Vacation!

Woohoo! We're off for Maine in the morning, and I'm excited about getting away for a few days and eating food that I don't have to cook. A little nervous too, about going away with the family. We've not spent this much time together in years, and I've been worrying about whether or not we'll like each other still. Fortunately, family doesn't have to like you, they just have to love you.

Beautiful trip Sunday and Monday through southern Indiana, where it was green and still and hilly. And taking a bath in a tub you don't have to clean (especially when you have water as hard as ours) is almost as good as eating a meal you don't have to prepare. We passed the Jug Rock near Shoals, Indiana, which was really unusual. This picture, compliments of Wikipedia, is from a 1920s postcard of the area, I believe. Good pizza at Bobe's in Washington, Indiana, where they're also generous with their oatmeal raisin cookies, and then a long drive home.

Tomorrow we fly to Manchester, New Hampshire and then drive to Fryeburg, Maine for a couple nights at the Admiral Peary House. I'm looking forward to all the touristy things we plan to do - the Conway Scenic Railroad, the Mt. Washington Auto Road, and moose-watching in Gorham, NH. After that, we're going to spend a night on the coast at Five Gables Inn, where we'll hopefully just do some lounging by the fire, watching the bay, and drinking tea. It's possibly my favorite place in the world, and normally when we've been there, we've got so much going on that we don't get to just sit and enjoy it. (But we have plans to spend a few days there this fall, too, just lazing around and eating big breakfasts!)

It will be good to be home again, too: putting up my retractable clothesline, finishing mulching the back flowerbeds, working on getting through several work trips in June, but now it's time to dig the suitcase out of the closet, pat the kitties on the head and check my "things to do before leaving home" list!

It Happens

Our cool spring has been such a gentle one for the little green growy things. The clematis is climbing the mailbox in exactly the cliched fashion that I had hoped for, the new lilac is settling in nicely, and the petunias are happily oblivious to the scorching they'll be in for in a few months. That must be the nice thing about annuals - if they had personalities, they'd likely be optimists, because they just simply don't know any better. Hostas are gradually spreading out in the back beds, and they make me wish I were a mouse or even a spider (*shudder*), so that I could crawl under those seamless verdant leaves and look out at the world through green light. The simple sturdy nature of hostas suggests that as perennials, they take the long view of things. Time passes, rain falls, autumn comes, and so it goes.

Gardening is a gradual process here, and while it's a result of small bank accounts, I like to feel slightly superior about it. We only have so much to spend on improvements each year, and so we buy smaller versions of plants for less money. The big payoff is not this season or even next season for us, but maybe a couple years down the road yet. A person would think we were annuals, with this kind of optimism.

Progress is slow, especially this year with the peonies. I say "peonies," but in reality, there's really only one: a scrubby, weedy thing that most people would take out with a weedeater without a second thought. But, I continue to insist that there is potential. Maybe next year. Gardening seems to be good for me in this respect. I have to take the long view, to wait, to trust, to expect the positive as well as the negative. As with life, all of the factors aren't in my control, but the evenhandedness of nature lets me believe that I have better odds than most gamblers. Bad things (aphids, droughts, nibbly rabbits) will happen, but nature will also offer good things (sun, rain, compost). Maybe this is why there is an unopened bag of 7 dust in the barn - introducing chemicals into the situation seems unsportsmanlike, cheating, putting your thumb on the scales.

Gardening seems to promote a balanced view of the good and ill in the world, and either way, the situation is reduced to "It happens." Bugs happen. So does sunshine. Perhaps that perspective is only one of the things the move away from land has cost us. Gardening reduces the frustrations of life to a microcosm. We do our best, sometimes things fail; we do less than our best, sometimes there's no harm done. The world doesn't always pause to reward our best efforts, but our lack of effort doesn't exactly throw the globe off its axis either. The future is not predictable, and we can worry and plan and be anxious, but it will remain inscrutable.

You watch and worry over a garden, and you begin to gain a sense of your place in the pecking order of things. We only control so much, we do what we can or what we will, and then things happen: seedlings or crows, beans or blight. Either way, we'll have to deal with the outcome. Sometimes, we get what we want, sometimes we don't. It happens.

Poets and Rats

Mother's Day isn't a lot of fun if you're not a mother and you don't have a mother. It tends to be like Valentine's Day was when you were a boyfriendless teen - you really just want to wear black, stay home, eat comfort food and be left alone. You're not able to just forget, to just let it slip past like an old anniversary. Hallmark commercials, road signs, store sales, everything gears you up to be sentimental about something either long-lost or little-desired.

Maybe it's just me. My mother's been "gone" almost twenty years now, but she wasn't always easy when she was here. I wrestle with that enough without being reminded every May. I don't blame her, really; not that it does any good to have unresolved feelings toward resolved issues. Some people just don't come into the world with any emotional skin. It's not their fault, it's not always something that can be rectified: life just causes some people pain, even the beautiful parts. Poignant, maybe - everything is poignant when you have no skin. My mother always seemed like one of those people, and all of life seemed to either fall short of her expectations or overwhelm her. Even with almost two decades to try to make sense of this, it doesn't make her memory any easier to hold up to the light for examination. That's been one of the hard lessons of my life: understanding things doesn't make them prettier or lighter to carry.

I always think of her in terms of one of the Stage Manager's lines from Our Town. When Emily asks him, "Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?--every, every minute?", he responds, "No. Saints and poets, maybe--they do some." The awareness of life, realizing it, is so awe-inspiring as to be terrifying. It's too much to go through life so aware, and when you have no skin, you are that aware all the time. It's like looking at the sun.

I think of the rest of us in far less romantic terms, as rats in a Skinner box. Not terribly complimentary perhaps, but I once read about rats placed in Skinner boxes equipped with a button or a lever. Some rats pushed the button, and every time, they got a pellet of food, a reward. Apparently, it was too easy, and they lost interest pretty quickly. Others pushed the button, but nothing ever happened - no food, no response, and they also gave up what seemed like a pointless exercise. The rats that became the most engaged were the ones that got rewards randomly - sometimes they got pellets when they pushed, sometimes nothing. Sometimes they were rewarded after two pushes, sometimes a dozen later, there had been no payoff. I envision them like little gamblers in a rat casino, hunched over their buttons, oblivious of the passage of time, thinking that the next time, the next push, it would pay off, it would work, it would be the big one.

Making Mom happy was a little like that, and the randomness of it, the inconsistency of the response, turned me into a button-pushing junkie. The next thing I tried might make her happy, might relieve her discomfort. Or it might not. I was thirteen when she died, and looking back, I only remember feeling relieved. I felt relieved, in part, for me. I was transported out of the Skinner box, away from the lever that I tried by turns to win over and to ignore. It wasn't an option any longer, and with the lever gone, the responsibility to attend to it, to push it, was gone.

But, I felt relief for her, too. I knew that she wasn't hurting any longer, that she wasn't pushing whatever lever or button she had in her life, trying to get some response that she needed. Every Mother's Day, I miss her. Some years, I've been angry: at her, at the injustice, at God, but this year, I'm resigned. I may even be grateful. Even if she's not with me, she has what I would want her to have on Mother's Day - rest and peace and freedom from pushing a button, from waiting for a response.

In Remembrance

"Do this in remembrance of me." So much of what we do daily, good and bad, conscious and unconscious, we do in remembrance. The mass of contradictions, insecurities, prejudices and opinions that form each of us are about memory, about carrying on those things that symbolize who we are and where we come from. The body and blood of our lives is all about what we do in remembrance, in what we carry forth with us, in what we continue to do, regardless of persecution or loss of faith or just how inexplicable our beliefs are.

I will cry about debts and purchase a new book within the same 24-hour period, and when I sit down to read, I curl my left leg under me. I am comforted by the smell of beer, cigarettes and Spray 'N Starch. I feel the need to identify any plant life within ten feet of me to whoever happens to be around. I surreptitiously dig up small starts of flowers that do not belong to me. When the back of my neck gets tight, I try not to remember the Maker's Mark bottle in the pantry. My bookshelves have more than one "missing" library book. I look at the world and see herons, barn swallows, robins nesting. I turn up the radio for every Nitty Gritty Dirt Band song. Perfection is a quiet house, a good book and a hot drink.

I make private judgments about farmers with round bales, muddy lots, and more than two dress shirts. I will tackle cutting stovepipe, cutting trees, planting corn, snaking the toilet drain, and sewing a seam. I tell myself I can work longer, I can push harder, that I don't hurt, when most of me doesn't believe it is true. I castigate myself when I leave too much meat on an apple core. I read the classifieds, aware of what information is not offered. I appreciate a well-stacked wagon, and when I pass men in a hayfield on a warm June evening, I want to pull over, change out of my dress clothes, climb over the fence and walk away from every desk job I've ever had. When I nap, I hook my hand inside my waistband or my pants pocket. I'm happy to see fish sandwiches on a menu, even when I don't order them, and I tip waitresses a little extra if they call me "honey". I still cannot believe I live with a cat that gets two shots every day. Old farmers in work clothes from Sears, grease-filled arroyos on their knuckles and untamed ear hair get the very best version of myself that I can muster.

I have books with no covers. My only copy of To Kill a Mockingbird has a green cardstock cover, and since the last pages are missing, someone transcribed them with an old typewriter on a sheet of typing paper that is pasted in. Comfort food involves bacon grease or canned milk. When I pick flowers, I always leave the majority of the blooms and leave them on plants visible to the road - everyone should be able to enjoy them. I hate to throw away cards with pretty pictures. I hear a voice in my head scolding me when I take too much peel off a potato, when I use a paper towel instead of a dishcloth to wipe up a spill, or when I start reading first thing in the morning without "washing my eyes out" first. I never ask a host what we're having for dinner, no matter how badly I want to know, because you're supposed to be grateful for what anyone else shares with you, regardless of what it is or how it is offered.

I give up the comfortable seat, the last cookie, my time, my energy, even when I don't want to. I answer phone calls and listen to the unhappiness of other people, even on days when I can barely manage my own. I need all the cookies on the cookie sheet to be even and approximately the same size. I remind myself that "tall statues need broad bases" when I can't find a cute size 9 shoe. I've been known to cry in the grocery store when a little old lady with a kind face and White Linen perfume passes me. When I sing to myself around the house, I find myself humming old hymns. I feed the people I love, and of all my household jobs, I enjoying my time in the kitchen most. I'm always aware of the unkempt state of my cuticles. I apologize without thinking, because someone else's peace is sometimes worth more than the truth. I can't watch the Macy's parade or the Rose parade. I try to never go anywhere empty-handed. I can excuse any behavior from people I love.

Do this in remembrance of me.