Plucky

     I have stated before that I am not a plant person. In the plant world, I am known as Connie Kevorkian. Perhaps that explains why the one thing I enjoy about plant care is plucking off the dead blossoms. My horticultural history makes me uniquely qualified to recognize dead plant parts. My flowers are having their best summer ever, which I assume has more to do with the weather than myself. So while I am plying them with drink, I am also rolling them for dead blossoms. This improves the plant's appearance and my attitude. I may not know a ranunculus from a radish, but I know dead when I see it. And in the face of that kind of death, I feel plucky.

There Will Always Be Books

Dear Amanda,

     There will always be books. I know your mother has told you that someday digital media will completely replace paper and ink books the way music downloads have supplanted, for the most part, albums and cds.  But I do not believe that will ever happen.  It may be easier to transmit information through digital media, but books are much more than information. Books are adventures waiting to happen, and an adventure must be experienced with all one's senses.
     I have a Kindle and enjoy it's benefits. I no longer have to worry if I packed enough books for a trip. An e-reader can hold many books, I can always download more at my destination, and it's much easier to pack a Kindle than a stack of books, especially for airline travel. I also no longer have to worry about leaving a library book behind in an airport or hotel (or that Uncle Reed will think he left one behind when it is really buried by the junk on his dresser at home). But what I like best about my Kindle is that it introduces me to new authors. I no longer have the leisure to linger in libraries like when I was in school. My library trips are usually one stop on a long list of errands so, when I find authors whose books don't have sex and swearing, those are the only ones I look for.  I know there are lots of other good authors, but there is no "G" or "PG" category in adult fiction and the librarian might wonder why a middle aged woman only checks out children's books.
     My main reason for waiting so long to get a Kindle was that I am too cheap to pay money for books when I can get them from the library for free, but many of the daily deals are only $1.99 and I get to try a free sample first. Even Aunt Connie, the champion cheapskate, is willing to spend two bucks for a good book and I can usually tell from the sample if it will be Christian compatible. So you see, Amanda, e-readers have their benefits, but they are not real books because they do not engage all the senses. All e-books look and feel the same, the excitement is only is the story itself.
     There will always be printed books because the adventure begins with beckoning of the picture on the cover, the weight of the book in your hands, the sound of the pages turning, even the smell.  Even when the smell is old and musty, it may turn out to be a buried treasure that has been waiting for years for you to discover it. The only sense books do not stimulate is taste--and it probably should stay that way. In these days of self-check out, when librarians are only there to help you use the computer, I am afraid the excitement of going to the library is becoming extinct, but there will always be books, Amanda. There will always be books.

Things I Hope I Never Have to Say

•  Honestly, officer, I can explain.
•  At least now we know the airbag works.
•  May I have one of those seat belt extensions?
•  Do you know where your dad was going hunting?
• What's the number for search and rescue?
• I had no idea my dog was going to do that.
• Yes, his rabies shot is current.
• You'd think a man my husband's age would know better.
• I was sure that would hold our weight.
• I thought we were supposed to drink it.
• From up here in the tree, it looks like a grizzly.
• Yes, I knew grizzlies could climb trees.
• This is my first time in jail.
• I have no idea why I thought you were pregnant.
• Can you recommend a good proctologist?
• I'm just running out to buy some Depends.
• Will that be covered by our homeowners' insurance?
• The last time I saw my wedding ring it was. . .
• Does our fire extinguisher still work?
• Yes, I have proof of insurance.
• I had no idea I could still run that fast.
• So, you're saying there are no parachutes on this plane?
• You said those mushrooms were edible.
• The government is here to help us.
• Run!

   

Free Drinks at Lambs

     Admittedly, it was my idea to use a vacuum to try to suck up the yellowjackets that swarm around our mini-waterfall, but when I heard the familiar sound of the shop-vac coming unfamiliarly from the front yard, I knew I had created a redneck recreation. To understand why the persistent pests were so attracted to the water in the first place, I went to the source of all knowledge--Google.  Hymenoptera (isn't that a fun word, sounds like a gynecological problem) are extremely interested in finding reliable sources of water. When they find one, like our fountain, they tell all their friends, "Free drinks at Lambs!"  I am not an environmentalist.  I don't believe the world created by an all powerful God needs assistance from puny humans in order to survive. I'm more in the live and let live category.  But the abundance of bees has made our water feature into more of a creature feature. The waterfall, which I used to enjoy from nearby, has become as unapproachable as the Great Oz.
     Adding chlorine would poison the well, so to speak, but that wouldn't last long, and last year that killed the frog that had taken up residence in our fountain. Unfortunately, one of our neighbor boys discovered this during our annual neighborhood ice cream social. Bleached frogs do not turn white and are not a good party theme, unless you are on a scavenger hunt. I like frogs, and Reed claims to have seen another one a few nights ago, so I do not want to bleach him to death.  Besides, we do not need bleach to kill algae.  I discovered a cheaper, more effective method involving nicking the extension cord with the hedge trimmer, causing the breaker to shut off power to the water pump, allowing the sun to kill the algae. By way of disclaimer, my method was cheaper than bleach only because my husband can repair extension cords.  But, having made the discovery, I now skip the step involving the hedge trimmer and merely unplug the water pump. That rids us of the algae, but not the yellow-jackets.
     That is where the shop-vac comes in. Against my will, I sometimes find myself inadvertently encouraging redneck behavior in a family that needs little encouragement. By merely wondering aloud if it was possible to use a shop-vac to suck up yellowjackets, I planted a seed in the fertile soil of my husband's redneck imagination. And that is why the melodious gurgle of the waterfall is being drowned out by the odious whine of the shop-vac while my husband uses the hose extention to lunge at our unwanted guest pests with moves reminiscent of fencing (with a very short opponent).  I know what the yellowjackets will be telling their friends now, "They've had too much to drink at Lambs!" 

Dad's Hobby

     I used to think my dad didn't have any hobbies because he doesn't hunt, fish, play games or even follow sports on television. But in later years I realized he does have one hobby--fattening dogs. You've heard of the horse whisperer, my dad is the dog fattener. The medium sized mutt we had growing up remained normal sized throughout my childhood, but Dad's deceased dog, a terrier Chihuahua cross was as round as a football.  My brother-in-law, from a sheep raising family, said the inability to feel any ribs meant he was ready for slaughter. However, to clear up any confusion, that prediction and Mickey's actual demise were years apart. When my sister and I gave our brother a Dachshund mix for his birthday three years ago, Destiny was slightly pudgy at 20 pounds.  My parting words to Rod were, "Don't let Dad make her fat!"  Three years later Destiny weighs 35 pounds, twice her healthy body weight.
     Dad assures me he doesn't feed her that much, but he also tells me how much she enjoys all the scraps he gives her.  When I was home recently, he gave her a full, human sized serving of lasagna. He is one of the few people I know who ask for a doggie bag and actually give the food to the dog. Although Dad tells me how much better he feels after dieting 10 pounds off his 150 lb. frame, he doesn't see any application to his dog. I make it a practice not to tell parents how to raise their kids (ours turned out okay, but I think it was in spite of us) or how to take care of their pets, but I feel like Destiny deserves an intervention.  Dad thinks the reason she slips out of her collar when she is on a leash is that her head is too small.  Her head, paws and tail are the only parts of her body that are the correct size.  When Roddy told me he gives her three "Greenies" treats a day because the bag instructs one for each 15 to 20 pounds.  I said, "Roddy, she is supposed to be 15 to 20 pounds."
    Dad's last name is Neighbors, and I am not my neighbor's dog's keeper, but I would like to kidnap Destiny for two months and hold her at the Lamb's unfat farm until she looks more like a Dachshund than a Polish dog, but I am afraid it would be a temporary solution and Destiny likes things the way they are.  She likes to eat, Dad likes to feed, there is a certain symmetry to the relationship, if not to her body.  Dad could certainly have worse hobbies and there are no 12 step groups for dog fatteners. I prayed for a long time before giving Dad and Rod a dog, perhaps being fat is her destiny.

Hair of the Dog

     I thought there was something wrong with my bagless vacuum the day the dirt cup was only half full after vacuuming the living and dining rooms.  It had always been full before. That was the day I realized that most of the dog hair had at last left the building.  I loved our Lab, the hair--not so much.  There is still cat hair, mostly Maynard's, but his furry, little body is no match for Garth's hairy harvest. Finally, it is safe to observe the 10 second rule for dropped food and I do not have to de-hair the furniture by his favorite window.
     But enjoying hairlessness does not mean we won't we get another dog.  I will never be the pet lover my husband is, but neither would I deny him something that brings him such pleasure.  And I find walking to the island without a dog downright boring. With Garth it was an adventure if only because with so few cognitive skills, for him it was a new place every time. A dog is also the perfect walking companion, you can talk to a dog and they never question or contradict. Now I have to talk to myself and pretend I'm wearing a bluetooth when I encounter a stranger. Our greatest consolation when facing Garth's departure was knowing we would get another dog. But it may be hard to find a dog that fits our criteria of being free, non-shed and non-yappy. Labradoodles have been suggested but they are $1000, a far cry from our first criteria.
     I am not sorry we put Garth down when we did.  I didn't realize how stressful it was just watching him struggle with his daily activities, until he was gone and I experienced unexpected relief.  It was the right thing to do.  But going without a pet for the sake of a hairless house and less complicated schedule is like extracting your teeth so you won't get cavities.  Even if I wind up with three bags full of hair on vacuuming day, I'd rather have a homeless dog than a dogless home. Because devotion comes with the dirt, and that hair is hitched to a heart, and life without that is a cup half full.

My Great White Wail

     My mother told me that when I was old enough not to get my clothes so dirty, I could wear white. I'm 56 years old. I wore white for my wedding and when I worked at the hospital. I can't make it out of my bedroom in the morning wearing white clothes without staining them.  I am wondering just how old I have to be to master this milestone.  Perhaps when I am in a nursing home, sitting still, not cleaning anything. . . no, eventually I would have to eat and I would inevitably spill something.
     Who cares about coordinating ensembles?  My entire wardrobe is designed around not showing dirt.  I wear print tops because solids show more stains. My idea of a light spring color palette is khaki. The closest I come to pastel is gray.  It helps that dark colors like black and navy, and vivids like jewel tones go better with my complexion, but I knew I preferred them years before I found out about my color wheel. I wore whatever colors allowed me to make it to the end of the day in the same outfit without looking like an ad for  stain remover. 
     Frankly, at this point in life, I don't worry as much about wearing colors that flatter me--my body doesn't flatter me.  Like Captain Ahab, I continue to pursue my elusive white nemesis, but so far I remain off white.