Ill Tempered Beast

Welcome back to this episode of Over My Garden Gate, in which we discover our plucky heroine isn’t quite a plucky as we thought.

Oh sure, she got on board the This Is a Serious Pandemic train early on and settled in for the long ride with nary a complaint, mostly. She had her snacks for the journey, and plenty of TP, and with that mess of curls she calls a hairdo who could tell she already overdo for a haircut in March? She packed her favorite soapbox and at every whistle stop along the way was happy to preach the gospel of Stay Home Save Lives.

When you shelter at home—who is going to see the whole hair mess anyway? Not to mention the later addition of masks—GENIUS! No haircut, no mascara—no problem! Put on a mask when you go out in public and voila! No one can recognize her! It’s like putting glasses on Superman—no one knew who he was! Secret Identity! Also, she stopped wearing contacts and only wore glasses—so exactly like Superman! Maybe she IS Superman!

Superman. Probably
Who can know?

It’s true, she had a brand-new grandson she hadn’t held since he was not quite a month old, and a slightly-used 20 month old grandson whose vocabulary was developing daily with out her there to influence it. But thank goodness for the invention of Snapchat and FaceTime! Our plucky heroine could receive multiple pictures of Baby Aiden in real time and do a nightly book club slash story time with John Boy Shane, and it was a lot to be thankful for. Word of advice? Toddlers shouldn’t be served wine in their sippy cups—but it’s totally fine for Nannas. Sippy cups save spills, amirite? Cheerios and string cheese are delicious snacks. It’s almost like being there!

Our heroine’s pluck took on some serious damage when one of her sons underwent emergency surgery mid hospital crisis, and no one could go visit him. But God is good--all the time--and her friends pulled her through; after a second hospitalization he was finally on the mend and Life in Lockdown continued on.

The sun was out, there was grass to mow and flowers to plant and multiple home improvement projects start—in a super plucky fashion, our heroine bravely started project after project without actually completing projects One, Three and Seven because—well, because she’s an idiot, but that’s a story for a different time.

But the wear and tear on her pluck became cumulative. And when the rains came, and day after day became darker, and soggier, her pluck went AWOL. Our heroine suddenly snapped one day last week and became an ill-tempered beast who could be neither soothed nor solaced, nor sung to. She stomped around the house, cursing the rain and the virus. She declared she was bored, and mad, and sad; she hated rain, threatened to break all her crayons, and run away from home. Did I mention it was raining? Still? Again? And that it would probably never stop? Ever ever ever? The cats sought shelter under the bed, and the neighbors vacillated between calling a Realtor or calling a Priest...and then the strangest thing happened...

Tune in to next week’s episode, where we discover the fate of our heroine. Does she get her pluck back? Or do the neighbors end up lighting torches and storming her castle? Does she get one of those cute little white jackets with the sleeves that buckle in the back?

How Does Your Garden Grow?

Straw Bale Garden, growing.

I’ve been thinking about the adage that it takes a village to raise and child—and I think it also applies to gardening.

It’s true, that as a parent, I did a great deal of the heavy lifting when it came to childrearing—but my children had the impact from-- and the influence of-- their community. Family, coaches, teachers, assorted community members, and friends all had a hand in shaping my boys into the men they became and I am grateful for their loving participation.

When it comes to gardening—doing the heavy lifting is much less appealing. It is, you know, HEAVY.

This spring, I was lucky enough to score a free dump truck load of rich topsoil, full of lovely decayed leaves and chock full of all kinds of nutrients---and the occasional aluminum can. The fine folks who work for the county were doing some serious maintenance on the Cline Road and needed a place to dump all the dirt. Being public spirited and happy to help save the county transport costs, I naturally volunteered to take a load. And by volunteered I mean I begged—because the spot they were working in was under alder and maple trees, and sure to be super loamy and I WANTED it.

They cheerfully dumped a full ten-yard load out in the back 40 and went on about their business. I hitched my wagon to my lawnmower, grabbed my “#2 backhoe” and set to work moving my mountain of dirt into place.

By the second load of dirt that I HAD SHOVELED BY HAND, I decided it was time to call on my village. Fortunately, I have good neighbors with BIG tractors who came and moved the dirt for me. Neighbor Jim claims that zucchini is a reward, and if I drop some off on his doorstep this summer, that would be thanks enough. I feel like I got the better end of that bargain. And when you see me dropping off a load of squash on his lawn and then speeding away, please do not call the police. He ASKED for it. Literally, I swear.

My gardening friend Tim came and rototilled the relocated dirt for me-- I like to think it’s because he too, wanted some zucchini and not because his wife made him--thanks Eileen! Or maybe he did it because he’s hoping I’ll grow my own corn and stop loitering beside his Kelly Corn every harvest, I can’t really say.

Look at all that lovely dirt!

I realize that you’re probably wondering what 10 yards of topsoil, one giant tractor and a rototiller have to do with a straw bale garden. Turns out, SBG might be a gateway drug—because in addition to my SBG I also have a small, in-ground garden patch that has a bazillion tomato plants, some cilantro and peppers, and yes! TWO ROWS OF CORN. All thanks to my Village.

The Man Behind Curtain Number Three

I’ve been asked for my opinion on the differences between on-line dating sites; specifically, Match.com and eHarmony. Both sites cost about the same for a six-month membership, both have safety suggestions and tips about how to set up a profile. I learned the hard way that Match.com will—for a price—write a profile for you. After reading hundreds of profiles of “men in your area!” there appeared to be a pattern to some of the exceptional ones. A second reading of those confirmed that who I’d really like to date is the person who ghost writes dating profiles for a living. Sadly, they were not available.

Cat food, lemon curd, tea, duct tape, and bleach. Stop judging me.

eHarmony has the best questions in their repertoire. They ask the best questions to help you fill out your profile and have an impressive list of conversation starters to help you break the ice— “List five items in your shopping cart” or --- well, I don’t really remember any other questions, but they were good ones. So good, in fact, that I would use them over at Match.com, where the questions weren’t as good, but there were more men in my 100-mile range. For the record I said the five items in my cart were “Cat food, lemon curd, tea, duct tape, and bleach. Stop judging me.”

At eHarmony, every time I tried to adjust my range area down to 100 miles, they would give me a yellow warning sign and tell me of all the great matches that I was missing out on in Calgary. As in Canada. I’m convinced eHarmony owns stock in an airline that flies solely to Calgary. I apologize, undiscovered Canadian Soulmate, I’m not in the mood for a relationship that depends on the cooperation of the TSA. Alas!

I’m not going to lie—on-line dating is a lot of work. Done properly, it’s like having a second job. You have to constantly keep reading profiles, starting or responding to conversations, keeping track of which “Bob” is which. For some reason, every third man in my age demographic was called “Bob.” As aliases go, “Bob” is perfectly acceptable, but you’d think the “Bobs” show a little creativity and branch out. Although I suppose going by “Rich” has its drawbacks, now that I think about it.

I dated only in my age demographic—I found it far too depressing to even think about having a romantic relationship with someone who didn’t understand the concept of “phone booths” and “rabbit ears.” I don’t have time to explain all my cultural references. You had to be there, seriously. Good times, good times...

I tried to do all the right things, take sensible precautions, not be too urgent—after all, I signed up for six-months! Plenty of time, for plenty of fish in the sea.

Turns out though—it was the second guy I talked to that ended up being The Guy. After three months on-line, two different dating sites, a plethora of emails and a handful of assorted dates, I found myself repeatedly drawn back to Jon. Jon is funny, and wise—meaning he thinks I’m funny—and is very Zen. He loves to read, makes his own salsa, and is kind. In the bonus category, he smells delicious, is taller than I am, and wrote his own profile. Since we met on Match.com, I must say—it’s the best $146 I ever invested.

Wait—There’s a Man Behind the Curtain?

Ok. So, I panicked and decided to spill the beans—yes, Gentle Reader, there IS a man behind the curtain. Kind of, I guess. Anyway.

Last April, I had had enough of my broken heart. I had had enough of being alone. I had Love once—and I wanted it again.

Shane and I had been together for over 30 years—we had known each other since we were 15, raised three sons together, traversed all the curves that life can throw at you, drove each other just the right amount of crazy, and loved each other deeply. Then he was gone and I was left to carry on. Alone.

I believe we are built for relationship—with our Creator and with each other. I am a full, entire person in my own right—but I am even better as a partner. After four years --five now, in 2020-- of moving through all the cycles and circles of grief, I felt ready to move on.

It seemed like a good idea at the time...

I started thinking that for my birthday in June I’d throw myself a “Girl’s Night In” Birthday Party. I’d invite my incredible women friends; we’d drink margaritas and write up an on-line dating profile that would be irresistible. I was really looking forward to it. I bought super cute party invitations, I planned the hors d’oeuvres—because Cheetos are, too, hors d’oeuvres, stop judging me.

But June is a long time away from January. February was hard. March was 31 lonely days long. April arrived and something inside just snapped. Suddenly, April Fools seemed like an auspicious day to dive into on-line dating, right? So, I did. Just me and my good friend ‘Rita. We sat down with a credit card—mine, not hers-- and started signing up at multiple sites. And by multiple I mean two—Match.com and eHarmony. Even ‘Rita isn’t that crazy. In a burst of brazen honesty—and the realization that no matter how vast the Internet seems the world is small—I told my kids. I figured it was better they heard it from me first. Pretty sure my kids hoped I was pranking them. Sorry kids, ‘Rita knows best!

The next day, I called a couple of friends to confess what I had done and to get some input on improving my “profile.” They provided some polish, a few safety tips, told me to just relax and have fun. And you know—they were right.

I had fun. I chatted with some nice people - and a few dodgy ones. I poked a couple of holes in some scammers—seriously, has anybody else met a person with a PhD who wasn’t thrilled if you asked them what they wrote their thesis on? It seemed highly unlikely he had a doctorate—what with his inability to use the proper “there, they’re, their.” Anyway, I have some great stories to tell.

For example, the guy that had a riddle as part of his profile and invited women to answer it. The riddle went something like this: “In my deserted mountain cabin are 150 dead souls—how did it happen?” Or maybe it was how did they get there? Anyway, it was something like that and I typed back a long and funny –because I’m very funny—reply about the dangers of skiing while playing a game of “stack the phonebooth.”

 “No,” he said. “Try again.”

 Just those three words, not even a “lol.” And I’m very funny!

So, I write a second, long response about how the first was my story and I was sticking to it, that they’d never be able to prove anything, that I had at least three alibis, etc., etc.

“No. Guess again.” No smiley face, nothing.

Hmm. This time I just typed back “Are the dead bodies flies?”

“No,” came the reply. “Again.”

No. Nope. No thank you. I gave you PARAGRAPHS of effort and all you give me as a reward is three or four SYLLABLES? And those were syllables telling me WHAT TO DO? Dude, you didn’t even “LOL.” Not a relationship I’m interested in having, thank you very much, Mr. Loquacious. That was actually his profile name, “Loquacious.” I hope he meant it ironically. Also, it only now occurs to me that perhaps the 150 dead bodies thing wasn’t a riddle as much as a confession. Either way, dodged a bullet there.

I really would like to know the answer to that one though...do you suppose it was 75 pairs of worn out shoes?