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.   

Ding Dong Ditch 2

 My straw bale garden has been growing and growing, and I am in full on harvest mode—desperate to off-load produce onto unsuspecting friends and neighbors.

Unfortunately, most of the people I know are in a similar situation and the search for produce-receptive people has become rather competitive.

I had lamented my lack of victims—er, my lack of “recipients” on Facebook, and a couple of friends messaged me with various “someones” they believed would welcome piles ‘o produce—specifically zucchini. 

I know, I know-- I too, found it hard to believe that such people existed, but desperate gardeners are not about to look at a miracle too skeptically, so when I was informed that a such willing person existed RIGHT DOWN THE ROAD from me, I immediately loaded up a brown paper bag with zukes, put on my mask, and headed over.

Now, the more suspicious among you might assume the mask was to hide my identity but I assure you, this was not the case. I was just trying to do my part to mitigate any possible virus transmission; the fact that I’d be harder to ID in a police line-up was only a secondary consideration.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t worked through the entire produce delivery scenario in my head. And when my neighbor opened the door to my rather quiet knock I wasn’t quite prepared, and panicked. Do I just thrust the bag into her arms and run? Was I supposed to have put the produce on the porch, then ring the bell? Wait—was I supposed to set fire to the bag first?

While these and other thoughts zipped thru my brain, I must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Luckily for me, my neighbor is a very kind person and she not only accepted the zucchini, she invited me to sit on the porch and have a visit—at the approved socially-distant distance, of course.

Embolden by this success, I will admit that it has been over 48 hours since I last shined a spotting scope on my garden...What could possibly happen that my newly acquired delivery skills wouldn’t be equal to the task?

Hubris. 

I haz it.

Ding Dong Ditch

 Summer is at its peak and you know what that means: everybody you know is offering you zucchini. And by offering, I of course mean dumping it on your lawn in the middle of the night and speeding off.

Experienced gardeners try to avoid this situation by harvesting their zucchini early and often. It’s a lot easier to “share” your zucchini with others if it’s smaller than a large canoe. But harvesting squash before it becomes unwieldy can be more challenging than you might expect. Zucchini is a master of the art of camouflage. Hiding in plain sight is also a common tactic. Sometimes, these two tactics are used together.

“Don’t mind me. I’m just a l’il ol’ harmless zucchini, just hanging out here at the edge of the garden, right where you can keep an eye on me. Please go on about your business. I’ll just be here, minding my own. Probably check back with me in, say, oh two days and I’ll be the perfect size for harvest.”

DO NOT FALL FOR THIS SUBTRAFUGE. Zucchini apparently have a bad steroid/growth hormone habit and will expand exponentially once your back is turned. And even if the zucchini in question doesn’t grow to gargantuan proportions in that amount of time, I can say—based on my own real-life experience—that the minute you congratulate yourself and bend over to harvest your Just The Right Size Zucchini, before you can straighten back up, your eye will fall and at least three other squash that have been stealthily assuming prize-winning proportions behind the cover of the harmless, l’il ol’ zucchini out front.

What to do with the four squash you’ve now staggered into the house with? Sure, you have plans for the ONE harmless (deceitful) zuke but now you’ve acquired three more, larger fruit. Fortunately for me, I happen to be Facebook friends with a woman whose mother is my neighbor. My FB friend claims her mother would love to have some zucchini and I should just take it over to her.

So, I did.

Next week: Part two of Ding-Dong Ditch. Spoiler alert, no bail money was required, hooray!

Medicare

 I was in a hurry to leave the house one morning when my phone rang. When I said hello, a voice declared “This is Robert, from Medicare.”

 I hung up, as one does, because unless it’s the Robert from Medicare, I’ve got stuff to do today. I’m sorry I don’t have time to play, Robert. No time to ask you if your desk is next to Becky from Medicare, or if you ever get together with Jake From State Farm, and does he really wear khakis? Also-- I AM FAR TOO YOUNG TO HAVE MEDICARE, YOU EVIL PERSON. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO ME??? WHY??

Oh, sure—maybe you, Robert, were just innocently trying to scam my social security number. Maybe you heard from the other scammers about all the fraudulent activities my SS number was getting up to and wanted in on the action, I don’t know. What I DO know is that bringing age into the equation is the cruelest thing ever. Possibly in the history of ever. And I will never forgive you for that casual cruelty.

Take my credit card info, steal my identity, co-opt my tax refund—JUST DON’T CALL ME OLD, capisce?

 

Want to scam me by pretending to be a Nigerian Prince? Fine, bring it. I probably deserve a Prince or two. Want to convince me that several Doctors on FaceBook suddenly want to be my friend? Ok, fair enough, somebody has to be friends with Doctors, it might as well be me. But to try to trick me with something involving Medicare—which, as we all know—IS FOR OLDER PEOPLE, is the biggest sin imaginable! SHAME ON YOU ROBERT!

I miss the days when people would call my landline—yes I still have a landline, how else can I find my cell phone—where was I? Oh, right, landline. People used to call me up and offer to sell me aluminum siding. Or a surefire cure for septic tank troubles that also doubles as a preventative measure. I miss that.

I miss the days when you could prank call someone—not that I ever did of course, but I know people who did. You could ask them if their refrigerator was running, or if Prince Albert was—what was his deal anyway? Something about a can...Anyway, my point is this:

Whatever. I had a point. Which is I’m not old. Even if next year’s birthday is one of those that ends in a zero—I’m still not old. Robert from Medicare can go get stuffed. Now if you will excuse me, I have to go yell at some kids to get off my lawn.

Adventures in SugarLand Part 2

 

Welcome back to Adventures in Sugar Land, where I share the hijinks my grands and I get up to. I also overshare the mayhem and mishaps, so buckle up—this ride might get a little bumpy.

When we last saw our heroes, they had just successfully completed a diaper change, stuck the landing, and were now relaxing in front of The Big Cat Cage at the Zoo. Editor’s note: It’s not really the Zo—never mind. Whatever. It’s “a” Zoo.

Where was I? Oh yes, THE Zoo—watching the big cats when suddenly my snuggly little grandson seemed a bit more squishy than usual...and sort of—dampish. AND OH DEAR GOD WHAT IS THAT SMELL I DON’T THINK IT’S THE LIONS. Editor’s note: It’s not the “lions...”

Aiden, being the overachiever that he was born to be, has outdone himself. And outdone the confines of his diaper. Everything that one would expect to find in the diaper of a baby beginning to eat solid food is there—just not IN the diaper.

It’s up his back. It’s out the sides, it’s quite possible even in his ears, but by that point I was beyond the ability to retain my powers of observation and was in full-blown crisis management mode.

I know I’ve said before that changing a diaper is a lot like riding a bike—your skills may have gotten rusty but it all comes back to you. What I should have said is “changing a baby is a lot like LEARNING to ride a bike—there will be wobbles and spills, some tears-- and somebody is bound to wind up with a band aid on their knee.” SPOILER ALERT: No babies where harmed in the recounting of this Diaper Event, nor the re-telling of. Only my pride got a little bruised.

At one point in the diaper change I had a super squishy baby, with the shoulders of his Onesie down around his mid-section, hovering somewhere between the changing table and the floor; wishing I had six more hands and/or the ability to cause small humans to levitate. I was also lamenting the nation-wide shortage of PPE, because at that moment I sure could have used an Ebola-proof haz-mat suit. And some salad tongs, possibly a garden hose.

Baby Toes!

Mercifully, most of the rest of that event remains a blur. It’s quite possible I put the Onesie in the garbage and the disposable diaper in the laundry, but you know what? It doesn’t really matter--Aiden still squeals and smiles when he sees me, my knee has healed nicely, his parents are still speaking to me and I’m sure it’s just coincidental timing that his mother quit her job to stay home and run a wedding consulting business with a baby on her hip. 

Probably.