.

 

Through it all, there is—as it should be—love. And flowers. Because –at least in my opinion—once you have the happy couple and the dress, the other key ingredient is flowers.

 

We have the usual wedding flowers: roses, calla lilies, alstroemeria, in lovely sunset shades—but what we really need are Dahlias. Dahlias are prolific bloomers and come in every color imaginable. Because they peak in late summer, dahlias are perfect for a September wedding.

Sunset colors, perfect!

 

Unfortunately, I am not Dahlia friendly. I forget to dig them up in the fall and have killed more little beauties that way than I care to account for. I didn’t think to plant them this spring because we were at the then height of the pandemic and I was Oh, She of Little Faith.

Ooohhhh, pretty!

 

While not Dahlia Friendly, I am Dahlia Adjacent. When I went to Facebook, seeking dahlia growers, my FB friends reminded me that not only do we have two local companies growing flowers—shout out to Big Bottom Bouquets and Courageous Crow for their beautiful blooms—but my neighbor Joyce (hi Joyce!) who LIVES RIGHT DOWN THE ROAD FROM ME has a plethora of petals.

Perfection!

 

What can I say? I’m often very “pretty.” But, thanks to my FB friends’ reminders, I contacted Joyce. She very graciously offered to give me a garden tour. She is growing lots of varieties that will be perfect for the latest Sume Wedding, but my favorite—not at all in the color pallet-- was a dahlia Joyce introduced me to.

 

Meet “Elk Lips on Fire":

Elk Lips on Fires. Seriously. That is the name.

 

 Joyce said she bought it for the name, because the name is irresistible and she just had to see it in person. Which, as a fellow flower addict, I recognize a good justification when I hear one. We both had a laugh at the name, and I wondered at the backstory behind the moniker. For once, Google failed to illuminate me, but my imagination believes there was some sort of retaliation story in the naming. Probably involving pepper spray.

 

That’s my belief, I’m sticking to it. Bring on the dahlias!

The Summer that Wasn’t

Welcome to September! I don’t care what the calendar says about the official start of the season but Fall is in the air-- can you feel it? The nights are cooler, the sunshine seems to have more shadows in it and the sun doesn’t have the same bite.

It doesn’t really feel like we had Real Summer though, as so many of my summer traditions were put on hold in the interest of public safety.

In Packwood, we are used to celebrating both ends of the summer with a huge, outdoor Flea Market. The biannual event brings tourist-- vendors and visitors fill the town, parking is at a price and come Monday, there won’t be a loaf of bread left on the grocery store shelf. Well, maybe the low carb, high fiber kind made from sawdust and broken promises, that nobody likes---but all the Good Bread will be history. Good for local business, bad for sudden cravings of grilled cheese.

In addition to the Summer bookend events, I’m used to watching the Loggers Jubilee Parade, while simultaneously exploiting my cute grandkids as candy magnets. Since I still have half a bag of purloined candy left over from last year’s event, I considered driving thru Morton in the middle of the night and sprinkling candy over the sidewalks and along the gutters—as though some sort of Ghost of Parades Past had visited the town.

Then I got into an argument with myself about litter and creating a public nuisance and spawning at least three dozen different conspiracy theories as to the origin and purpose of the candy and never got around to implementing my plan.

 I like helping serve at the Fireman’s beef BBQ—my job is either Jello scooping, condiment dispensing—do you want sour cream with that? Or—at my last promotion-- assistant back up to corn-on-the-cob conveying. "We need more butter over here!" All key roles, to be sure.

Then there’s the Rod Run, noting all the cool cars that their owners so lovingly display and wondering how cool would it be to go for a Road Trip, convertible top down, hair blowing in the breeze, the smell of fresh cut hay scenting the air...

No Fair this year, with its cotton candy and 4H animals, no midway with the lights and motion and screams, no crowing at the chickens in the chicken barn, and eating scones—scones are THE BEST FAIR FOOD EVER, amirite?

Summer of 2020 is now officially in the books, before it ever got out of the blocks. We will keep wearing our masks, and social distancing, and looking forward to a Real Summer in 2021-- with all its events and assorted glories.

In the meantime, might I suggest you go make yourself a s’more? Because that is one summer tradition I’m still hanging on to.