Bluegate blog

Time Rodents and the Delicate Warriors

2010-05-16T21:32:00.000-07:00

Time, blowing away from us gently in the wind and seeding the future... or snarky little rodent scurrying away from me like a sneaky little fur pouch jacked up on Ding Dongs and Ho Hos. As a matter of fact right this very minute his ill tempered cousin, Wastingmy Time is chewing on the remaining juicy bits of my patience pie. It seems he has recently taken a job with the Blogger people in the upload photo department where he is growing fat as a house on my patience and forgiveness. The program keeps jamming up and stalling. I have spent--wasted, an hour trying to load these photos and the sad part of it is...other than the fact that my life is so dull I can actually waste an hour with a time sucking rodent uploading photos... is that these aren't even the photos I really wanted to share. Well some of them are. Some of them took a bit of nerve because I'm not entirely sure I like them.

I'm sending this guy here, the one with the fur coat, out on the hunt for the Time cousins and put this thievery to an end once and for all. Ah, the sweet smell of fantasy. We all know that I'm going to keep wasting and losing my time just like the rest of you and whining about it like a kid past his nap time with peanut butter in his hair and gram cracker crumbs stuck to his face. In the meantime spring came in with a rousing bang and exploded in tulips all over the garden. Then it was slapped back into submission with annoyingly persistent rain and hail for a few endless weeks. That took care of those obnoxious tulips and reminded all those early sprouters not to get to cocky about this whole "summer's on its way" deal.

Of course Spring and Summer being the fickle souls that they are they quickly forgot everything the hail said and just put up new tulips. Some of you more tender hearted folks might think that Spring and Summer were full of pure gentle forgiveness.

It's full on war out there and those guys are vicious fighters. they aren't going down easy. And so it was. New tulips were put up, the forget-me-nots would not be forgotten and just for good measure the poppies got in on some action as well. Words were exchanged and the battle lines were drawn. If you're quiet, in the mornings you can hear an evil laughter out there. It's kind of chilling.

So here are a few of the things that I have been up to lately. We finally got a turtle for the pond. I have wanted one ever since we got the fish. Why? Well because a pond should just have a turtle, that's why. I honestly don't have an answer beyond that. I just wanted a flipping turtle in me pond. Be sure to say that in your head with Rex Harrison's voice as Captain Grey in Ghost and Mrs. Muir. Except he wanted a Monkey Puzzle tree in his garden which is truly a puzzle to me why anyone would want one of those in their garden. Sigh. To each his own I guess. Anyway Rex Harrison, hunk extraordinaire...I mean the turtle...

We seem to be calling her/him Sea Bisquet for now. We went with Sea Bisquet because Pond Bisquet just doesn't have the same ring to it. Though I'm thinking Nessy the Lochness turtle might be a better fit. So far I'm just sneaking around the pond with camera in hand hoping to catch a glimpse of the mythical beast.

Now this is the other little lingering project that I have been up to. I decided that I wanted to finally do that whole country farm garden shabby chic bedroom thing. I also decided that I couldn't possibly hate my bedroom more and something, anything had to be better. I started with painting the ceiling and I've been working my way down. I went to a salvage yard with my son "The Actor" and my future Best Friend In Law his girlfriend and the Saint. Saint and I picked out a mangy looking old door and The Actor and BFIL picked out a very cute pantry door with depression era glass insets. The Actor and BFIL carefully placed their antique treasure into their car and the Saint and I jammed our skanky door into the trunk and proceeded to drive around town with the trunk hood slamming a hole into it.

So, once the freshly mangled old mangy door was home, I took the electric sander out and began tearing away 50 years of paint. I decided to wear a mask for this little endeavor as I'm pretty darn sure that the lead paint was a flying. Of course one could argue that the damage had already been done as evidenced by the fact that I actually paid good money for this thing in the first place but I think I look fantastic in a face mask so this was my time to shine. I also had a couple of old nightstands that I sanded down to the wood just so I could stain them a nice cherry espresso color and then puke latex paint all over them. I made sure to follow that up with slathering white paint on followed by vigorous and random sanding. I did everything but kick 'em and light 'em on fire.

This is how they turned out. In person you can see all of those wild colors peeking through and looking all agey and stuff. Of course because I lack any sense of pride or foresight I do not have a photo of the stands with their silver and cut glass knobs or of the antique door knob hardware on the headboard. Just imagine them Spec-tacka-lure and say it with a big swishy hand motion to get the full effect. (by the way, the headboard actually is the same as the stands, it just looks blue in the photo.)

I also re-did my office desk. It was one of those big old wood finish things with the upper hutch portion. I removed the top hutch portion as well as the desk top, painted it white and replaced the desk top with a glass top, then added stone and glass tile accents. I also put bird feeders outside my new office window and it's all working out rather nicely now.

Then to leave you on more of a garden note I will tell you that I have been blindsided by this early spring/summer. Everything is pumped and ready to flower. The poppies are bursting and every morning when I go out there are new blossoms to greet me. The honeysuckle is full of sweet smelling potential and the frogs are still singing their hearts out at night. I know all your gardens are blooming and bringing peace and delight to everyone who sees them.

...I will also tell you that I was going to post a very pretty picture, no beautiful, stunningly beautiful picture of fiery red poppies but NOooo! That Blogger Rodent bum won't let me. I letting the dogs out buddy so you better get your Ho Hos and pack it in for the night you furry time sucking beast.

Maybe I should get checked for the lead after all.

Yes Honey, Size Does Matter

2010-04-28T14:35:00.000-07:00

Well spring is almost over I suppose. I have begun the sad process of cutting back spent blooms and clearing away soggy tulip petals. There are still some late bloomers yet to bloom and that will ease my pain until the poppies come online and make me forget I ever had tulips. Of course while I know this intellectually and because the photo file from the past two years confirms this, I will still cry like a little girl when the tulips fade away.

When I actually was a little girl and not just crying like one, I had never seen a tulip in real life. I didn’t exactly grow up around gardeners. As a matter of fact for most of my childhood I grew up in the desert South West and was raised by wolves, who apparently don’t garden as a species. The only tulips I had ever seen until I was thirty one years old had been in coloring books. You know, the ones with outline pictures of cute little houses with a row of flowers on the front lawn, most often daisies or tulips. Simple shapes for simple minds. Somehow I always took offense to that but I got too distracted by the row of pretty colors in the Crayola box to put up much of a fuss. To my eye those flowers always looked pretty tiny and as I mentioned, the wolf den wasn’t much on flowers so there was a distinct paucity of comparables.

Then we moved here to the Great Northwest and went to see the tulip festival. I was absolutely stunned. First of all, there is the breathtaking sweep of pure color, like God left his own box of Crayola crayons out in the sun to melt across the valley floor but, then it was the sheer size of the things that blew me away. I had no idea they were so huge. I always thought tulips were these tiny little things, probably and unwittingly I thought, about as large in real life as they appeared in my little coloring books. When I was confronted with the real life flower I was shocked. Most of them were large enough to hold a grande sized latte’ from Starbucks…with whip. Not only that some of them actually smelled and nicely too, not like the dust scent I was accustomed to smelling on decorative roadside flowers, which unfortunately had really been my only flower sniffing experience. Well, that does exclude flowers given to me by the Saint but those usually smelled of guilt. Of course the The Actor often brought me flowers when he was a little boy but then we’re back to the dust smell again. I haven’t mentioned the Actor much in my blogging before but I promise to try this whole “sharing” thing everyone seems to be doing now days, a little more often. I don’t think I’ve actually mentioned him since the Troll episode. He expressed a little bitterness at that neglect over dinner one night but I took it in stride. As his mother, it is my solemn duty to disappoint him. Why, without me he would be sailing through life without guilt, disappointment or bitterness. Now I ask you, what kind of life is that?

When it comes to parenting, I am certainly no slacker, just ask the kid. It’s been nothing but a bitter life of disappointment and yet still he turned out perfect. I’m not exactly sure where I went wrong but those non gardening wolves sure knew what they were doing. And thank goodness for their evil black hearts, otherwise I would have completely missed the sheer joy and surprise of seeing a real live tulip for the first time in my life at the tender age of thirty one.

Standing there in a muddy field with a giant oversized latte’ in one hand exclaiming at the top of my lungs just to make sure the people at the next farm over could hear me, “my god, it’s so freaking huge!” A swath of touristy eyes suddenly turned in our direction. The Saint was wearing a canary eating grin and strutting like a peacock for some stupid reason so I said “Well it is! I didn’t know it was so big.” At that point he started smiling so hard that I thought the fool was having a stroke or something. Three women came running up to see what all the fuss was about but they looked disappointed for some reason. “Oh, that’s nothing. They all grow like that, honey” one of them said and then the Saint look disappointed for some reason. Now I’m not entirely sure of what I learned that day other than disappointment comes in all sizes but, so does joy, both are just as fleeting and usually come as a complete surprise. After the bitter disappointment of winter, spring is a joyful surprise and often much bigger than expected.

May each of you enjoy the joyful surprise of Spring.

Six Billion Bulbs and a Eunuch

2010-04-19T00:45:00.000-07:00

I have to tell you, it was nearly impossible to get myself back in here to write this post. Right now it is 67 degrees outside, sunny and all six billion tulips are blooming in my yard. Six billion may be a slight exaggeration but only slight. At least that’s how it felt from the ground up a few months ago with my spoon in hand as I tried to find places to put these little darlings. A dear friend assured me that the reason some of them were smaller and not up to my exacting standards or as the Saint likes to say my “Demands,” is due to their rather short time in the ground. As you may recall it was hardly my fault. Summer never really ended, it more likely resembled the big hook yanked it ungraciously off the stage so winter could do her little song and dance. And her special talent was freezing temperatures and icing my pond up a foot and half deep. Oddly, the talent portion of her routine was cut short and we oozed into what could normally be called a long wet Northwest spring. Of course it wasn’t spring, it was only January and everyone was confused.

Now that would have been the perfect time for me to plant those plump little bulbs other than the fact that Swine Flu was porking it’s way through my system and just before the little oinker left the pen the Titanic event happened in our bedroom thus inviting the porker to stay an extra couple of weeks. It was like some slovenly house guest you can’t get off your couch who eats all your best snacks and wants to know when you’re going shopping again. Dude, get a job or go home!

That left February and that’s when I got out there with my little spoon and a wheel barrel full of discount bulbs and got busy. In the end I gave up on the spoon and just used my finger to open up a hole. In case you’re wondering why I was using a spoon, let’s not get into the finger issue, it was because the winter was so nonexistent that nothing died back and there was simply no room at the Inn. What’s that? Sounds like I over planted? Heck yeah, I over planted! I was so paranoid that every single thing I planted would die a horrible wilty brown death that I figured my best shot at having at least one flower show up would be to plant six billion of them. There’s that number again. I’m not sure if there’s an underlying message there or not but I do enjoy the way I hear Austen Power’s Dr. Evil say it in my head. Now there might be a message in that but, it’s probably best if we leave sorting that out to the professionals.
Before the shortest month of the year and the warmest non winter was over we also dug up and re-bedded our gunnera plant. A huge dinosaur plant weighing, you guessed it, six billion pounds. This may not be an exaggeration. I was watching a home and garden show the other day and saw a group of seven men moving a root ball the same size as our gunnera. And these strong backed young men were whining about needing big equipment or more men. HA! The Saint and I did it with a strap and two crotchety old people. That would be us, the crotchety old people. Crotchety, but wily. And here’s my favorite part of the end of that month; the rose bushes were putting up new growth. I never got the chance to cut them back because they never gave up the ghost. They had roses blooming right up into the freeze and then just shrugged it off and came back for more. I figured I should at least trim them down and in a passing fit of pruning and, I do mean passing, I was on my way to the garage at the time, I grabbed the clippers and whacked a few stalks. Since I was on the way to the garage, read—to the car wearing a skirt and heels, I did not happen to be wearing my skanky gardening gloves, so I just left the stalks on the ground…"to be picked up later." We all know what happened next. The thing I didn’t count on however was that a month and a half later, after my blinding by Dr. Mengele, that I would find those clippings laying on the ground—GROWING. Just laying there, abandoned on the pathway, uncovered, out in the open, like they never even realized they were no longer attached to the bush. This place is so weird. So, I put them in some water and I’m hoping to have enough roots to plant them this summer. Maybe they’ll have roses for December. Of course at this rate they might have them next week. Hooray for horse poo!

And so now here I am glued to my office chair, literally, because it was the only way I would stay in here long enough to blog, the tulips are blooming the sun is shining and the air is filled with bird song and spring perfume. The garden centers are plying their wares again like the seedy pimps that they are and I am feeling like a eunuch at a porno convention. I am clearly going to have to, uh hmm…grow a pair and start yanking if I ever plan to take a walk on the wild side. Of course monogamy isn’t so bad. Not when you have something so tender, pretty, challenging and rewarding, always happy to greet you in the morning and smiling at you like you’re the best thing that ever happened on Earth. Gardening and marriage, full of bugs, disappointments, challenges and incomprehensible mood swings and one of the most rewarding relationships you can ever imagine. Springtime reminds me of why I fell in love in the first place…I don’t even mind picking the mess.

Not enough words...actually no words

2010-04-12T23:47:00.000-07:00

Skagit Valley, Washington Tulip fields 2010

Signs of Life

2010-04-06T00:39:00.000-07:00

Hello blog friends. Last week it was full on spring around here. The sun was out playing with big fat fluffy clouds, the wind chasing them both around the sky. The tulip fields were showing off their new party dresses and the birds were chattering away about their plans for the future. Less than a week later and I’m completely confused about which season we’re in. So too, is my garden. When the sun was out and the sweaters were off, the tulips made a mad dash onto the stage and just as show time drew near, the curtain came sogging down--it was soaking wet.

And that’s what I love about the Northwest. It’s totally schizophrenic. It doesn’t know if it wants to be coastal, rain forest, farmland, high desert or urban chic. It’s got water coming and going in every direction imaginable and even in some directions unimaginable. It can’t decide if things are going to grow strictly out of the ground, out of old logs, on top of concrete or just hanging in mid air. And heaven forbid you try to pin down the weather for longer than 15 minutes. You can get whiplash out here just getting your coat off and on. We’ve given up completely on umbrellas, it’s just too darn dangerous.

I suppose that like the people, the plants here have just learned to live between the drops. In spite of the mostly unreasonable rain/hail/snow this week the tulips, daffodils and forget-me-nots, etc. have continued to bloom. I just haven’t been able to get out there to enjoy them much. Oh, and yes, I did say snow. Thankfully none of it stuck, but it was a very nice display of big fat fluffy flakes. Between bursts of blinding rain and pelting hail the sun peeks out for a bit and I’ve managed to run outside with my trusty camera for a few minutes to snap some pictures before my fingers freeze up. It’s fascinating to me that in spite of the whine worthy weather the flowers are still maintaining their steady march toward blooming glory.

What I love about this insanely unreliable weather here is that it is as true a reflection of human nature as you can get. It’s not always warm and sunny, nor is it consistently cold and gloomy. It’s tempestuous and unreasonable one minute, mild and pleasant the next, then randomly glorious and entirely resistant to prediction. It never lets you forget that you are in an active committed relationship with a living breathing entity. Just as we have moods and emotions that are effected by innumerable forces and events so does the weather. It is the breath of the planet, the sound of it’s heartbeat and the voice of it’s soul.

I whine and complain like the cantankerous other half of an old married couple when I don’t get my way, and it howls with bitterness reminding me of who’s the boss in this eternal, sometimes infernal, relationship. But there is also cooing and soothing, warm smiles and gentle breezes. There are sunny days filled with golden bliss, making me fall in love all over again, forgetting the squabbles and frigid stares that tormented me so. Gifts of sweet flowers are offered in supplication and like any lover I am easily wooed from my anger. I will eagerly forgive the long dark months of harsh cold treatment for one warm glowing day. I will feel the earth’s warm breath on the back of my neck and smell the sweet gentle fragrance of rain washed air as I gladly accept the gift of spring. Summer will whisper in my ear that the whole world is in love with me and I will believe it. And it will even be true…for that moment. It’s all we have really. Just one moment before the next is all that we can truly claim. Life is like the weather, always changing, never in isolation, terrifying and beautiful in an instant.

I love living here, on the edge of weather. It can be plenty frustrating and certainly takes its toll sometimes but it is never boring. I like the banter and the bickering, as a matter of fact I think I thrive on it. I live for the days when the sun plays hide and seek with the clouds, the wind playing keep away with my hat. Icy stares that turn the world into diamonds and the long simmering gazes that turn everything into liquid gold. I like not knowing what’s coming next, always being kept on my toes and wondering if the sun will shine on me today or if a cold blast of indifference will greet me. I like being reminded that life is a moving action, a thing to participate in, actively engaging as each moment approaches. I love that the ever changing weather here reminds me that every day, every moment is a new one, that every second is changing and moving. This incredible inconsistent uncertain weather reminds me that time is alive. That I am alive and my time is now.

Dentistry and the Dogs of Karma

2010-04-01T12:46:00.000-07:00

I’m trying something new today and wanted to share it with you. My camera takes video but I have never bothered to use it. Why—who knows? Why does my camera shoot video to begin with? Why in the world does my phone take video and yet can’t make a decent latte`? These are questions I may never know the answer to. Just as I may never know exactly what Dr. Mengele, dentist extraordinaire, did to blind me and why he always offers me a blindfold when I come in. Sure they tell you it’s to shield your eyes from the bright light shining in your face but, he always seems just a tad too giddy when he hands them over for my taste. Why just this morning during my visit I was certain I heard him giggling behind his white paper mask. I reluctantly came back in for the final fittings of my crowns. I actually had to ask for a shot of Novocain. Bless his fool heart, he had suggested I wouldn’t need it. I wanted to be compliant, especially after the last visit, but when I jumped out of the chair like a first time nudist sporting a ruby red tush burn sitting on a cactus I had second thoughts about the wisdom of this choice. Who the heck did he think he was kidding with that anyway? Oh, that’s right—Me. The one peeling herself off the ceiling tiles and crying for her mother even though we all know I was raised by wolves. Now to clear a few things up. Dr. Mengele is a fine dentist. It’s truly not his fault that he’s an evil sadistic beast with sharp pokey instruments. I’m sure we can all agree that what’s important here is that he has found a fulfilling and meaningful career in the most frightening field ever invented. Most people of his caliber end up on America’s most wanted or wasting their superior talents in a concentration camp.

To date no one seems to be exactly sure of what happened on the last visit which resulted in an unfortunate absence of sight. Usually you don’t expect that sort of thing when you go to the dentist. Some pain and the usual weeping, sure but, blindness not so much. Of course it’s me and as Nutty Gnome has so elegantly phrased it, I am the Queen of Disaster. Now there’s a title a girl can be proud of. But she has a point. If there is a weird, deadly, unlikely, combination of bizarreness that will require several text books and a flock of desperate interns hopped up on double tall non fat soy milk latté’s and Peanut M&Ms to investigate, then I’m your gal. The last visit resulted in a hemotoma, an infection and a bad reaction to the Novocain. To make matters all the more annoying, the Novocain seems to be irritating the daylights out of the nerves and tissue around my eyes. I look like a raccoon turned peeping Tom at a chemical factory. (big red scaly burns ringing my eyes for those of you not up on your wildlife stalking behavior)
So far 2010 has had it out for me and though the year is still young, I’m wily and generally in a bad enough mood to put up a pretty good fight. If Karma really does exist then I’m pretty sure I must have been a real piece of work in my past life!

No matter. Currently I am going about my business like I actually deserve to live in spite of the broader message I seem to be getting. In honor of that blatant denial of the obvious, I have created a my first little slide show so can share with you how I spent most of my day after I snuck away from Dr. Mengele’s dental office and my eyes recovered. I’m glad they kept working for me because as you can see it’s spring here and there is nothing more beautiful to me than spring in the Northwest. The Saint and I went up to the Skagit Valley to take in some tulip viewing and latte` sipping. We were treated to some snow geese action in the bargain and I got some shaky video clips worthy of any drunken sailor during a high seas tumult. You might want to hit the Dramamine before viewing. I have zero video skills and you’ll not likely see me entering any swanky film festivals. As a matter of fact at this very minute I’m not sure I even possess the tech skills to upload this thing to the blog. Happy Spring and if we have met in a past life…I’M SORRY…for whatever it was I did—now call off your dog, Karma, I’m going to take a nap.

Singing Frogs, The Flat Earth Society and Dr. Mengele

2010-03-22T23:57:00.000-07:00

I have not posted in quite some time. It’s been terribly irresponsible of me, I know. It’s just that I have been so busy making new discoveries and generally adding to the vast and great knowledge of the human race. While I have been gone from Blogland for several weeks now you can hardly begrudge me the absence. Hey, come on now, no begrudging, be nice. Really, I’ve been making such amazing discoveries, we’ll all be the better for it. Mankind itself will be better for it! And you can trust me on this, I mean it’s not like I’m some kind of unreliable flack or something. Certainly not like those people who start blogs and then abandon them without warning. No siree, that’s not me, I’m trustworthy and reliable, just like the local weather man, er…person Buying this yet? I hope so ‘cause I’m running out of paper thin lies here. I used most of the good ones up earlier in the day when the windows needed washing.

Anyway, as I was saying, my great discovery…

Drum roll please---

THE EARTH IS FLAT

I know, I know, you’re shocked, I was too quite frankly but, flat is it is. Sure all the usual questions came up. The NASA photos, the Big Blue Marble and all that. That bologna with Columbus and all. Poppycock, all of it! They’ve been lying to us all this time. And I know a thing or two about big fat lies, let me tell you. I mean…anyway I know the Earth is flat because I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Seen it plain and square I tell ya!

I know this because I have been to the edge of the earth and fell directly off of it. That’s right, I fell right off the face of the earth and no one heard from me again. Well, until now that is. But that just shows my deep seated determination to get back to the land of blogging…or at least some place where I can get a decent latte’ for Gia’s sake! “There be monsters here” HA! What there be is a deplorable lack of decent caffeine service. I’m out there on a dingy street corner trying to score a five finger bag of bean from some scuzz ball named Squeaky just so I can get through my day without shooting some slow moving fool in the checkout line at Wal-Mart before running them down repeatedly with my shopping cart. Desperation is not pretty my friends. Not pretty indeed.

Then once I got back from my unplanned trip to the ends of the earth and the nether regions of No Caffeine Land I went to see my dentist, Dr. Mengele. He was expecting me. I had a recent series of unfortunate teeth events that made our little get together unavoidable. I broke two teeth on a bone hidden in a dish of BBQ pork. One tooth broke a chip off and cracked upward, the other broke a whole chunk out and right up to the bone. Dr. Mengele is a dear man, and an enthusiastic dentist. Why, he looked positively euphoric when he found out that he would have me in his chair for three whole hours. Just him and all his sharp pointy tools in a tiny sound proof room. He smiled warmly at me when I made the appointment and said he was looking forward to it. It was kind of an awkward moment.

Well the day came, and the long hours in the chair passed one excruciating second after another excruciating second. Hours full of seconds which dragged on into infinity as man’s inhumanity to man is performed in a white lab coat beneath cheesy pictures tacked to the ceiling and the caterwauling “played only on KKJgagmewithaspoonFM” battled it out with the sound of drills and inane conversation about yesterday’s lunch menue hammered my eardrums. Tiny cords soaked in icky tasting stop your gums from bleeding chemicals were wrapped around my teeth. Trays of soft rancid tasting saltwater taffy were jammed into my mouth and wads of cotton soaked in the icky tasting stop your gums from bleeding chemicals were clamped down on releasing a mouthwatering joy fest such as I’ve not experienced before. Molds were made, things were drilled both inside and outside my head. Teams of Caterpillar operators were directed to the inside my mouth to hold marketing demonstrations and sales expos. Dr. Mengele picked up an new track hoe for his home garden. It was a lovely shade of green. A small group of second graders were brought in on a field trip and picnicked by the back left molars. I don’t think I’d have them in again. They left quite a mess and the Frisbee game was a bit much. It kept hitting the back of my front teeth.

All in all it was a lovely day and a pleasant experience.

When I got home the Saint and I decided to go out the Olive Garden for some soothing minestrone soup and some spinach artichoke dip. Love that stuff! And I figured it was the only thing I could still trick my mouth into opening up for and failing that, could be sucked through a straw. So off we went. As we arrived in the parking lot something was burning my eye. Nothing had gotten into my eye on the drive, it was just burning. You know, the way it will when a tiny invisible blow torch is on it or a hot iron poker…well, you get the point. When we sat down I ordered a glass of ice water and a morphine drip. Our waiter What’s-his-name, I couldn’t see his name tag by this time, brought the ice bath and said he had a call into his cousin, Squeaky. Mr. Squeaky was quite the entrepreneur. I made sure to tell What’s-his-name Squeaky and I went way back.

I toughed it out through a brief dinner dousing the flames shooting out of my eye with pitchers of ice water brought by our waiter What’s-his-name. By the time we got home—

I WAS BLIND.

Well look at the word count! I’m going to have to wrap this up in the next post. I know I’ve been gone awhile. It was an unplanned absence and I apologize for that. As it turns out it is extremely difficult to blog post when you have fallen off the face of the earth and harder still when you’re blind.

I will be back to post soon. The frogs are singing in the ponds, the birds are flocking in the garden, the tulips are priming for color and Praline and Garvin are making daily visits to the pond. Oh, those are the ducks’ names now. Praline, is for a current choice of latte` flavoring and Garvin, is for “Fred Garvin, male prostitute,” of 1970s SNL fame.

Fat Lazy Slobs Love the Weather Channel

2010-02-17T01:17:00.000-08:00

Over the past few days we have had some pretty heavy rains. Nothing to write home about or even blog about for that matter, not that I’m going to let that little detail stop me. I wasn’t to worried about it though and what I mean by worry is that special kind of North-Western/Seattle worry that comes when it rains and the temperature isn’t cold enough to freeze you like discount pop-sickle; anything above that and we want to be outside…preferably in shorts. Of course if that means we have to wear wool socks with sandals and fuzzy collared parkas over shorts well, so be it. The important thing is that we’re outside. Sure, we may be the backwater of the fashion world but we do it with giant recycled cups of melted caffeine candy bars from Starbucks and a bunch of funky micro brews, nobody really cares what we do anymore. Besides we can cut off your internet and you all know it.
The reason I wasn’t too worried about one of those agonizingly long stretches of rain usually referred to as “When will it ever stop?” and “I literally can not remember what the sun looks like” is because I have become addicted to looking at satellite weather pictures. No longer am I left to hang on every word of some over puffed, over powdered, goofball on local television telling me everything about absolutely nothing which I could easily see for myself if I bothered to look out a window. He never tells me what I really need to know because A. he doesn’t actually know anything that’s not on the cue card in front of him and B. he’s still bitter that he didn’t get the big gig on CNN where they have real professionals do your hair and makeup. He’s sure he could have really been somebody if he wasn’t stuck doing time in some backwater fashion hell “paying his dues”. Yeah, I’m skipping that guy’s segment now and spending my time looking at the big picture baby!

Well this big picture known to me as “that glorious weather satellite” and offering any pole, hemisphere or land mass, I might wish to look at told me that we are getting this month’s air from the warm and wonderful South Pacific and that nasty little rain pelting was but a brief passerby. I was ready and waiting with my pond-side-sitting gear. Sure I could find some gardening task to do on a nice sunny day, shoot even a not quite so rainy day would do but, that’s not what I watch the satellites for. No, I watch the satellites so I know exactly how much time I really do have to lounge around like a big fat bum before I have to admit I lounged around like a big fat bum and didn’t get stuff done. That bubble headed powder puff with the happy sunshine chip on his shoulder isn’t going to tell me that information now is he? NO. He’s going to tell me that it’s going to be all “sunshine and lollipops for the next five days so grab your gardening clogs friends and head outside.” Then when it’s raining like the end times on a holy roller of package of revenge the next five days he just shrugs his trustworthy looking tweed jacketed shoulders as if to say “See, this is why you need me, Mother Nature is just so unpredictable.” GAAAHH

The WeatherChannel.com is on my desktop and I am not afraid to use it Mr. Untrustworthy Tweed Jacket Man. And seriously, give the rugged dry look hair thing a rest will ya? Everyone knows you haven’t been outside since 1975.

Armed with my trusty eyes on the world satellite information I worried not when the rain poured down after teasing us with sun breaks only the day before. No, I did not whine and whimper with fear of a rainy spring leading into a no summer at all wet fest like we had not so very long ago. I smiled smugly as I sat safely dry on the porch bench sipping my morning latte` and patiently waiting for tomorrow. Yes, I knew. I knew exactly how much time I had to sit around like a lazy bum on holiday with low expectations and nowhere to go. The spring cleanup can wait another day or two, the beds in back can wait till the weekend and the garage has all summer to dry out…I hope it dries out. The porch rails need repainting and the porch floor could use a serious touch up too. The benches need refinishing and the windows desperately need power washing, I might even try sand blasting a few of the really bad ones. But for right now, I’ve got time. Time to slip out to the pond during a sun break and soak up this rare warm spring weather. Time to enjoy the birds in the garden the fishes schooling about in the pond and our new found pond buddies, Praline and Butter Nut. Are those their names? No, not really but I just bought new coffee syrups today and I want to make sure those silly ducks have names so when my hunting machine of a dog eats them I’ll know what to put on their little markers. I know, I know. I thought they would figure it out and not come back but they seem to like it here…so far.

We are at least a month and a half ahead of last year at this time. Everything looks a lot better than it did then because it didn’t have three feet of snow plastering it into oblivion this year. I could have used a little more winter down time but I’m more than happy to map it out on the satellite maps, plan my mini down times by the pond and know that I really don’t have to worry about all that stuff right this minute just because spring got silly and came early. The invitation clearly said April-May. It’s not my fault if I’m still in my scruffies. Pull up a chair, I’m expecting another sun break any minute. May I pour you a fresh cup of coffee while we wait?

Nobody asked you!

2010-02-09T23:14:00.000-08:00

It was sunny today. Bright beautiful sunny. And I went outside and stayed there until the trees ate the sun away. I spread a blanket out between the waterfalls grabbed a pillow and laid there with the sun on my face and the sound of rushing water from where there should only be rocks. I snapped of a dried twig of catmint and reveled in its warm nostalgic scent. I ignored the weeds and the grass that is sneaking in and just rolled over to look at the fishes now schooling about in the pond. It was a lovely day…and it is the 9th of February. It was an odd day.

We have actually been having a number of these odd days. So much so that everything and I truly do mean everything is sprouting and raring to go. I figure we are at least a month and a half ahead of schedule for even and early spring. Some years, feels like most, we don’t get spring until sometime in May. That’s if we get spring at all that is. Last year we had snow at the end of March and it was snow tire snow, well at least at our elevation it was. This year it’s February and my rose bushes are leafing out.

Now at first I was completely flummoxed by this turn of events. I needed the rest. I have things to do in the house, I have a new writing project to work on, I have to paint and most of all; I just want to sit on my butt and do nothing for a little while. And that would not include being sick with swine flu—twice, thank you very much. Did I mention that the new not leaking water heater is not exactly heating? No? Hmm, can’t imagine how I let that slip. No worries. I’m just going to dust bathing and get on with my life.

The fishes have shown up again along with the frogs. I hadn’t seen them, the fish that is, for…wait let me check the calendar, oh that’s right—five whole minutes. They look plump slimy and happy and apparently ready for lunch. I guess they didn’t sleep long enough to forget where to show up for a meal. They’ve been hovering around the bridge and the little ones are beginning to stalk me. Did I mention that last year, I mean last week, just before putting them to bed I discovered that we had new baby fishes? Sooo cute. I’m calling them chips for the time being. Yes, that’s right. Now we have fish-n-chips. Bwaaahahaa. I really do need a nap.

So with this fine weather I have found myself rushing to do the tasks that I thought I still had a month to do. Now let’s not drag up the past with all that silly bulb talk. I had plenty of time when it all started. I can’t be held responsible for the weather turning on me like that or the fact that my bedroom tried to kill me. They’re in the ground now so we don’t need to talk about that anymore. No, I do not think I over bought bulbs or that it was unreasonable to think anything less than an army could plant 700 bulbs. Perfectly reasonable. Ask anybody, really.

I had to transplant a large-ish gunnera plant. If you don’t know what they are they are commonly referred to as dinosaur plants. You know those giant cement leaves you see in garden stores sold as bird baths and the like? The ones with the leaves are measured in feet? That’s them. They are definitely a statement piece and we have one in the only place we can actually well, have one, at the top of the pond. The only issue is that I had to make a bed for it and that is a lot of freaking dirt my friends! Last year I thought it might have not been enough dirt and was convinced that I needed to dig it up and rebuild the bed with even larger amounts of dirt. I am now also convinced that this should have been done with a track hoe and several hired hands. That was not the choice I made. But hey, 700 bulbs and a giant gunnera plant, why not? It sure made moving the five foot rose bush look like a breeze.

Those are the roots on the right side of this lump.

Speaking of five foot plants…the six foot daisies needed some thinning. The word thinning is cruelly deceptive. Let me just say that when I think of flower gardening rarely do I envision swinging and ax and vehement cursing. I’m telling you what, these daisies are not thugs in the garden their a mafia gangland syndication. After that act of disrespect I’m looking for a horse head in my bed every morning.

So I bet your wondering if I have some particular point or, any point for that matter, to this post. Um, no. No, I don’t. This is just me being a little surprised that it’s apparently spring already and I have the robins to prove it. Of course this could turn ugly and we could be waking up to the white stuff killing all these over eager plants at any time. Except for the daisies of course. Nothing short of Napalm is killing those babies. As a matter of fact I’m planning on setting them loose on that field of evil blackberries out back which the Saint has taken to calling Al Qaeda. Blackberries and Daisies duking it out in a fight to the death. I’m betting on the daisies.

-Insert Clever Title Here-

2010-02-05T03:17:00.000-08:00

This is the time when I sit down in front of my computer and realize that I haven’t a single thought in my head. No thought except to wonder what in the world I am going to blog about. I stare at my monitor screen glowing white with a blank document, certain that it is mocking me behind it’s digital mask. No doubt it just is wondering how we humans ever made it to the position that we are currently hold and quietly biding its time till the “Big One” finally takes us out. “Oh yeah? Well, I’m watching you buddy and I know where the plug is! Just you keep that tidy bit of info stored in your evil little data banks. That’s right, I know where the plug is Mister and I’m not afraid to pull it either!”

I’m sorry you had to see that. It’s not pretty I know, but every now and then you just need to let them know whose in charge. I mean, if you don’t lay down the law once in awhile it’s going to be Terminator landscaping all over the place. They start with ruining our finances then move onto deleting family photos and email addresses just to be mean before getting down to the real horrors—crashing You Tube and Twitter! And besides, that evil little cackle was really getting on my nerves.

Speaking of landscaping and segues smooth as sandpaper… I finally got all 700 bulbs planted. Whoo Hoo! When I bought those babies back at the end of Fall I joked that I would be planting them in the middle of December. It was a joke, right? No. The joke was that I wouldn’t even be planting them in the middle of January. I was going to be planting them in February. And yet even that wasn’t humorous enough for the powers that be; powers that happen to be just a little sadistically twisted in a “Oh ha ha, isn’t that cute, you actually thought you knew what you were doing didn’t you?” sort of way.

Well those little packets of future sweetness are finally in the ground and hopefully making velvety petals of color for our viewing pleasure. Please, please, please, be doing that in there.

It is unfortunate that I must report the water heater is still on the questionable list. It doesn’t seem willing to produce the hot water that was promised on the outside of the package. Now I will say that it is doing a far bit better than the ice cold shower it was offering just a short time ago but it is no way near the hot steamy fiesta my winter wimpy self longs for. It is also making some unusual sounds that are most likely some sort of water heater death rattle. Sigh. At some point here I am going to have to make a decision about that blasted thing and either yank it out or learn to live with lukewarm showers and overly dramatic death rattles. Guess we can all see where that one’s going.

Like most things in life this will all pass and just as winter seemed to pass this year with hardly a nod in our direction my memory of this will drift away as uneventfully. I may still flinch a little when I see cold rushing water but as long as it stays out of my shower and my bedroom I’ll be OK with it. Between the 100s of bulbs I planted last year and the 700 I planted this year something will show up and I’ll never be the wiser for what doesn’t. At this time, though I can’t make promises, I don’t plan on counting all of the flowers that actually show up. That is of course unless you think I should?

I started this post by exposing the evil plans of world domination by our modern technology with its Terminator landscaping goals and I couldn’t help thinking of some small tenacious sprout poking up from the ashes. Life is just like that--stubborn.

Our warm weather has me marveling at how the garden has barely finished blooming before it is back up for another round. My entire garden is built on bedrock and gravel and yet there are seedlings sprouted everywhere, the lily pads are already growing up toward the light and rose bushes are flush with new growth. There isn’t a stitch of earth out there that doesn’t have something growing on it. Today I thinned some daisies and had to use an ax to chop through them they were so thick. There are plants that were pulled out of trash bins which are now growing strong and vibrant. This planet absolutely teems with life of such an undeniable power, such unimaginable determination that all you have to do sometimes is look at a tiny speck of green pushing its way up through the dirt, reaching for the sun, to know that we were made to strive. We were made to take a little dirt in the face once in awhile so that we can strengthen our roots as we push up toward the light. Sometimes we need a cold winter to rest in before the warm summer sun calls us out to bloom again.

There's No Place Like Home--and if there was I probably wouldn't go there.

2010-01-29T21:05:00.000-08:00

When I first saw the tulip fields in the Skagit valley I felt like I had walked into the poppy fields in the Wizard of OZ. So much solid color for as far as the eye could see. It was glorious and unbelievable. I was like a little kid giddy with excitement. Of course I just had to have my very own fields of tulips. Unfortunately I did not have the room for it. Not unless I planted every square inch of the front yard and then moved on into the neighbors yards as well. Not that I think they would have minded but they may have questioned my on my color choices and I simply wasn’t willing to go there. There was also that small but important fact that made my dream even less likely to come true. I didn’t garden! A small set back to my Dorothy schemes.

I reluctantly came to terms with my territorial limitations and non gardening ways and consoled myself with yearly visits to the fields and ogling the tulips of the neighbors who actually did garden.

When we moved to our current home a few years ago those dreams long denied and dormant resurfaced with a vengeance. As soon as we had beds with dirt I wanted to fill them with bulbs. Tons of bulbs, swaths of vibrant mind blowing color as far as the eye can see. I got the catalogues from our local growers and began filling up my order, eager for those big beautiful fields of color to be mine, all mine. And it took about five whole minutes before I found out just how flipping expensive that was going to be! The Wicked Witch of Want and her evil Monkeys of Denial had thwarted my Dorothy plans once again.

But no! The Scarecrow of Autumn arrived with a wonderful gift—the 50% off sale. I was saved, my dreams of creating “No Place Like Home” were back on track. I grabbed a cart and began scaring the daylights out of the Saint. I snagged bags of 75 this, 100 that and 50 something else. In went big bags of red plastic mesh filled with red yellow mix tulips 100 count, giant King Alfred daffodils 100 count, then pink ones, and yellow ones then hyacinth, crocus, iris …it was a mad flurry of bulbs and corms. They were 50% off for heavens sake--I had to!

This is my third year buying copious amounts of bulbs at deep discount ten minutes before the weather turns to rain, snow and ice. It’s a challenge and a lot of work but so far I have managed to get all those bulbs into the ground before the weather runs into the house to suck up to the fireplace for the next several months. This year I waited for the sales as I have done before, they seemed though I can verify it, to go on sale later. I made my final bulb purchase during a sleet and hail storm. They were going to sit in the garage for a bit.

Then the holidays hit, a main waterline broke leaving us no water over said holidays, then the flu, the Titanic event, the flu again, oh, and now the heater is leaking again. Nope, not kidding, the new water heater is leaking from ever single hose connection the guy made just a couple of days ago. Sigh. No water again lest we drown in our sleep.

At least the weather isn’t what it was last year around this time when it was um, cold. We had a wee bit of snow then. This photo was taken just after Christmas last year, when we got three feet of the white stuff over night. The year before on this date, we also had snow. This year however it looks like we are going to have roses blooming with the tulips. It has been very mild after a long hot summer and the garden has had about 6 minutes of sleep, which sadly, is about 4 more minutes than I have had lately.

I have been out there in the garden with my trusty spoon for days now trying to get 700 discount bulbs into the ground before the daisies and roses show up. I’m almost there but if I have to go through one more life altering event I might just choke a Munchkin and call it a day.

Titanic- The Home Version

2010-01-24T23:47:00.000-08:00

You may recall that I started the New Year with a nasty flu bug and that it was really wiping me out. I have certainly had worse bugs but this one was at the very least a tenacious little punk. Mostly it just pulled up comfy spot on the sofa, with a bowl full of chips, the greasy kind, turned on the Discovery Channel and made himself at home. I couldn’t get this slacker to leave, even when the chips were gone he just moved onto a box of saltines and a brewsky. You wouldn’t believe the mess he made. Crumbs and empty glasses everywhere, pizza boxes littering the floor, the house was a wreck! I couldn’t even get all the delayed holiday gear put away. “Oh no, don’t do that. Let’s just lie here and take a nap” he said. “Look hyenas and giant ants are on next, you don’t want to miss that!” I was weak, I couldn’t resist and the hyenas weren’t so bad but those ants, they kind of stick with you. They’re like the largest colony on earth or something. Forget Al-Quaeda, bomb those freaking ants!

After convalescing for what I am pretty sure was a good six months I had begun to have fever free days. This coordinated beautifully with the first actual sunny day we’d had in those six months. Anxious to get as far as possible from those fever induced ant images, I grabbed my gardening gloves and headed out. It was nearly time for the spectacular Messy Garage Tulip Show. Hey, don’t judge me. Sure there were seven hundred spring bulbs sprouting their lights out in that garage but I was sick people, sick. I filled up the wheelbarrow with tulips and daffodils, iris and a bunch of other stuff I’m to lazy to list and began the tedious task of digging those babies into the ground. This was made all the more tedious because, I WAS USING A SPOON. Not because I lost my hand trowel, my bulb planter or even my mind, well maybe that one. But because I have planted so much in my garden that a spoon was all I could squeeze into the tiny spaces left. It was a long day.

After taking shower, then foolishly talking to my neighbor outside in my bathrobe with wet hair it was time to call it a day. Besides, I could’ve sworn I heard the Discovery Channel click on.

Later that night resting comfortably next to the Saint, who was graciously not snoring for once, I was annoyed…awoken by a light tapping sound. “Oh, it must be raining” I thought and rolled over to snuggle into the covers. “Wait a minute. There weren’t any clouds and rain doesn’t come one drop at a time?” I nudge the Saint, “Honey, do you hear that, what is that?” He’s a sound sleeper but a fast wake up and I am the complete opposite. “That’s a leak somewhere.” Ahhgggg-- He was right and it was coming from the hot water heater which is for some reason dumber than buckets with holes so kids won’t drown (an actual US government proposal, I kid you not) the tank is located in our bedroom. I have no doubt in my mind that the designer who came up with this brilliant plan was a dedicated crack smoker and had just made a major score the day our blueprints came across his desk.

Now the beloved Saint clad only in his nighttime skivvies made his way to the heater in search of the leak. “I think it’s coming from AAAAAHHHHH!!!” This is where he made that sound an exotic animal being attacked by rabid hyenas covered in giant ants on the Discovery Channel makes. It seems there isn’t an actual word for that.
And thus began our latest near death experience.

I rushed to his side and was just in time to hear that horrible animal sound again--but this time it was coming from me. The intake hose on the water heater had come undone and we were now standing under Niagara Falls at the dead of winter in our underwear. The water pressure was nothing short of a hydrant. The intake hose had been cut too short and now that it had come loose it could not reach the connector valve. The water was shooting onto the low ceiling and drenching us. This water comes from a well four hundred feet down and it was dangerously cold at forty three degrees. The pressure was so strong that it took both of us to push the ends together enough to at least slow down the outward flow but as the ends came closer together the water was blasted into our faces and torsos. We were shivering so hard the next day all our muscles would be sore. We could barely speak, our motor skills were clunky and our thought process’ were getting pretty sketchy.

The two of us tried to hold the ends together and figure out a plan. This was made all the more difficult by the frequent and slips of the hose and the onslaught of torrential ice water. One of us had to run outside to turn off the well pump and one had to stay to hold the hoses together. He has stronger upper body strength so I raced outside to the well house and back in just in time for his grip to slip and we took another assault. There was still a lot of pressure.

I ran to turn all the faucets on. The hose slipped again. The house was filling with water. I ran outside again to find a garden hose. We could not force the water into the nozzle, the intake hose was uncontrollable. Violently shivering and barely able to think and speak we realized there was another pump still on at the opposite side of the house. The water was kept coming like an icy geyser with the brief exception of some super heated tank water being suctioned out to scald the Saint’s hand before soaking us with freezing water again. I ran back outside to turn off the other pump. It was thirty eight degrees out there with a light breeze.
Coming back in I felt guilty because thinking I had it better than he did, I got away from the torrential ice water for a moment. Finally the water was under control and we could get out of the water and dry ourselves off. It had taken us about twenty three minutes to get out from under the water.

Right about then is when our Malamute who had been frightened by those wild animal sounds and run outside, came back in. Apparently haven taken comfort by rolling in something very much dead. I laughed so hard at the completeness of the night’s disaster that I nearly fainted in a fit of coughing. Of course that had more to do with the fact that the malingering flu bug had taken total possession of my lungs by that point.

Now to leave you with a few interesting tidbits that I discovered after our little shower fiesta:

1. The temperature of the Atlantic waters that Titanic sank in were 35 degrees.
2. The air temperature was 43 degrees.
3. Time before exhaustion or unconsciousness, 15 - 30 minutes.

1. Temperature of the water we were in, 43 degrees.
2. Air temperature, 38 degrees
3. Time before exhaustion or unconsciousness, 30 – 60
4. Physical exertion drains the body of heat faster than if you stay still
5. Wind drains the body of heat.
6. Leonardo Di Caprio is a liar.

I'm lighting a fire and taking a nap.

*editing note- I checked the outside temp and it was 38* I edited the text to reflect that.

Look Ma! No Color--OK, well, less anyway

2010-01-19T20:39:00.000-08:00

Memory's Ghost Watercolor 22x30"
Forgive me readers for I have slacked. It has been six days since my last confession. Er, I mean post. Life snuck up on me and well one thing led to another and before I knew it I was waking up in a ditch with a pounding headache and a new tattoo that says Avis Rent-A-Car below a blue Honda Civic. I have no idea where the poodle skirt came from but the chicken seems to like it. In my last post, you remember that one from almost a week ago, whew, how time flies when you can't remember where you've been or how you got there or why it seemed like such a good idea at the time even though you were pretty sure it was illegal in most states...Oh, sorry.

Um, where was I? Oh, yes, my last blog post. As I recall I made some high faluting promises about showing you that I really could restrain my licentious ways with color. I had to dig around for awhile before I found something that fit the bill and believe me it wasn’t easy. I clearly have a problem here the proportions of which will likely require a twelve step program and someone named Thelma with big burly arms and a thick paddle to keep me in line. Sure, I tell myself I can quit anytime but I'm just lying to myself, I know I can’t. It’s time for me to see that, to admit that I am powerless over all those juicy rich bright colors so creamy in texture and vibrant like confections in a Willy Wonka factory. WHAT? No, I wasn’t painting anything just now. What makes you think that? Oh, that? Nothing. Nothing at all, just a little um, raspberry jelly that’s all. There all gone now.
The Barn watercolor 22x30"
Anyway so as I was saying, color. The bane of all that is civilized and bland. It arouses wayward thoughts of self expression and unruly feelings of joyful exuberance. It must be kept under lock and key if not eradicated entirely. There is nothing pleasurable or more decent and respectable than a simple palette of two colors. A third color may even, upon special occasions, be included but, no more. We certainly don't want things getting out of hand. An artistic life with a properly guarded imagination can be quite fulfilling, especially with the judicious use of a third color on those few but special occasions.

Ouch! It hurts make it stop. Nope, sorry, can’t do it. I’m hooked. I’m not painting unless every darn tube of paint I own is sprawled out on the table in a pigment fiesta. Trays of pastels arrayed before me rainbows in sunshine. Each tiny package of color a joyous promise of beauty. Shades of hope and beauty, touched by light and imagination.

Yes, I love color. I love the way my brain interacts with the celestial light of our world and the shadows that lurk within. With each shade and hue there is a conversation that goes on in a place where there are no words, only your own emotional language whispering in your soul. And if it is done well, that whisper can become a song; a song to lift your spirit into the heavens or render it in two. We share the same Eternal Love affair with color and light as autumn leaves on a sunny day. Artists from the dawn of time have been capturing this impossible beauty. They have used it to move the greatest and most immeasurable weight in existence, the human soul.
Fine Young Ladies pastel 24x26"

Shadows and light, nothingness and everything, exceedingly simple and endlessly complex. How could I resist using something so glorious in absolute excess? Perhaps it comes from knowing darkness, from seeing the color drained from life or the light extinguished from within. Maybe it is a talisman we carry to remind us that the light still lives somewhere, even when we can’t see it. There to remind us in the darkened hours that the sun will shine again and when it does, it will touch the deepest of shadows, turning them into rich vibrant colors, ripe with the promise of life.

Thee and Thou and then just me

2010-01-13T16:10:00.000-08:00

Thee and Thou
pastel, 24x36"

It has occurred to me that I have not posted a painting in awhile. OK. It actually occurred to me that I haven't been on a cool road trip or seen anything not completely waterlogged for awhile. It made for a fine excuse to drag out a painting. I am so lazy. These two paintings are both in pastel medium on sanded paper and I painted them some time ago. Unfortunately now all I can see is what's wrong with them. Of course I always end up seeing what I think is wrong with them after I have them framed up. As a matter of fact the surest way for me to spot what I think isn't working is to have someone buy it. Then I spend the rest of my time trying to figure out how I can get that sucker back off their wall so I can fix it for them. Apparently the police frown on most of my ideas. If I'm lucky I'll catch it just after I finish framing it and attaching the hanging wire. It's funny what an expensive frame job can do for your critical perceptions.

As you can see I am something of a color whore. I seem to lack proper restraint in that area. I am not hopelessly lost however in color overload. I plan to prove it to you in the next post when I will show you a couple of paintings that display my ability to limit my licentious use of color. Today however seemed like a perfectly acceptable excuse to show you these. It has been dark and raining buckets for at least the past two days. There was a brief sun break this afternoon and I thought if I was fast enough I just might make it outside to soak up some of that elusive sunshine. Not fast enough. By the time I got my shoes on I saw the cats waving to me as they drifted by in a row boat. Maybe tomorrow.

For any of you who may be interested in the process I employ in my pastel paintings I'll bore you-- I mean provide you with a quick run down. The surface aka paper I use is Kitty Wallis museum grade sanded paper. It is like a very fine sand paper. I love this paper! You can pretty much do anything to it and it will hold up beautifully. This works well for me because I like to abuse the living daylights out of my pastel paintings. With watercolor I am much more civilised but, pastel is a full contact sport. I have been known to take a hose and scrub brush to this paper and it just laughs and keeps coming back for more.

Like many artists I paint an under-painting first. This is where I probably go off the reservation a tad bit. I use oil pastels directly on the paper. Some poor unsuspecting fool once said within earshot, that you could not mix oil pastels and dry pastels. I didn't make it out of the art store before I had a new mission in life--proving that unimaginative fool entirely wrong. I'm kind of punky that way. Of course no words were exchanged but it was definitely ON.

The way that this reasonable impossibility works has a lot to do with Kitty's fabulous paper. I use painting medium to thin and work the oil pastel into the tooth of the paper. I have to wear those little rubber finger tip things they use for counting money at the bank though or I would sand my fingertips right off. Sure, I could use a tool and sometimes I do but, I like the finger painting approach. It's in keeping with my juvenile nature.

The real reason I use this method and not the more traditional mediums for an under-painting is that the oil pastel quickly covers a lot of space and maintains its much more rich and vibrant color. This in turn means I can get where I am going in a painting a whole lot faster.

The other particular thing I prefer to use in these paintings is my own hand made pastels. I learned this little art form from the famous Kitty Wallis herself and I have been hooked ever since. I love being able to craft and create my own special colors and shades. It's a tactile thing and a little reminiscent of playing with Clay-Dough. Plus, I'm greedy with colors. There's that juvenile nature again. I find something absolutely irresistible about being able to purchase pure pigments and play around with colors and mixing them up as if you might know what you're actually doing. One day I hope to play around with composition as if I know what I'm doing. I have such lofty artistic goals. It's good to have goals. Goals and Play-Dough that's my motto. Well that and a shiny new box of Crayons. The big one!

Summer Afternoon
30x22"

The Birds

2010-01-07T17:15:00.000-08:00

Birds. I love them and I spend an inordinate amount of money feeding them. Sure I know they have a natural buffet built right into the landscape but I want their happy, chirpy, colorful, feathers flitting past my windows and through my gardens so, I feed them. A lot. They bring me joy and happiness. They remind me of the belief that my spirit was meant to soar high into the heavens. But freedom is not free. And this particular freedom requires bags of seeds, cracked corn, peanuts, suet cake and dog food. Yes, I did just say dog food. Dry dog food to be exact.

We have a rather wide variety of birds here and some of them have a distinct preference for dog food. I discovered this one fine summer day when upon researching a strange noise coming from the kitchen, I found Stellar Jays raiding the dog food dish. I shooed them out. They came right back. I closed that door. They tried to come in the front. Clearly they were fans. We feed our pets Hills Science Diet and it’s great stuff but it isn’t cheap and it certainly isn’t for the birds.

Every day I put out fresh food for them in about eight different places. I do this as part of my morning ritual, right along with having my extra hot latte’ and feeding the horses their morning treats. My little feathered friends literally wait for me in the trees. If I am late getting up, the jays will start squawking and tapping on the window. I don’t mind though. It gets me walking the garden every morning which is something I truly enjoy doing. I don’t have a bunch of specialized feeders designed for individual birds with price tags to match. Mainly what I do is sprinkle out a mixture of feed onto stumps, rocks and logs. They have been pretty comfortable with this arrangement and we get dozens of different species that seem to get along just fine. Trust me, no one is going hungry around here. The mixture that I have found to be the most well received is this: squirrel mix (corn, sunflower, peanut, etc.), no waste seed mix and cheap dry dog food plus several suet cages. And this is how we come to buy dog-dog food and bird-dog food.

So as you can see I love the birds. Maybe just not enough for Science Diet though. It is therefore also part of my yearly ritual to go viewing birds that don’t visit Bluegate Gardens. And that is where you find this post now. The cute little red farm house is in the Skagit valley. You remember when I told you about the valley’s great culinary abundance earlier this year in Trip to Bountiful? Well there is another special delight that the Skagit valley has to offer. Birds!

Every winter the Snow Geese descend upon the valley on their way up to Alaska and Canada. Bald Eagles can also be found in abundance but we come for the Snow Geese in particular. And the reason is this; you can truly experience an Alfred Hitchcock moment like no other. Now I can’t speak for anyone else but I did not grow up around this sort of flocking phenomenon and it can be quite spectacular. Seeing these huge flocks is one thing amazing in itself but the real excitement starts when they suddenly take flight flushing into the air with a great rushing explosion of white feathers. You feel them swirling around you lifting and rising into the sky and for a moment you can feel your soul rising with them high into the heavens. There is no Disneyland roller coaster ride that can compare with that feeling of living energy lifting you up out of your earthly confines.

Now of course there is the other side of this wonderful phenomenon which the great master of suspense Alfred Hitchcock displayed so disturbingly well. Unnerving enough to make every common House Finch look suspiciously like an evil minion from hell sent on a scouting mission, and a giant flock of huge Snow Geese surrounding your house is an active sign of the Apocalypse. If you can manage to get past that collective trauma memory it’s really a great bit of fun.

The other great bird watching event that we always make sure to experience is the Bald Eagles that flock to our northern rivers every winter to eat the dying salmon. The birds are on their way up to Canada and Alaska. Just like the Snow Geese the eagles are stopping off in Washington state to fatten up on the rich buffet before heading off for some long winter months up North. When I was a girl I remember learning of our nation’s dying Bald Eagle population and it saddened me deeply. Species do die off all the time but as I understood it these birds weren’t going naturally, we were killing them off ourselves. I also grew up in areas where I never saw Bald Eagles so they seemed even more rare than imaginable. They held a mystical quality for me, perhaps not too far removed from that of a unicorn. The idea of losing that forever was heartbreaking.

Humans do a lot of terrible things and we make a lot of mistakes along the way. We also do a lot of tremendously wonderful things and get an awful lot of stuff right. Bringing the Bald Eagles back from the brink was one of those things we got right. It renews my faith in the symbiotic relationship of living things when I see the trees full of Bald Eagles.

We drive out to Concrete and Marblemount to watch them flock along the river banks. They fill the trees in numbers I could never have imagined in my childhood. I can stand on the side of the road not five feet from a beautiful majestic creature that in my lifetime was almost lost to eternity. Seeing these birds free and wild in such numbers is a clear and true testament to life. An active display of life snatched back from the edge of total darkness. Some things go when they are meant to go and life ends and is reborn all the time. Sometimes however we get the chance to right a wrong. Sometimes we get to say no to death, not just yet.

Fireworks and Flu in 2010

2010-01-02T19:41:00.000-08:00

Yes, I do know that I am posting this on January 2nd, in the evening no less and most of you will see it even later than this, on the 3rd. Apparently I decided to start the new year in a bang up way--with the flu. It's not the worst thing and if it is the swine flu I think it is more the piglet version rather than the full hog version. Piglet or hog, I have had a fever for days now and the synapses in my brain are popping like fireworks under water. And that would explain how it is that I come by these pictures here.

Every year Seattle blows up the Space Needle. I don't know when we started doing this but I think it might have begun when we blasted the hideous King Dome. It just felt so darn good blowing up the ugliest building ever built that we wanted to relive that glorious day blowing some more stuff up. I'm not a native here so I might be missing some important details but I have a fever and I'm not so sure I care that much right now. I bullied the Saint into taking me to West Seattle that night like we always do so that I could take these fuzzy shots. It had been raining most of the day but magically cleared up just long enough for the show. We got a super lucky parking spot so I didn't have to hike anywhere. Yea! I don't have a tripod--don't ask why, I have no idea--so I propped the camera up on a crumpled box atop the car and tried to keep it steady. There was still a lot of fog and moisture in the air so the shots are more soft than even my unsteady shooting would have been alone. I just wanted to share with you all something that is a part of our Northwest tradition here. It holds a special place in my heart. Special enough to drag my fevered foolish self outside on a chilly wet night to take wobbly pictures of "Ooh, pretty!"

I hope you all had a wonderful time New Year's Eve. I am so glad to have met you all and to be part of your blogging world. Thank you so much for making this a special year and for enriching me with your wonderful friendship. I look forward to sharing 2010 with all of you. I wish you all the best this year and may your hearts and families be filled with love and joy each and every day.

HAPPY NEW YEAR TO EVERYONE!

Fat, Broke and, Uninspired

2009-12-30T09:11:00.000-08:00

Well I think that really says it all. I stole it shamelessly from a buddy. It has been a great holiday season full of all the wrong foods in all the wrong places and overpriced gifts in all the wrong sizes. There is wrapping paper stuffed behind couches, under tables and chairs. And there is tinsel jammed up in the blender. It’s best if you don’t ask. I am missing the woolly bearded Santa head ornament and for some reason the thread of blue twinkle lights won’t twinkle. The cat smells suspiciously of pine and he won’t look me in the eye anymore but it might just be because of his singed eyebrows. I’m not quite sure what happened there.

The door wreath looks like something that happened on a dark road that no one wants to talk about. I had to tell the Saint the other day that one of the dogs had killed a python and he would need to clean up the awful mess left in the driveway. It turned out that the dog had simply killed the door garland and red velvet bows. That was a relief. I certainly didn’t want to have to start looking for pythons in the pines. There is a mixture of neon lights still intact on the blinking Merry Christmas sign and we are now wishing everyone a Lerry Chimas. This is the long cherished holiday of an ancient South American community. At least that’s what I’m telling everyone. I’m handing out tiny piñatas just to cover my bases.

The roof-top Santa has been quite a disappointment. He had too much holiday cheer and is now sprawled out across the roof in a very undignified manner. The reindeer appear to be looking on with contempt, except of course Rudolph who is face down in the gutter. Again. This doesn’t surprise me. He behaved this way year too. I hoped that rehab would help but it just didn’t seem to take. It’s sad really. He was such a leader and his future looked so bright.

The tree has been holding up pretty well considering. I have been hot gluing the needles back on but mostly it’s hanging in there. The needle gluing was a lot easier than I expected. They have been dropping in large clumps so I’m just making little bundles and gluing them on in groups. It adds an interesting texture to the tree and the dried glue glows prettily in the lights. What, why am I gluing the needles back on the tree? Because this tree has to make it to January 2nd. That’s also why I duct taped the holiday python back up onto the door. While most self respecting, holiday honoring, decent folk have celebrated, imbibed and overspent themselves into a lifetime of servitude and debt we are just getting started. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, we decided that we were tired of getting run over, chewed up and spit out by the holiday Christmas machine. Instead of finding peace, joy and happiness, we were finding pressured sales, pressured consumers and pressures from a complete lack of parking. No matter how well prepared we were we always seemed to end up under the wheels begging for a quick hoof to the head.

I know we’re not the first ones to complain about this and we won’t be the last. I also know that the merry marketing train is going to keep right on chugging at full speed until it derails itself in a grand shower of red ink. We were definitely not feeling the Christmas spirit and it was getting worse every year.

The Saint will confirm, if you should have any lingering doubts, that I lack the decency to know when I am defeated. I just don’t seem to get it. My tendency is to analyze the situation from every angle, considering all the pros and cons and then…cheat.

We moved our Christmas day to January 1st. Before you get excited and start dialing hotlines and consumer groups let me explain. We do all the actual Christmas celebrating during the actual Christmas holiday time. We just skip the stress. Basically we just give ourselves an extra week. It takes the pressure off so we can enjoy the festivities at a more leisurely pace. We do Christmas Eve and day, celebrate and have a great time. On the 24th and 25th we open gifts but, only a small one each. We do the big gift exchange on the 1st . We have a nice dinner on Christmas day and celebrate it with a simpler focus on family. Don’t get me wrong. We are all great big present whores. We loves us some presents, we do. We just broke things up a bit so that it made a little more sense to us and we could enjoy it for what it was meant to be. Plus this way you get to hit all those fantastic 70% off sales after the big rush is over. SCORE.

My title here said Fat, Broke and, Uninspired. All that is true. I am fatter than a house. I am broke and or plan to be when it is all said and done. And I have been staring at my sorely neglected blog for several days now without the slightest hint of idea or thinnest thread of a thought. I still have a garage full of spring bulbs that need to go into the ground and as soon as it thaws out again I plan to feel guilty about not planting them. While many of you have already cleaned up your holiday debris I am only now beginning to think of ways to explain a Christmas tree in my living room in May. I already have a few good ones written down. We’re going green! --though spray paint may be needed at some point. And, they aren’t Christmas lights if they’re still on in June. By that time it’s outdoor lighting. Oh, and the drunken Santa? Lawn jockey! I’m working out the details so that I can “re-purpose” the decorations and have a fantastic tulip garage show in the spring. I mean really, who’s going to call me on a Lerry Chimas in July?

I guess I’ll have to go back and cross out the uninspired part of the title. I’m really starting to feel that holiday spirit now.

Why Do I Do This?

2009-12-20T23:17:00.000-08:00

Christmas is swiftly approaching…like a runaway sleigh driven by a drunken fat man in red velvet pajamas and a surely reindeer with deep emotional scars riding shotgun. Oh sure, it’s wonderful this time of year. There’s all that forced holiday glee out there clogging up the daily works with low carb saccharine good cheer. Every shopping mall and discount store around has turned into a financial black hole with the gravitational mass of a government bailout, complete with ill tempered bell ringers just short of their next medication dose. The other day at Safeway I had to sneak around to the little side entrance in order to avoid Darla from the Hell’s Angels Bell Ringers Brigade. I was afraid she might hunt me down in the cereal isle and kill me with a rice crispy treat if I didn’t donate. I had already given my last dollar to her cell mate across the street at the Les Swab tire store. I wasn’t taking a chance on that one. An ill timed blowout during I-5 rush hour traffic could really put a crimp in my shopping schedule. Ol’ Scooter there indicated he might puncture a tire with one of his tongue piercings if so inclined. Frankly I have no idea how he managed to smoke that cigar when he couldn’t even close his lips. He might have given that some thought before having all the hardware installed. I considered offering this bit of observation though only briefly. In the end I opted to spend the holidays outside of the hospital and stuffed a dollar bill into his Bud Light can. It was decorated with tinsel, very festive.

Inside the grocery store my senses were violently assaulted. Apparently some alien life form is Tara forming the planet into one giant cinnamon stick by taking over all the grocery and craft stores on the planet. I believe their plans for world domination are nearly complete. My throat closed up as my eyes began to water and I nearly bumped into Sledge, the inside the door bell ringer. He deflected me onto the poinsettias and Christmas Cds next to the singing Santa’s on Harleys. This worked out great because I needed to pick up a copy of White Snake Christmas and Hip Hop Holidays In The Hood. I tossed them into my cart and proceeded onto the crack in a candy coating isle. I needed to pick up some sugar coated sugar pops in syrup and then some broccoli with a marshmallow topping for dinner. I already had the candy cane shavings for the turkey.
…I don’t know why my teeth hurt right now.

Anyway, I had to hurry up with my shopping if I was going to make it to the tree farm before all the good ones were gone. After some searching I found the end of the checkout line back by the restrooms and employee entrance. It was moving right along though. They had two whole cashiers on duty and only one of them was in training. I heard through the grapevine that the bag boy had gone out to help a customer and hour ago and hadn’t been seen since. That was fine by me. We had a pretty good game of five card stud going on with the deli guys and he cheated anyway. Some one had to wake Mrs. Rosen every time the line moved but other than that it went pretty smoothly. Well, there was that scuffle up by the Stouffers Stuffing but, they patched it up after a few counseling sessions and were on good terms by the time they got to the canned goods isle. Eventually we made it up to the cashier where we exchanged email addresses and said our goodbyes. Bob owes me twenty bucks for that last hand.

I steeled myself to face Darla the belligerent bell ringer on my way out but luckily her parole officer was giving her a break for some personal business. Something about peeing into a cup she said. I slipped out into the untainted cool night air and gave thanks that the cinnamon Tara forming aliens had not made it outside yet. I was anxious to get on to the joyful task of selecting our holiday tree. Apparently it is no longer called a Christmas tree but rather the more ambiguous Holiday Tree. While I am sure this random renaming has its roots in good intentions it is woefully lacking in its grasp on reality. Like it or not it’s Christmas and we aren’t all running around buying Holiday Trees on Memorial day or Halloween. Nor are we opening Labor day presents and sending out Fourth of July cards. Nope. It’s Christmas and no amount of frosty aluminum winter-scaping at the airport is going to erase that. Besides what would we do with all the AC/DC Christmas Cds if that happened?

Having escaped the parking lot with my limbs intact and a cart full of potential New Year’s resolutions I headed back home. The outdoor Christmas decorations had been put up earlier and they glowed cheerily from their position on the front porch-- where they lay in a tangled lump of holiday frustration and despair. Soon the Saint and I were headed off to the non denominational holiday tree sanctuary or as I like to call it, the Christmas Tree Farm!
It is a family owned farm and has been in the family since 1886. The current patriarch is a local horse vet. He enjoys growing specialty hay for the horses. His daughter and her husband handle the tree sales. One summer they planted a cutting flower garden in one of the fields and just put out a cash box on the honor system. This year they tried out pumpkins and they are working on developing their own raspberry/blackberry jam recipe. I have two test jars in my refrigerator.

The Saint and I arrived during daylight hours. It took us about five minutes to pick the tree out but our guy is a talker so by the time we got the tree tied onto the car the sun had been down for over an hour. I am pretty sure that I know more about this guy and his family than I know about my own. I even know where he’s having lunch most days downtown and what he likes for desert at night. I liked him immensely.

Since it was too dark and well past the Saint’s bedtime when we got home we set the mammoth tree outside for the night. The next day the tree would meet its fate.

This is the Saint’s beloved chainsaw with which he will give the tree a fresh cut. He uses this thing at every opportunity and one day I am just certain that I will find him using it to carve a mermaid or maybe a black bear holding a roll of toilet paper. Apparently it is an affliction that strikes people who live in the Northwest near a lot of trees. All you have to do is drive down some country highway to see that it is quite an epidemic. Its worse than heroin apparently and I’m keeping a close eye on him. First sign of fin or fur texture on the firewood and he’s getting an intervention.

Once we got the fresh cut it was time to bring that sweet smelling pretty into the house. This is the part of the process that usually shreds 80% of the needles off leaving the remaining 20% to dump on the floor. Right about this time as we are trying to shove the 6 foot wide base through the single sized door I am wondering just what in the world possess perfectly sane people to drag a needle dropping mass of foliage into the house. I have to rearrange my furniture and empty the vacuum cleaner bag repeatedly while picking needles out of the Berber carpet. Then I have to water it every day because not only is it slowly dying I plan to put fire starting twinkly lights all over the thing and then rig them together with a questionable power strip. I won’t stop there though. No. I’ll drag out boxes of old goofy things that have no other purpose in life than to sit forgotten in the garage all year gathering spiders and moisture. And then I’ll put those little fire starter materials that a boy scout lost in the woods would give his eye teeth for on that tree. A 7+ foot tree sitting in my modest sized living room taking up the space of an entire sofa. A tree covered in knickknacks that I haven’t seen in a year and I will wonder what in world are we thinking? What a ridiculous thing to do…

...and then I will flip that switch and I will know exactly what we were thinking. And I will wonder how we ever managed to live without this beautiful symbol of hope and joy.

But come January 3rd, hope and joy is going right back out the door and reason and sanity is back in!

In the meantime, pass the eggnog, and put another log on the fire. I got me some happy time to enjoy!

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU ALL

A Time and Place to Believe

2009-12-11T22:49:00.000-08:00

It was a dark and stormy night.
Well, it was actually a cold and clear night. Stormy might have been a bit warmer. It’s been pretty darn cold and clear for some time now. There are four inches of ice on my ponds. Not little ice. Not the pretty take some cute pictures kind of ice. No. This is the kind of ice that has me bringing kettles of boiling water out first thing in the morning to let sit on the afore mentioned four inches of serious ice only to be laughed at by said serious ice. Then after about four rounds of these steaming cauldrons of liquid jackhammer are set on and then poured upon the ice the pick ax is brought in. Yes, that pick ax. I’m back to the pick ax again and it’s flipping December!
Now you may be asking yourself why I would do this. I might be asking myself the same thing. I might that is if I were a sane person and had not dug a huge pond out of a belligerent rock on the side of a mountain and then foolishly inserted fish into whole doggone thing.

Town center of Leavenworth

Oh, and yes, to those of you with ponds I do know about not whacking my little fishies senseless with Mr. Limpet sound waves. I use the pointy end of the ax just to get a hole started. And no, it does not work for me to keep the pumps running because I have FOUR INCHES OF ICE. The tubing up the falls is to close to the surface and will freeze solid if there is water in the line. So I cover what I can and then go out there every morning before I have my coffee and begin the process of icy humiliation. The other day I lost my balance while swinging said pick ax and found myself about two and a half feet out into the middle of the pond. But no worries, I have FOUR INCHES OF ICE. I just skated back to the bridge. Thankfully this deep freeze only happens once or twice a year and only lasts a week or so at a time. I would make other plans if that were not the case. Like moving back to Arizona.

I showed you this tree before covered in brilliant fall colors. Not a bad transition. This snow scape is a small slope in the middle of town that the kids sled down.

So the other day after my pre coffee, morning bathrobe ice skate I decided to take a look at the over taxed thermometer. You know just for that extra jolt to the senses that finding yourself splayed across a frozen pond in your bathrobe—all alone, doesn’t quite give you. Oh, and by the way, Leonardo DeCaprio and Kate Winslet are absolute liars. There is no way those two were making doe eyes at one another on that ship with all the time they spent in that water. I lost the physical ability to swallow my own spit and I was just pulling ice chunks out with one hand.

Back to my own personal thrill seeking… I checked the temp for that day and it read a quite balmy 13*. That’s right. A one followed by a three.

"Just one more time." I like to think of this as Mrs. Claus's shop window.

I like to look for comparisons in life. It’s my way of reminding myself that it can always be worse, so therefore, it must not be too bad right now. It's logic that works for me. Try not to judge. Well 13 blistering degrees does pose a bit of a challenge. The Saint was completely convinced that this really was as bad as it could get. Smelling a challenge like blood in the water I dove right in. It was cold. Eventually I did manage to find somewhere with a colder more hideous temperature than 13* and it was within driving distance! I said “Sweetie, put your coat on we’re going for a drive. Oh, and wear your big wool socks…and maybe some long johns.” The Saint just sank deeper into the chair and pulled the afghan tighter. “Come on honey, it’ll be fun.” “I’ll pack the arctic survival gear. You tell Rescue Services where we’ll be.”

The location with a colder more hideous temperature than us was Leavenworth, Washington. It was 2*. No, not followed or preceded by any number, just 2. I figured once we had spent a little time crossing the huge rugged mountain range and ice choked waterways to spend some quality time in a place with the friendly bone chilling temperature of 2 our little 13* really would seem balmy. Provided we made it back alive.

Holiday avenues and the candy shops I told you about. If you enlarge this shot you will see there is a holiday pretzel tree.

Surely this has to be Santa Claus's very own shop window and the nativity scene is heavenly. Pun intended.

Leavenworth is a very beautiful 2 hour drive from here. I told you about this little town and it’s pioneer spirit not too long ago but I held out the very best until now. I wanted you all to see just how amazing this town looks every Christmas season come December 2nd when they have the holiday lighting ceremony. It is an enchanting and magical place. It is the kind of place that I dreamed of as a child whenever I saw those tiny Christmas villages or nativity scenes. A place where it is safe to be a child full of wonder and joy for all the things that may lie ahead. And once a year like Frosty the Snowman this town comes alive with magical wonder.

The red trolly is delightful. This little house is a wedding chapel. I once arranged a small winter wedding for a friend here at this chapel. They drove through the streets in a horse drawn carriage just as it began to snow. I still cry thinking of how beautiful that was.

I took my Sainted husband there not to torture him with frost bitten fingers, although that is what he claims, but because it is what we do every year. We go there because, well it is just like walking into one of those perfect wonderful worlds where everything is loving and feels like home inside those warm lit windows. Hot cocoa with marshmallows await every child coming in from sledding down the snowy hills, their boots full of fluffy snow. Christmas trees glow with hope and promise and for this one sublime little sliver of time everything in the world is wonderful and seems perfectly possible. Yeah, I did go there to remind myself that things can always be worse. I also went there to remind myself that things can always be a whole lot better too. You just have to believe sometimes.

The Village People

2009-12-07T11:10:00.001-08:00

This is the story of the towns folk of Snowden. A little town quietly nestled in a verdant and fertile valley of farm land. Like all small towns this town has it’s main characters though there are so many more people we have yet to meet. Today I would like to introduce you to just a few of the interesting people who populate this sleepy little town. While I understand that it is impossible to truly know any one soul let alone do justice to their complex and unique personalities I hope to at least give you a peek into the lives of some of the people many of us see as we pass by the holiday displays but rarely take the time to look closer. Perhaps if we did dare to peek inside those warm glowing windows we might find someone just a little like ourselves.

Please meet Poor Mrs. Henderson. She tells everyone that Mr. Henderson has passed away even though what he did was a lot more like run away —with a stripper named Rocky that is. Rocky wasn’t named for her good looks or even her good times but rather for the inventory of her head. Everyone in town knows that Mr. Henderson ran off with a stripper. Everyone in town attended his funeral and offered Mrs. Henderson their most sincere condolences.

And then there is Old Mac Gower’s farm. He grows Christmas trees and no one fully understands how this is done as a profession but grow them he does. Mrs. Mac Gower raises silkie chickens and keeps a garden. Her personal favorites are Brownie and Buttercup. The others are Hazel and Henny Penny. She always seems happiest when working in her garden or watching the antics of her beloved silky chickens.
Last winter their place was flooded out by the great 100 year flood which hit for the third year in a row. At this rate they should be good for the next 300 years or so. Local farmers took in Mac Gower's animals till the water subsided and they could go home again. The townsfolk banded together and helped them get back on their feet and out of the mud.

Jake and Sara, that's them there on the bridge beneath the falls. Jake is new in town. He recently moved here from the big city. He and Sara have been dating steadily since last spring. He thinks that Sara is everything a small town girl should be, wholesome, honest and pure. And Sara intends to keep it that way as long as she can keep that stupid Scott Jacobson quiet, not to mention his pesky sister Marla. Besides, it doesn’t count if your drunk anyway. And how was she supposed to know that those cute little Jell-O poppers were spiked with vodka? Everyone knows stuff like that doesn’t count. Not really count anyway.

Mr. & Mrs. Johnson founders of the Currier and Ivy League School. They are sitting on the park bench near the back of the campus. They are high school sweethearts who married in their Junior year of college. They worked their way through school and opened the Currier and Ivy League school for juvenile delinquents. They believe that with the best educational opportunities children from wayward backgrounds will turn into productive members of society. They work hard at setting a loving example of upstanding behavior within a loving and respectful environment. They also understand the importance of sending a strong and powerful message. Mr. Johnson throws a pretty mean eraser coming in a close second to Mrs. Johnson’s skills with a ruler. There is rarely any trouble out at the Currier and Ivy League school. Besides it’s all the way out on the edge of town. The ruckus usually dies down by the time any news of it makes all the way into Snowden proper. The troopers only had to visit a few times.

And then all about Santa Claus and his Homies. The big man in the red suit otherwise known as just plain Santa in these parts has lived here before there was even a foot path cutting through the fields. He and his little Homies have always kept to themselves up there on the hill doing who knows what at all hours of the day and night. You can hear all sorts of hammering and such with sounds of power tools the likes of which no one can identify. He’s been brought up on charges several times for disturbing the peace and few times for running some sort of holiday militia. The charges were dropped though because no one could find any actual laws against owning a cache of plastic guns or Transformers. No matter how disturbingly annoying they were. The new comers in town are from the big city and have never trusted the old guy. One year Santa received a Christmas card with one of those modern messages that read “Watching you and your's this holiday season” He figured it was a new version of the more classic “Wishing you and your;s a happy holiday season.” Santa just laughed and rubbed his beard as he said “Well, times sure are changing boys.” He didn’t understand these modern holiday sentiments but his Homies were catching on and they started spiking the reindeer food with E-Lax. Oh, it was going to be a very special holiday season alright.

Icicle Falls is the tallest and most beautiful falls in the valley. The lodge was built around the same time the hydro plant was put in. Both were built by Worthington Myers and his partner Ida Smalls. Some years later the fish shack opened up down below. It is a favorite place for romantic moments and when the ice takes the pond in winter it is the very best place in the world to ice skate. A few years ago someone wanted to open up a casino down below but the deal fell through. No one could quite understand the need for a gambling establishment when everyone knew perfectly well that the gambling was good as it gets whenever you ate the fish at Fishy Abner's Fish Shack. Boy that ol’ Abner sure knew how to roll the dice with a fish order.

Emma and Sam, they are the little skaters beneath the falls there next to the fish shack. Emma is eight and has a mad crush on Sam who is ten. Sam isn’t quite sure who Emma is but will live to rue this day about eight years from now when Emma is a very sweet sixteen with a very long memory. Sam is currently pretending to tie Emma’s ice skates which she thinks is absolutely the most romantic moment in her entire life. And no doubt it is…so far. What she does not know however but will soon learn and never forget is that adorable Sam Masterson is tying her skates together so that she won’t be able to follow him around the pond like a love sick puppy. Poor, poor Sam. In exactly eight years and six months he will be begging like a starving dog while a beautiful and bewitching Emma refuses to even throw him a bone. Sam will get the gift of hindsight this Christmas-- to be opened at a later date.

Then there is the strange little train depot with its tiny trains from somewhere beyond the hills. The people there must be tiny indeed. The train depot is actually never used, on the inside. At least not by any of the locals. Mostly its for show to impress the visitors passing through. You see the depot was built years before when Claus was the only resident in the area for miles around. When the town first began to grow the trains only ran once a year and even then only on the coldest day of the year. Most folk had no reason to take a train that only went in and out of the mountains. They went west into the big city and never even considered the train or the depot. As the years went on the train began to make more frequent stops into the town of Snowden and it was soon discovered that the train and depot were built for very tiny people. It turned out that there was no way any normal sized person would ever fit inside one of those tiny little cars. This oddity was clearly another one of Claus’ suspicious holiday militia dealings. The towns folk were none to pleased with this and determined to let him and his tiny militia people know just what kind of town Snowden really was. So every year when the tiny trains begin to run, a group of towns folk gather out in front of the tiny depot to sing “Watching Over You This Holiday Season” “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Trouble” and the ever popular "Look Who's Coming to Town."

Mr. Emmet Simmons the photographer and his horse Nikon are always on hand to snap photos of the cars cargo and any shady characters. Occasionally out of town visitors will mistake Mr. Simmons for an actual photographer and line up to have their photo taken with the ever photogenic and personable Nikon. To keep up appearances and not blow his cover Mr. Simmons usually obliges and actually follows up by sending the portraits. After all he says "They did pay for them." Unfortunately Mr. Simmons is a lousy photographer and the portraits are rarely in focus unless of course there happens to be a train passing through at the time. Then somehow the depth of field is terribly out of whack so that no one is in focus, at least not the people posing for their picture. You can however clearly make out every single detail of the little passengers on the tiny holiday train.

Andy and his son Drew cut their own Christmas tree every year. Now that Drew is old enough to cut his own tree they have added a new tradition. Father and son decided a few years ago that they would cut two trees. One for their own family and one for another family who might appreciate a little extra help that year.

Then there is Carol from Carnation and her little flower shop. Carol is from the big city east of Snowden. She worked in an office for most of her adult life and she hated it. Carol always wanted to own a flower shop. It was her lifelong dream to live in the country and be surrounded by beautiful flowers. The idea of owning her own flower shop was just like heaven. She could spend her days surrounded by flowers creating beautiful arrangements and best of all she could share that beauty and peace with others. She saved and planned for years. She studied flowers and crafted her imaginary business plan. Then one day in February on a cold, bleak and grey Tuesday she walked into her boss’ pretentious office and handed him her resignation, walking away without a word. She hasn’t stopped smiling since.

Next is Mr. Lupine’s pet shop and veterinary clinic. He grew up on a farm in Snowden. He has lived around animals all his life and never once thought of being anything other than a vet. He knows every pet, livestock or farm animal there is in the entire valley. He has even mended the local wildlife on occasion. He saves his extra money every year to buy feed for those wild animals who might otherwise go hungry on those extra snowy days. It has also been rumored that he secretly leaves bales of hay for struggling horse owners. No one knows for sure but there are never any hungry horses in Snowden.

And finally today, the Crack-in-a-Cup coffee shop. It is where I spend my days sipping a hot cinnamon Dulce latte. I try to avoid the lemon poppy seed muffins. Its something I do for all of us. Really, no one wants to see that. So I sit here with my steaming cup of crack in a cup and I watch the people go by. Sometimes even the tiny train passes through on it’s way back into the mountains puffing along its shiny little tracks. The children play in their eleborate snow forts acting out wars of innocence with snowflake weaponry. Lovers kiss beneath crystal waterfalls and insist on believing wholeheartedly in forever. The small town of Snowden carries on in all its quiet mysteries and complicated simplicities. Dreams are planted and some of them grow. Some of those dreams lay dormant for years only to burst forth without warning into unimagined splendor. Small towns like this live within in us all. They are the fertile soil of the heart and mind where Christmas has a magical way of living year round. The giving spirit, the hopeful soul and the ardent dreamer all come together during Christmas. It is a time when we all become little children and passionate lovers, choosing to believe wholeheartedly in forever just one more time.

A special thank you to Rosey Pollen at Dung Hoe who showed me how to put snow on my holiday blog.

Frosty Watery Ways

2009-12-02T20:55:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was a warm sunny day and I spent it in the garden. Well it was warm and sunny for December 1st, at least for Washington state. You may recall my incessant whining all through November that it was raining in biblical proportions making it nearly impossible to garden without scuba gear. -Insert add for Noah’s Ark and Garden Supplies- The two hours of sunlight we did have in November found me stuck inside doing the bidding of the little alien village people. This year they even wanted a waterfall. Can you believe the nerve? I told them absolutely not, I would not build them a waterfall. I told them they would just have to make do with fake fluffy snow like the rest of their people and that was that!
Have you ever seen the movie Village of the Damned with those creepy little kids who just stare at you in British accents and make you do things you'd never do on your own?
The villagers have TWO waterfalls now. I never did get outside.

Then finally the sun came out and I rushed outside happy as a kid jacked up on PixySticks. I was finally going to whack down all the garden plants that had turned to mush during the month of Noah. I had gotten the pond plants out even though they didn’t want to go. They are currently over by the compost pile, sulking and making plans for a counter insurgence. Well now it was everybody else’s turn to meet my whackers. --Somehow that just sounds wrong on so many levels. Annywho—The gloves were on, whackers in hand (again wrong) and the wheel barrel in place. It was going to be like shooting fish in a barrel. No, no, not MY fish, some other fish. You know, barrel fish. So there I am ready to tackle the brown wretched annuals the sad yellowed perennials and to cut back those roses.

Then what am I greeted with? Open defiance, that’s what I tell you! Open defiance. Still just as green as you please and doing quite nicely thank you. Why the pineapple sage is blooming right along and the nasturtium has had a growth spurt. Roses are slowly blooming and there are even sunflowers that pretend they might flower just for novelties sake. There is even a fully ripe bud on an a completely insane oriental poppy under the weeping cherry tree.

The truth is obvious to any of you real gardeners out there. Nothing unusual is really going on around here other than me. I’m wandering around out there like Gomer Pyle with a dumb as a box of rocks grin plastered on my face pointing at stuff and saying things like “Well gawlly” and “Surprise, surprise, surprise.” I just don’t know enough not to be completely impressed that plants are continuing to grow out there. Not just because it’s December but because it’s MY garden. Remember I’m the one with no dirt and literally a box of rocks. A really big box of rocks. So yeah, I’m pretty tickled with the fact that my plants are hanging on and not giving up the fight. It is exciting to me to see them growing thriving.

I suppose that is what hooks you.
The thrill of seeing life happening because you did something to help it happen. I may be yapping up a storm about how my crazy in denial garden doesn’t know enough to quiet down for the winter but in secret I am cheering it on. Those insane poppies and tenacious daisies are my underdog teams. I will avoid actual team references because I don’t want to start a riot on my blog. Suffice it to say I’m am out there in the stands with green paint smeared on my face cheering them on. I'm sure there is some important design elements to face paint smearing in sports but I have no idea what that might be. We’re a team, my green guys and me. They came to play and I came to root for them. No matter what they do I am backing them 100%. Now I finally understand how you sports fans feel. My team’s just green and has pretty little flowers.

Today was another sunny day, another day to spend in the garden. Well, that is if it wasn’t more like hanging out in a meat locker. Brrr. We got our first real frost last night and if the sun didn’t hit stuff directly it just stayed crunchy. I was glad to have cleared the pond because it was nicely iced this morning. The rest of the garden is still hanging in there but the nasturtiums are not long for the world and I am sure the others will soon follow. There is snow in our forecast in the next week. I told the Saint that if he wanted to forestall the snow he should get right out there and put the snow tires on. That has the same effect as washing your car except with snow in reverse.

I have put all seven hundred bulbs on the front porch in order to beguile myself into planting them. I may even actually do it. The most important thing to know about planting bulbs is to do it on the coldest day on record and time it so that you finish up by flashlight just as it is beginning to snow. It should work out just right this year. If that plan doesn't work out then I plan to tie ribbons on them and use them as tree ornaments.

All in all it's has been a great year in my early gardening career. If it snows like it did last year these may be the last flowery shots you get out of me for awhile. At least until the Christmas bulb ornaments start blooming. When that happens I am going to be all over that!

Holiday Rehab

2009-11-29T21:29:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving here is mingled with Birthdays so it is a busy time. It is a wonderful time. Since we have moved away from extended family it is just the three of us now. The sound and the fury of a large family gathering is often missed. Through the years we have developed our own traditions, celebrated with friends, and celebrated alone but mostly we just celebrate each other. Lives are always shifting in some way or other making time the enemy of familiarity. We are immersed in social networking, hectic schedules, cell phones and computers. We Blog, we Twitter and Facebook. We email, Instant Message and text. We are connected by satellite and cable, tracking devices, wireless remote and streaming live feed with up to the minute coverage. In this day and age of unbelievable technology, communication is at an absolute zenith. And yet we rarely just talk.

On our family holidays, our Nacho Night or Middle of the week day off holiday, we talk. We unplug, wire down and disconnect. We sit at the kitchen table or on the living room floor and we talk until the morning sun shames us into sleeping. We talk of the world, philosophy, religion, politics and history. We talk of physics and God. We talk about acting, writing and art. Rarely does the conversation have anything to do with what any of us are doing in our lives. We already know all that, we stay connected. Instead we talk about what we think about and what we question. Sometimes it gets heated along the fault lines of opinion, sometimes we just glide into deeper BS about why we think our opinion trumps all. Mostly we just share what makes us who we are, our thoughts.

Then just as any respectable family would do, we badger one another until someone fesses up about just what they plan to do with all those lofty thoughts and high-faluting opinions. No sense doing all that thinking and jawboning if there isn’t an action plan forthcoming. This is the part we all love—like eating a slice of Aunt Ethel’s five year old fruitcake. Basically we use these planned excuses to get together as a time to touch base with who we are and who we want to be; to find out what our loved ones want most how we can help them achieve it.

Sure we do all the traditional American Thanksgiving fare. Clean the house like the Queen is dropping by, slave in the kitchen pretending to be Julia Child and then eat like total swine all day long. When dinner is served we ooh and ah over the same dishes we have prepared for every Thanksgiving dinner and then by candlelight we toast our good fortune and give thanks for it all. Not so different from most other families around the world who come together for a special event to share in each other’s lives. It’s how we continue the bonding tradition of being truly connected.

Part of our tradition at this time is also birthdays so Thanksgiving around here ends up looking a little more like a pre-Christmas warm up. Over the years I have even taken to setting up the Christmas village in time for the big turkey roast. The village like most good intentioned impulses has grown completely out of control. It threatens all who come near. A new piece or two is bought ever year culminating in something that looks a little more like an alien invasion by a race of miniature Victorians. The whole production is a tad time consuming and soon we will need to knock out a wall or move to a coliseum to accommodate the whole affair. I’ll post a picture the little aliens a bit closer to Christmas...or at least decently in the month of December.

Since today was the first day that it wasn’t raining nor was I stuck inside prepping food, building alien villages, shampooing carpets or fluffing fake snow I decided I was finally going to clean out the annual pond plants. Those babies have been clinging to denial like a teenage girl watching the phone on prom night. I just had to break it to them. It’s November-- Everybody out of the pool!
In June we bought three water hyacinth and two water lettuce. When I pulled them out today I had four wheel barrels full of them. Holy cow. Washington state has mild summers and these plants are warm weather lovers. They are well behaved up here but in more Southern areas they are banned as aggressive…much like those little Christmas villages should be. I going to need rehab.

The water plants seasonal delusion infiltrating my brain convinced me that I would have time to do some cutting back in the garden. Maybe get some of that compost and mulch out of the hay bale pile and onto some flower beds where it belongs. Four wheel barrel loads and a blister later the light was beginning to fade as quickly as my will. I decided instead to take a quick cruise of the garden before heading in. I found that there was still a nice bit of color left out there. It was soggy as all daylights but it was color doggone it and at the end of November! This garden and I are still newlyweds so I don’t really know what to expect yet and like most innocent newlyweds I am surprised and delighted at everything it does. I suppose next year I may find some of those endearing habits like reseeding and spreading far too annoying to bear but for now I am just happy to see something—anything growing. I took photos of what I suspect will be the last of my garden’s colors for a few months, at least until spring. Last year in December we had a lot of snow, of course this is exactly when I plan to plant the seven hundred plus bulbs I bought. I'm sure it should work out just perfectly.

Will you take a look at this last picture? No, a good close look. Those are bulbs starting to come up! This garden is in serious denial.
Great. My garden is in denial and I need Christmas village rehab. Talk about dysfunctional.

Thanksgiving and Sarah Palin

2009-11-25T00:38:00.000-08:00

Or my pants don’t fit because of those greedy pilgrims.
Thanksgiving themes have been done and redone much like the week old remains of that gluttonous meal we like to call a holiday. Holiday from what I am not entirely sure but holiday none the less. Perhaps it is a holiday from all reasonable and sane behavior. How else can you explain so many deep fried turkey injuries on this one day alone? Not to mention the fact that in a single act of group think rivaling only that of Jones Town an entire country incapacitates itself with one of the most insidious weapon of mass destruction ever dreamed of by Saddam Hussein. Copious amounts of food. With a single innocuous and even heartwarming word, Thanksgiving, households across America will actively begin preparing their demise. They will spend hours slaving over hot stoves and ovens with a few random deep fryers thrown in for splashy special effects. They will play fast and loose with Sal and Monella, those two low life cousins from the wrong side of the lower intestinal track. They will throw caution to the wind leaving deviled eggs unattended in overheated rooms for long hours to be manhandled by the unwashed hands of Uncle Harry with the lingering cough and those wild savage animals someone calls their "little darlings."

On this day nearly an entire nation will forget the good sense they were born with and eat everything and anything laid before them and a good deal that's just lying around. It won’t matter one bit that they have never eaten gravy on green beans before. Nor will it matter that Aunt Ethel’s fruit cake originally served as a foot rest for General Ulysses S Grant in the Civil war, they won’t even bother with the politic of which side their great, great somebody fought on. Nope. They will just shove another bite in while Aunt Ethel flashes her lipstick stained smile and slyly tries to straighten her dentures…again. There will be enough food to feed an entire third world nation twice and yet someone will call out “Hey, where’s the cranberry sauce? Didn’t anybody bring cranberry sauce? You can’t call this a meal without cranberry sauce.” Followed by “Hellmann’s? I thought we all agreed last year that Miracle Whip was the best? You don’t expect me to eat this stuff do you?”

Then there is Uncle Larry who bears a striking resemblance to absolutely no one in the family but is never questioned because he always helps with the dishes. You can usually find him wearing some unexplainable kid concoction and being chased by a pack of vicious sugar crazed hooligans in what resembles an excerpt from the Lord of the Flies with the sounds of “After all we aren’t savages, really” echoing behind him. They will race past men sitting on overstuffed sofas whose eyes are fixed on a game they care little to nothing about. Too fat and full to even consider getting up to pour their own beer they are quite happy to yell at the fat lazy dumbass who missed the pass in a blinding blizzard of sub zero temperatures.
“Is that pumpkin pie ready yet? We’re starving in here!” The women will roll their eyes and pour themselves another glass of wine.

All across America in homes full of mini dramas, familial slights and exuberant acts of forgiveness. We will eat too much and moan about our good fortune. We will sit in the lap of luxury and ask for a softer pillow. And we will sit around our dining room tables basking in the glow of those we love and who love us back even when we both know better.

Not everyone however will have that special warm fuzzy holiday experience. Some will struggle under great adversity while others struggle simply to live life. Somewhere in between a great many of us will secretly wonder why we never quite seem to fit in. The media will sell us glowing images of golden roast turkey and picture perfect families who wouldn’t recognize a care or worry if it sat at the head of the table and carved the roast beast itself. And some of us will wonder. We will wonder why our lives don’t look quite like those airbrushed, glossy, color fantasies.

Last year right around this time, many of us were unwitting witnesses to a colossal collision as this picture perfect imagery slammed head-on into ugly reality. It occurred when
Sara Palin gave a television interview at a turkey processing plant. She stood outside in her fashionable Alaskan outdoor gear with a latte’ firmly gripped in one dainty gloved hand. The cameras were centered in on her while clearly visible in the background a ghastly scene stealing moment played out. It came in the form of a hard working employee of the turkey processing plant. Possibly a few drumsticks short of a full IQ test this fellow was not so easily distracted by the glamour of a live television interview though he looked on with rapt attention as the cameras rolled. He did not waver from his assigned task which apparently was feeding turkeys into the grinder. He never missed a beat. Sara too was clearly not distracted by the graphic scene that played out behind her. She never skipped a beat as well, continuing to answer questions and smiling for the cameras. While the shock of seeing this awkward moment on national television was nearly overwhelming in so many ways I did take away an invaluable lesson about Thanksgiving.

No matter what your opinion of the woman may be and everyone does seem to have a strong opinion about her, I have to give her this; she is entirely comfortable in her own skin. She was never once distracted nor did she look the least bit uncomfortable about what she fully knew to be going on directly behind her. All political commentary aside what finally dawned on me as the shock began to wear off was that she wasn’t making any apologies to anyone. Now I understand that it is a little hard to peal away the political emotions surrounding this woman but in that moment that is exactly what I did. I was filled with gratitude for the country that I live in. Not because of her or any other politician but rather for the fact that in this day and age of glossy coated dreams and techno color promises where everything is airbrushed and crafted for presentation there are still people with the chutzpah to thumb their nose at it all and say “This is who I am and I’m OK with that.”

I am grateful for the people who accept their imperfections and failings and lovingly accept them in others. I am grateful that my biggest concern on this day is how much rich food I will overeat and whether this outfit really does make my butt look fat. I am grateful for the phone book that props up the broken table leg or the scruffy uncle that snores on the couch and for all the messy families and friendships. I am grateful for knowing that somewhere out there is my opportunity to keep trying for that glossy coated dream. I am deeply grateful for all the people that have sacrificed and died so that I may have the luxury to fret and worry that my life isn’t picture perfect. Grateful that someone out there has provided me with the fortune to be thankful for how great life is while still imagining how much better it can be. I am grateful that I have the liberty to create an opportunity of my choosing. I am especially thankful for the people who love and support me. And I thank all of you for letting me be there for you while you reach for your glossy coated dreams and techno colored promises.
Happy Thanksgiving

Or Happy Thursday for those of you not doing the whole festive turkey thing.

This Red Carpet Needs Shampooing

2009-11-23T01:44:00.000-08:00

Word Origin & History -blog
1998, short for weblog (which is attested from 1994, though not in the sense 'online journal'), from (World Wide) Web + log. Joe Bloggs (c.1969) was British slang for "any hypothetical person" (cf. U.S. equivalent Joe Blow).
Online Etymology Dictionary, © 2001 Douglas Harper Cite This Source

Any hypothetical person? I like that. Sort of like taking the anonymity of the internet and giving it an alias. I feel all warm and fuzzy now that we’re sharing a vague moment together. It’s special in an unspecific sort of way.

Today in my Blotanicals mail box I received a note from Anna at Green tapestry informing me that she had awarded me the Best Blog Award. Wow! Now that’s pretty doggone flattering and I am quite honored by her opinion. Green tapestry is a delightful blog with an engaging writing style and she actually talks about plants, if you can believe that!

Now while I was exceedingly pleased that Anna would even consider giving me Best Blog Award I did have some questions. First of all is blog even a real word? Doesn’t something have to be a thing before it can qualify for an award. Will there be those little bald headed gold guys or maybe MTV’s golden bag of popcorn. Should I dress up for this maybe get my hair done. I just don’t know how to act in light of such an honor. It became clear that I did not have a red carpet action plan. I believe that if I did have such a plan I would not have spent the day of my award ceremony shampooing the carpet, nor would I have been sweeping the garage or clearing spider webs. I should have been at a fitting or getting my nails done in the latest shade of self importance by someone who couldn’t care less if I’m late for my hair appointment. But because I did not have an “I’m getting an award, but really I’ll just be happy to be nominated” plan I spent the evening attempting to decipher the latest health insurance benefits plan written in Latin by drunken Irishmen at a wake.

I carefully pondered which little boxes to check so that my medical insurance might more precisely insure me for the things that I am least likely to experience.
For instance since I am more likely to suffer a broken bone while dropping a large boulder on my foot rather than need a cleft palette surgery I made sure to check the appropriate box. I now have peace of mind knowing that the insurance will fully cover the cleft palette surgery and my broken foot will also be fully covered by the all inclusive Blood out of Turnip plan.

I’ll tell you what, it isn’t universal health care that we need or even health care reform what we need are flipping translators for this stuff. Maybe that’s who all those people are with their blissfully smiling faces plastered all over the glossy benefits brochure. They all look so carefree, as if they are enjoying perfect peace of mind knowing that at any minute a life altering catastrophe might occur. Either that or they really up-graded their RX coverage. With all the happy peaceful state of mind drugs being fully covered under their superior health care plans the Latin speaking thoroughly soused Irishmen and their little boxes to check are making a whole lot more sense. Maybe I should look into that plan as it seems the only people capable of understanding this stuff are fully loaded on happy pills. Or Latin speaking thoroughly soused Irishmen.

But I digress and once again fail to talk plants or the Best Blog EVER Award. Yeah, I added that last bit. It’s a blog. Who’s gonna check? Consider it part of my acceptance speech and bleep it out in the time delay.

The award comes with strings attached and I would be remiss if I ignored those. Since I very recently tagged a number of people with an award, one that required some confessing I might add, I have devised an alternate tagging plan. I would simply like to share a few blogs with you that I enjoy and you may or may not have visited on your blogging rounds. There are so many wonderful blogs out there and I know that I am leaving out so many that I could and should put in here. I tried to stay focused on ones that I have not mentioned before and blogs that I thought some of you may not have visited.

Edward B.Gordon he produces a beautiful and stunning painting each day. He also produces great envy and admiration in me every day.

All A Dither she is a wonderful writer and I enjoy her reflective exploration of life and the hopes and dreams we nurture or neglect along the way. She also is writing an intriguing dramatic novel and waiting for the next installment is like a little soap opera for us blog junkies.

Barbara Muir paints And she does paint! This lady is the epitome of happy. She also produces a painting a day and somehow manages to always find a genuine reason to rejoice in life. She shares her thoughts and her life along with paintings that reflect her joy and exuberance for life.

Patchwork Garden I don’t know if I can accurately describe Linda’s blog except to say that she has a uniquely Texas voice. She has lovely gardens which she is always at work in but there is something rich and sonorous in the way she shares it. She seems to be in rhythm with the land there and I truly enjoy stopping by for a friendly visit and cool glass of ice tea.

Flower Hill Farm Carol’s blog is the essence of peace and beauty. Her photographs of her incredibly landscape and flowers never fail to bring a deep calm to my soul. Her words are like psalms to the land she stewards.

Natures Scenic View this is from the creator of Hocking Hills Garden which is also a fantastic blog. I love Natures Scenic View however because it is just pure eye candy and I love the sweets she puts in this blog. The photographs are amazing. I find myself going back to them many times just to gaze and enjoy.

The Galloping Gardener It is hard to imagine anyone missing this blog but if you have, do yourself a favor and take a look. She travels to some of the most wonderful fairy tale gardens and shares such wonderful pictures. I am often transported to my girlhood fantasies of castles and magical talking trees and wildlife. Of course the grown up in me still has fantasies but these include winning the lottery and buying my own castle complete with talking trees and wildlife.

My Secret Garden I am sure you all know Tatyana’s blog and she also has already been awarded the Best Blog Award but I just had to include her on this list. Of course she has a beautiful garden but this woman knows how to blog like a pro! Her photos are gorgeous and her posts always interesting. I think her energy and enthusiasm come through with vibrant full color in every post she makes.

My Nice Garden by Autumn Belle is as lovely as she is and a pleasure to visit. She delights me with flowers that are wonderfully exotic to this Northwestern American. She shows me a world I have never seen and I would love to have her as my tour guide if I was ever fortunate enough to travel to her corner of the world.

Destination: Where the F is Ron This blog has absolutely nothing to do with gardening or even painting for that matter. Ron is journalistic reporter who travels the world often to the most dangerous and beautiful places you can imagine. He draws you into that world with his photographs and writing but above all with his soul. Ron has seen the worst that the world has to offer but he always seems to know where the heart of humanity lies and he shares that with us.

This post has gone a bit longer than I planned and I still have not talked about a single plant or flower. I actually haven’t been out in the garden because the scuba gear I ordered from Noah’s Ark and Garden Supplies has not arrived yet. The Have You Lost Your Minds daisies are still standing tall, green and sporting a few cheery white flowers. The nasturtium refuses to give up the field and continues to bloom. The water hyacinth and lettuces are stubbornly hanging on. They seem to have forgotten that they are warm weather annuals here. The black eye Susans are blooming right along and I have one very stubborn gladiola thumbing her nose at this constant downpour. I could go on about the plants that simply won’t pack it in but that would actually be a long list. Yesterday on my way to the car I noticed that my lavender rose bush was flush with buds again!
It is now completely clear to me that the 750 spring bulbs I bought are going to make a spectacular garage show come spring…because that is exactly where they are going to stay unless this rain lets up and those idiot plants pack it in.

Yes, that is a honeysuckle in the middle of November in Washington State.

Possibilities

2009-11-18T13:59:00.000-08:00

This painting is of a man on the edge of his life. And he is wondering. There is a question before him, it comes as reliably as the seasons and it is always the same. “Do you have the courage?” He doesn’t look out of the window, it isn’t there. He is looking out of his now. He isn’t thinking of how he hates his job though he is often certain he does. He doesn’t think of his tiny apartment though he can feel its walls surround him. They close in on him like the uneasy feeling that chokes his dreams in the lonely hours before dawn. He doesn’t think of those things. Instead he thinks of the road ahead, the one out there. Feeling the winds of change blowing through his mind and the eternal warmth of possibility upon his face. He remembers a time when he believed he could be something, someone. And he wonders. He wonders if this time he will be brave enough, if there enough strength or imagination left in him to take that step into a new future.
This is the story of a man who has not yet begun. It is the story of a man on the edge.
What mysteries await his discovery?

Many people ask me what I paint. They wonder what medium I paint in but mostly they want to know what style and subject I paint. Not surprisingly I am pretty well stumped for an answer. I have put together plenty of bios, résumé’s, descriptions and introductions but have never believed in a single one. I don’t paint from life and my painting buddies have stopped asking where my reference photo is. They know by now that there isn’t one. Of course it might seriously help if I used one once in awhile. Often artists refer to painting the truth of what they see. I try to paint the truth of what I feel. The rest of it is just the vehicle. My work is easily grouped into cohesive shows but to say that I paint a certain subject matter or in a particular style never quite seems to fit. It would be more accurate to say that I paint with a particular voice.
Thank you for listening.

Gardens of My Mind

2009-11-15T21:29:00.000-08:00

Earlier this evening I was trying to recall something from my distant past. There were only glimmers of the memory and they were as slippery as minnows.

I thought of the electrical energy that gives the brain life and illuminates our thoughts and memory. I began to consider light, how it reveals itself to us and how we reveal ourselves to it. The way we express what we really are by the things that catch our eye or stay in our memory. As I struggled with this I began to consider the physical makings of a memory. Of the neurons that hold them and the dendrites that connect them so that they resemble the most amazing system to ever exist. They are often referred to as resembling a tree but in truth the appearance I think is more that of roots. It is incredible to truly consider the elements which create who we and that they so closely resemble the same system of life used by the very plants that many of us cultivate in our gardens. Of course I don’t know what these little babies look like in the raw. I have only seen them through our technically advanced method of smoke and mirrors but with or without the fancy gear the structure remains the same. The trunk or neuron and the many dendrites forming the root system create the “plants” that populate the garden of our minds.

This evening I was searching for a particular plant that I knew was in the garden but it had been overgrown by other plants over the years which had spread out to block the sun and hog the nutrients. I knew it was still there because like a strongly scented plant I could still smell it wafting through the garden when the breeze was just right. Its growth was stunted and it lacked vitality but it was still alive.

I followed the scent of this memory back into the depths of the garden, carefully stepping aside the many flowers and heirloom plants that had found homes in the fertile soil. The deeper I went the more crowded the garden became. The scent of other memories began to distract me from the one that I sought. Soon the garden began to turn wild and overgrown with long neglected growth. There were the climbing roses that reminded me of my mother now tangled with ivies that represented my grief. The wild irises of my solitude spread deep and wide to create a barrier against the Shasta daisies of my trusting nature.

The light grew dim beneath a quiet fog of forgetfulness. Thick moss cushioned my steps as I approached an old and forgotten stone wall. It had been built years ago for reasons I can no longer remember and it was still strong and sturdy. The light filtered down through drafts of fog illuminating an ancient garden long forgotten. There along the heavy stones of the wall were bits and pieces of tiny plants long ago planted with the passion of a child only to be abandoned as the days grew long. Tiny plants which held so much promise, so much magic. Little markers with names once written in crayon now faded and illegible. I bent to my hands and knees for a closer look.

I could smell the rich earth of childhood and the tears that had once watered this bed. Here was one that had been hastily planted, not quite all the way in. There was another that was still in the pot, yet another that had been a gift and still wore the yellow ribbon it came with. Over near the corner stone of the wall lay several pots never planted. They had grown out of the bottoms and over the sides in spite of the neglect. There was a loose stone in the wall where a steady flow of water seeped out trickling down to the soil beneath. I saw a vile green bug there, from a time I’d rather not recall. I crushed it beneath my shoe. I knew there was another. Something large was growing behind the wall. There were gnarled branches that peaked over the top. I hadn’t come for that though. I was still looking for the plant whose scent I had followed all this way.

I walked along the length of the wall pausing here and there to visit the tiny forgotten plants. The light continued to battle the fog in that ancient garden as the plants fought to reach it. The fragrance I was seeking grew stronger and I began to push aside the detritus of so many years. The aroma of rich loamy earth began to give way to the cool mineral scent of lake water and minnows. I had found it.

The plant was small. It was undernourished and the root system was severely stunted. It didn’t seem to have grown since the day it was planted. It had not interacted with the rest of the eco system. It appeared to have never grown past the original dirt in its pot. It was exactly the same as it had been when it was planted except that it was weak from neglect. I would have to nurture this little watery neuron back to health if I was ever to see it blossom into its promise.

And this is where I began to think of neurons and dendrites. If our memories, our thoughts and feelings are made up of these elements that are so much like plants and trees then how do we become good gardeners? How do we stimulate the growth of the plants that we choose for the garden our mind? I ask myself if it is enough to simply allow the winds to seed my garden or do I take an active role selecting and nurturing a garden of my choosing. While I may have a gravel pit to work with I choose rearrange those rocks into a pleasing design to nurture the best versions of the plants that I have. I will nourish those plants until they have grown strong healthy roots. And I will wait patiently because I planted these plants once and I would like to see the flowers of promise that I believe they can produce.

Survivor - Extreme Home Edition episode 6

2009-11-13T04:04:00.000-08:00

On this weeks episode we have a special musical guest Banjos, performing not live, Dueling Banjos. These fellows are a bit more lively than our usual fare so you may want to adjust your volume...or not. Jed Clampett could not be reached for comment. Probably out back swimming in the cement pond. (Post, posting note: the Dueling Banjos song has been moved down to the bottom of the playlist if you would like to listen to it. It is particularly appropriate for this post and just plain funny)

Once again we find our heroine deep in the bowels of the medical profession where she continues to wage her great battle against the most unholy eeviill ROCK. She was last seen flat on her back with a little mask muffling her enraged cries of “FISHES!” In the distance the mocking laughter of the Unholy Evil ROCK was heard. Which oddly sounded just like the charming anesthesiologist’s voice but this was no time to complicate things with questions. The Evil ROCK would soon know the full extent of its folly when those slippery little fins swished by. “Ha! Victory will be mine.”

Of course there was this one little setback. I was in the hospital again. Why? Oh not the evil little gnome that was living inside me, no. This time it was something else entirely. Something unexpected, like the Spanish Inquisition. And like the Inquisition it was just as stupid and as I was quite sure, it was just as painful. Do you recall the caveman diet I was on to help build up those lonely little blood vessels? Do you also recall the cute little jars full of iron packing pumpkin seeds that I had all over the place to snack and nibble on? Not so much? Me either.

Well as it turns out pumpkin seeds are not quite like sunflower seeds. The shells are not puffed out away from the seed like sunflower seeds. They don’t split and crack as easily but they do happen to be a lot softer and almost chewy. Of course there is that one little bit about the outer edge that is pretty tough but that can be got around if your in a hurry and really don’t mind so much. I was and I didn’t so I chewed the little buggers without a second thought. You can never really say enough about the second thought. We should all have them a lot more often. I wish I had.

One of those little hard sharp outer edges had put up a most gallant fight in his final moments and had managed to land a final savage stab at his oppressor. At first the wound went unnoticed but soon the damage grew to unimaginable proportions and my rock slinging days were numbered. They were actually numbered at zero because the only rock I could think of was the one they were going to use for my headstone. It was a happy thought and I thought it often. Eventually I went to the ER and I shared my happy thought with those fine people. Maybe I was delirious with pain but someone said something about things that sounded oddly like the Spanish Inquisition and I actually thought it sounded like a good idea. Well they did have drugs this time and that was a big improvement. My inquisitors wheeled me off to some mysterious chamber and I was relieved that they had finally given up on that dreary sack cloth fashion. The fluffy cloud and sheep pants were so much more cheery.

Meanwhile back at the ranch… the Saint had been sent home once again. “Long surgery, she’ll be out for hours, blah, blah, blah.” Been there, done that. A quick stop by Blockbuster and the couch was his new best friend. Everything was going fine. The movie was stupid, lots of stuff got blown up and there was no stupid plot to get in the way. And then the phone rang. It was the hospital. Panic raced through his veins like a souped up ’67 Camero in a get away scene. It was the doctor, the surgeon to be exact. “Aren’t you supposed to be in there operating?” “um yeah, we’ve got her in there right now and we were wondering uh…what the hell was she eating?”
Five pounds of tire rubber turning to smoke on the asphalt and my reaction= Screeeech!
Are you kidding me? Is there no end to my humiliation?

No. Apparently not.
Sigh.
A pumpkin seed nearly killed me. They are evil and diabolical and that is exactly why they are used at Halloween. I know they sure scare the he** out of me.

In a day or two I was back on the ranch. Though I had a new found enemy in the squash family it was time to get back to my first sworn enemy, the ROCK. I shoveled more gravel, slung more rocks and generally kept chipping away at that unholy alliance of gravel and stone. In between outburst befitting the offspring of a truck driver and a sailor I helped the Sainted one haul up fallen trees from around the property for future firewood. OK fine. Some of them were for my bird roosts but mostly the trees were his.

We were bringing up a series of small trees from down the hill and I felt my lower back give a little protest but that was to be expected when lugging a flipping tree up a hill. We got them situated against the barn when we heard a horrendous noise coming from somewhere. It sounded like a semi truck and a freight train in a slow motion collision. To confused to panic properly we just stared into space as our brains sorted through every known explanation only to come up with semi truck, freight train, slow motion collision.
At the top of the driveway we see a boulder the size of a VW Bug coming toward us. It is being pushed by a track hoe which is being driven by our very friendly neighbor wearing overalls and a big sloppy grin. From up on high and over the unimaginable din he shouts “Hey, I thought you all could use a rock! I seen you been collecting them and I had this one just laying around over at our place so I thought I’d bring it over. Where do you want it?”

What! Where do I want it? You just brought me a giant boulder the size of a car right out of the blue and you want to know where I want it? You know, I didn’t exactly have that mapped out in my garden plan. I thought all these things but didn’t say them of course. I was to busy trying to think of what I was going to do with this “gift.” With the little bit I did know of this guy I was pretty sure that where ever that rock went right then was exactly where it was going to stay for the rest of eternity so I had better think of something fast. “There” I said pointing “put it over there.” It was the farthest edge of the evil ROCK. It would eventually become the second waterfall.

Apparently our happy and generous overall wearing neighbor took our shocked and incredulous expressions to mean “please bring us more” because that is exactly what he did over the next several days. I would be lying in bed passed out like the dead when suddenly a freight train would be barreling down on me. It was just my friendly neighbor at six AM bringing me another gift he was sure I needed because “ You sure seem to like rocks.”

On one particular fine day after another unexpected rock delivery and between pick axing the Evil ROCK and hauling up more trees my lower back did finally give me my final warning. And I ignored it. Sure it was stiff that night but it was always stiff and that seemed fair considering the situation. The heating pad and I had become close friends. We were more than close. We were sleeping together. But like all heated relationships it would soon end in disappointment and betrayal.

I awoke to greet another day of forced labor and began to roll out of bed when my nightmare began. Overnight my hot slender bed buddy had betrayed me and left me with a colossal case of STD. Stupendously Terrible…Oh forget the acronyms my back was in the worst spasm imaginable and the pain was excruciating. After maneuvers more careful than an astronaut’s space walk I managed to make it to the bathroom. It was now confirmed that I had just completed my highest achievement for the day. The day and night wore on in a hideous blaze of pain. The next day was amazingly worse as the spasm intensified. I wanted to call an ambulance myself this time but we live on a mile of rough unpaved private road and I had to know how good the shocks were on the ambulance before committing to one. I began to think about an airlift. I wondered if they would let me throw that deceitful heating pad out the window when we passed over the manure patch at the dairy farm.

Just as I was planning my escape and subsequent revenge a horrible thing happened. Actually a horrible mind numbing thing happened… to the air. The septic system began to back up into the house! It was coming up through all the drains like some toxic throw back to a 1950s teen horror movie. “It Came From Below” “The Bowels of Hell” “The Toxic Avenger” and other such titles of popcorn and Jujube beans fame. Surely this day could not get worse. Surely.

Plants were beginning to wilt, trees were starting to droop. This monster had to be put back into its swamp before it took over the county and soon the entire world. A call for help was made. The horror of it all was, well, horrible. My back felt like it was broken everything was filling with phenomenal skank when finally my saviors arrived. A big tank truck with the words Sweet Swirl Septic Systems emblazoned on the side pulled up out front and I suddenly realized just how those guys from the movie Deliverance pad their incomes between big movie deals. I didn’t catch their names, I was too busy counting teeth and wondering if that was a raccoon or opossum stuck to the grill. Well Hollywood must have taught these boys how to network with the best of them because the whole while they were working on, dare I say in, the problem they kept up a witty banter with each other and to my absolute humiliation, me. They were well versed in all the appropriate genre related jokes and had a particular penchant for jokes that required victim participation. Every time I tried to make my hobbled escape Two Tooth would suddenly need to ask me where something was and then start another joke. One Tooth would just grin and hitch up his trousers again. Apparently it could get worse.

So Now What?

2009-11-10T21:14:00.000-08:00

It has been raining here for about 1,600 weeks now. Daylight Savings time came along and stole one entire precious hour of sunlight or perhaps I should say one slightly less dark grey hour of the day. It is now solidly dark by the hour of five PM and if you make the mistake of sleeping in or worse yet, having a day job, you might mistake yourself for a Morlock. Of course they did do some pretty shabby things to those poor Eloi and the worst we did was to inflict Starbucks and Grunge fashion on the rest of the world. Don't get me wrong I am a big fan of Starbucks and have pledged my first grandchild in exchange for daily infusions, though I am a tad less enthusiastic about the whole grunge thing. I suppose under certain comparisons Morlock and Seattleite could be interchangeable. Well, at least in the rainy season anyway.
But really, it’s not our fault! You can see what we’re dealing with here. These things are bound to happen when the only daylight you see is in the snapshot you carry around in your wallet reminding you of that one glorious hour last summer just after the Fourth of July when the rain finally stopped.

Oh fine. I’ll stop whining. But it has been raining pretty darn steady for some time now and I’m feeling like a kid home from school with a slight cold. The dogs don’t want to wear the cute little outfits I made for them and hide when they see me coming. I’m not even trying with the cats after that last doctor bill. Sheesh, what an attitude. So with all this time indoors I’m starting to get a little batty and goodness knows I do not need any help in that direction.

Which brings me to the point of today’s post. Deep breath in, now let it out slowly…

It is time for me to get back to work. I have been stalling and making false starts for months now and so it appears that another approach is needed. I have got to kick myself in the behind and what better place to do that than in public? I am an artist and I haven’t seriously painted or sculpted for longer than I should have. I paint in oil, pastel, watercolor and sculpt with stainless steel mesh. Wow. I feel like I’m at a twelve step meeting and that was a lot tougher than I wanted it to be.

I have been watching a few artists who participate in the “Painting a Day” blogs hoping that it would inspire me to get back to work. Unfortunately I proved to be immune to that therapy. I did start several paintings only to get to the “hump” part and stop. I had plenty of reasons for my distraction and the garden proved a pretty handy excuse most times. Soon blogging was also a handy scapegoat. Now if I keep this up it will be the holidays as an excuse and then it’s spring tulips leading to summer and still no painting. I am ready to admit I have a problem and in that vein I am giving myself an intervention of sorts.

I am showing you a couple pieces of my work today. Then I am going to paint another painting and put it up here again, and so on. I am not a painting a day kind of artist. That just isn’t my creative cycle so there’s no need to worry about that. I am really just hoping that if I can feel that pleasant obligation to stay connected with you through this blog and that it might extend to my art which could be just the jolt I need to get back in the palette again. Did you notice that clever little twist on the old “back in the saddle again?” That’s what staying up past your bedtime and no sunlight for two weeks will do to you. You’d think with all that talent Microsoft would come up with a program called “Stupid Check.” Now there’s a world changing invention just waiting to happen.

And so to conclude this rambling little post I will leave you with this. I have no flowers and no sun and I need to find something to blog about soon. I have no idea what you real gardeners do with your blogs over the winter months. I haven’t been around long enough to find out so I kind of imagine you talking about house plants and stuff like that. I’m a little low on house plants right now so I thought maybe I could paint instead.

I should probably tell you what these pieces are before I close out.
Blue poppies are pastel on sanded paper, 22x30”
Koi are watercolor 22x30” on 300lb hot press
Red poppies are pastel on sanded paper 30x36”
The sculpture is stainless steel mesh hand formed and prized for the shadows it creates

I’m going to fix a bowl of popcorn, put in a stupid movie and forget I posted. The good thing is, I’ve ordered a sun lamp so incidents like this should be less frequent.

Lipstick on a Pig

2009-11-09T02:16:00.000-08:00

In my last post, I confessed to my abject lack of vision and purpose. I came clean about my failures as a blogger and my complete inability to find a suitable way to describe my blog. I became aware of these inadequacies when I attempted to submit my blog to a search engine only to find myself staring blankly at a little white box with the title “blog description.” Apparently, I was expected to fill it in with some words. More apparent was the fact that I didn’t have any.

As in any good story, right when all is looking lost help arrives just in the nick of time. Usually it comes on a white horse or in fighter jets or some other such vehicle. This time it came in the form of the little white comment box. You came riding in on your letters and words full of hope and encouragement and gave me the words I needed to fill in that white abyss called “blog description.” In fact, I was so buoyed by all your kind words that I decided I should take Terry Lynn’s advice and just go for a big juicy book deal. There really is nothing like a great big giant over inflated ego to get the idiocy wheels turning.

Now this is my very first query letter and as I understand from my writer friends crafting one of these is worse than doing your own root canal. It’s well worth it though if you land that coveted agent and get the big book deal. The purpose of the query letter is to sell your story to the agent. I pulled the descriptive words out of your wonderful comments to create what I hope will be that magic bullet of a query letter. Hollywood here I come!

If that fails, I hear Monroe Farm and Feed is having a big sale this weekend on twine. It’s the good kind.

Dear Ms. Most Revered Agent,

I am seeking representation of my overly inflated word count blog, Blue Gate Gardens where a rock-stealing hussy with big dreams creates an oasis out of a big pile of rocks on top of an even bigger rock

After nearly dying only to be resuscitated by an emergency blood transfusion hussy LeSan Bluegate is back on the job the next day. She is not about to let a few missing corpuscles get in the way of her mission to transform this gravel pit into a charming eclectic garden.

With her partner the Saint by her side, though randomly and at infrequent intervals, she is determined to get the job done. But when the rock proves to be an impenetrable and evil force reaching deep into the earth and even deeper into her soul, she realizes that this daft garden project has just become an all out war. With homey witticisms full of dry humor and color, the hussy will become a succulent wild woman armed with a pick ax and shovel.

She has no idea what the hell she’s thinking when she splatters her amazing wittiness all across the Blogosphere but she will make people cry, laugh and think deeper all while she distracts them with well written posts and pretty pictures. She journeys to exciting, wild and wondrous places full of information and fun while the epic battle with the Evil Rock plays out against the exotic backdrop domestic flowers and horse manure.

My blog Blue Gate Gardens, is a blog for bloggers who sometimes garden but still find they want something to read. It is the captivating story of a beautiful young heroine and her sainted side kick battling the evil and relentless Rock. She is one tough gardener and her story is told from the heart of a nature-loving writer with a few too many screws loose and one dependable camera. Acts of insanity are written in a clever and unique way to make Blue Gate Gardens a smart addition to anyone’s blog line up.

I am an Honest Scrap Award Winner and a Bottom of The Barrel ranking member of Blotanicals. I am also the recipient of numerous positive comments in the Post A Comment section.

I look forward to hearing from you at your earliest convenience.

Best regards,

LeSan

I tried it out on an audience.

The reviews were mixed.

I think it might need some work.

To Blog or Not to Blog

2009-11-04T23:21:00.000-08:00

I have a confession to make. I have let it slip a few times but always safely away from my bloggie home. I take comfort in imagining that my secret sins will remain hidden at bottom of someone’s comment barrel and never discovered. I hope to disguise the truth with pretty pictures and catchy Google tags. Some of you probably already suspect something is a little different, perhaps a little off around here. I don’t suppose I can go on pretending that you won’t find out about me. Eventually it’s all going to come out and it won’t be pretty. No sir, it won’t be pretty at all. Well, I don’t know how pretty or not it will be but lives will be ruined I tell you. Ruined! OK, so maybe not ruined exactly but there will be hell to pay I tell you! Maybe not so much hell or anything but certainly a good time out with no cookies, at least not the good ones with the miniature M&Ms in them.
I’m sorry what were we talking about again?

Oh, that’s right the horrible mortal sin thing, hell fire and public flogging, right. Well see, the thing is, it’s the blogging, the public blogging to be exact. It was Rosey Pollen at Dung Hoe. It was her fault. She pushed me over the edge with her clever probing blog questions. “Why do you blog?” she asked as though it were a perfectly reasonable question to ask, as though I had a perfectly good answer, as though I had any idea at all.

Oh sure it seemed so easy for all her people to cheerfully give their smart and thoughtful answers. They all had such good reasons, noble reasons but mostly just actual reasons. I envied them all in their surety and self-awareness. They had missions, goals even. They had family to share stories and pictures with; they had information to share with other gardeners. Some were spreading serenity and joy while others were keeping a garden journal for posterity’s sake. There are writers with blogs who write about writing for writers who write. There are bloggers that blog for the sake of scoring hits to make latte’ money and still others who blog just because they seem to have an awful lot to say, about what I am not too sure but they do it anyway.

Stalling? No, I’m not stalling. I’m perfectly comfortable with this. Um, by the way did you pull the curtains? Is there anyone else in here besides us? Just asking, that’s all. Perfectly comfortable; could I have a glass of water? Kind of warm in here, don’t you think?

So here it is, the horrible shocking truth.

I blog by accident.
I don’t have a deliberate reason that I can figure out to save my virtual life. Wait. Don’t judge me. Let me explain myself. I’m sure I can explain this. Just give me a minute to think something up. I mean…

It all started because this year was the first year we/I had the garden in any kind of garden shape. I finally had the plants in and the pond was open for its first summer. I found a fantastic online garden community at GardenWeb and met many wonderful people there. Nell Jean at Foxes Earth was one of those people and she started a thread asking how many members blogged about their garden. Well apparently many people did blog about their gardens. FlowerLady was the first blogger that I got to know personally and she has become a wonderful friend.

Because I actually had been living under a rock for some time I had never seen a blog before. I know. The shocks just keep a comin’ don’t they? Well anyway, my curiosity was piqued. Being the closet nerd that I am I was less interested in reading the blogs and more interested in what the blog programs looked like. I went to the one I saw most frequently used which Blogspot was, for a little look around. In the past I have done my own art website and another website for a large arts organization using GoDaddy.com and found it easy to work with. I wondered if this was the same so I decided to do a trial.

I set up an account because they wouldn’t let me touch anything until I did. They made me feel cheap just because I wanted to browse. Sheesh. That indignity now dealt with I was free to roam the store and try on outfits and accessories. This was the fun part. Everything fit and nothing made me regret that extra brownie at lunch. I could customize, mixing and matching to my heart’s delight. Then came the time to try out some shoes with the new outfit. This is the part where you put some talk to the walk and see how it all looks on the carpet.

Now what words would I use to fill up my imaginary first post? It hardly mattered since I was just filling in some space so I could see what the template looked like all together. It was my intention to close out of the test sample as soon as I saw what the completed thing looked like. There was no way I could imagine coming up with anything clever, witty or interesting enough to merit even considering starting a blog. So this is what I typed in: “Let’s just see how boring this could possibly be."

I don’t recall what led me to this next item but I ended up on a Google search page where I saw BluegateGardens and directly below in gigantic glaring letters “Let’s just see how boring this could possibly be.” Ahhhh! It went live? It went live with that? It went live with that attached to my name?

I was shocked and horrified. I couldn’t let that stand-alone out there with my name all over it. I spent the next millennium trying to delete it only to find that when Google grants life it can never be taken away. It was as if some evil digital vampire had bitten my little test blog and set it loose on the unsuspecting world. I had to do something to drive a stake through its heart and

fast.
So I blogged. I blogged over those flippant first words which were never intended for public consumption and I kept on blogging, burying it deeper and deeper into the Google graveyard of the undead. Then suddenly something magical happened, something I never expected or imagined possible. I had a follower. I was shocked. I was stunned. I was sure this person had clicked something by mistake or was at least mentally unstable. Either way, mentally unstable or computer klutz I had a follower now and I was hooked. It was not ego but rather a sense of responsibility that hooked me.

I understand that blogs are whatever you want them to be and that you do them for yourself but that’s not how things roll in my head. I figure that if someone is going to give me their time and attention then I want to bring something to the table as well. I hope to add something of value to the conversation in whatever way possible. I am always so grateful and quite often overwhelmed when I read your kind and generous comments. I am humbled that you visit my blog and that you take the time to write. Sure, it’s just a blog and I can’t even say what this blog is about but what I can say is that the reason I blog is because of you. You are my reason and I thank you so much for stopping by and sharing your time with me.

PS. I would like to ask you one little favor if you don’t mind. Can anyone think of how to describe this blog? It has come up a few times and I just have no idea of what to say. I’m totally stumped.

Shrouded Fertility

2009-11-01T22:20:00.000-08:00

What I like about fall going into winter is that it is a perfect time to get lost, even if it does get a little foggy at times.

The day started out clear and bright. I could see far into the distance as the valley spread below me. It would be a good day to take a drive along the highway of my thoughts and see where they might lead me. Perhaps they would lead to untold treasures full of glittering gems for future lives I have yet to imagine. Perhaps the road would lead to fantastical new concepts for the garden or maybe I might finally be able to decide who I wanted to be when I grew up. In any case it was a perfect day full of bright autumn sun, just right for getting lost and searching out new roads.

I sped along that highway of contemplation with the crisp autumn air slipping through the windows to invigorate my senses. Golden leaves clung stubbornly to the bones of summer along hillsides rich with deep dark evergreens while my thoughts played along the rivers of possibilities.

With summer finally over I could reflect on what had gone well, what disappointed and what I might like to adjust. Should I continue with the plan already in motion perhaps making minor adjustments or would I dig up entire areas to redesign with the seeds of promise? Should I make grand sweeping changes or let the days mellow a while longer? It was all very exciting to play with new ideas that might bring wonderful color and vibrancy to my life. At times I enacted minor revisions to sections that had pleased me so far and at others I ripped out entire areas with reckless abandon. Sometimes I imagined wiping the slate entirely clean and starting over with a fresh palette. I continued to travel along this road eagerly following deep into its mysteries.

Silently a fog had begun to drift in, filling the open spaces between summer past and winter future. Then somewhere along the way my playful excursions of deconstruction and rebuilding became complicated and confusing. The rivers of possibility that had once been sparkling and clear were now harder to make out and the grand plans that I had imagined were becoming as shrouded in fog as the golden autumn leaves. I had entered a tunnel of uncertainty. What if I changed this thing or that and then found that I regretted it all too late? What if I made a mistake? Had I become complacent with my past successes and forgotten how hard they were to achieve in the first place? Maybe it was better to leave well enough alone and not risk losing the good things that were growing. After all, things had been setting root and blossoming in the fertile soil that had been built up. Surely there could be little wisdom in disturbing that.

And then another curve in the road suggested that just around the bend there might be something better and brighter if I would only take the chance. Isn’t that how opportunities are born, by taking a chance on change? The fog grew thicker obscuring visibility, smothering the light and I was alone staring mutely like a forgotten relic of humanity unable to decipher the forest of choices before me.

The fog grew thicker and I began to despair of ever making the right decision. Perhaps nothing would ever change. Perhaps I thought, this was as good as it gets. But then something did change and it changed without me. It changed all around me but not because of me. The multitude of possibilities that were as numerous and vaporous as water molecules in a cloud began to coalesce. They became droplets of miniature combinations and possibilities that plopped together to form pools of thought. They became rivers and streams that cut new paths into wild unexpected places. What had once been an overwhelming fog full of tiny bits and details too full of risks and consequences was becoming a full bodied flood of ideas. The light began to tear through the clouds bringing with it clarity even sharper than .

I could see new ways of looking at the garden beds of my life. Of how they played against one another or how they might be rearranged for greater advantage. A new path was opening up before me that had previously not been visible to me. It had always existed but remained unseen by me because I had been unwilling to look.

Searching out a new path means that you have to have the courage to get lost once in awhile. You have to be brave enough to consider a life without all that is familiar and comfortable. Searching for a brave new world requires that you take some risks and that you have honestly weighed the values of each and every thing. It means that you are prepared to spend some time lost in the fog while the seeds of possibility germinate in impossible places. It is here in the misty clouds of imagination that the precious gems of creation are formed.

The vision of creative ideas is organic in nature and needs freedom to develop. Ideas are living things and like all living things there is a special magic, a divine spirit that gives them life. They are seeds full of potential for a gardener who is ready with good soil and just the right placement. There are a lot of seeds out there and we are producing more every day. The question is; do you have just the right spot picked out and is your soil ready for growth?

Gardening sure is a lot more complicated than I thought.

Survivor - Extreme Home Edition episode 5

2009-10-28T22:51:00.000-07:00

When we last left our hard headed but bloodless heroine was alone in a dimly lit room at the dark of night. The Sainted one had gone home to more cozy accommodations which lacked the tube and needle set up or the frequent interruptions by James the friendly hemoglobin peddler. And where exactly was the heroine’s blood or at least the decency to look weak and pathetic without it? Did James have a day job on some street corner selling overpriced concert tickets or questionable used cars or was this his main gig? Was the Saint resting comfortably in his warm, cozy and currently extra roomy bed? Was he wearing soft fluffy PJ's all snuggled up in the down comforter unencumbered by that otherwise pesky conscience?
Traitor. No, I’m not bitter. Why would I be bitter?

On with the story.
Nursing staff and doctors in training hovered at bedside with bemused and befuddled expressions. Tests were performed and theories posited. Probes were sent in and were promptly sent back in a mangled uninformative mess. More elaborate tests were then devised. It eventually became apparent that a large and Evil Gnome was living within our brave heroine and stealing her blood for his devious plans of world domination.

The Evil Gnome with his diabolical plans had made a single grave error that would ultimately lead to his utter destruction. He had chosen a host already engaged in heated battle with an even greater nemesis that also had designs on world domination.
There would be no quarter given to this would be tin pot dictator. She simply couldn’t be bothered. Long grueling hours in dark smoky rooms passed as heroic efforts were made to study the enemy’s weakness. Desperate ideas for daring rescue missions were hatched under the strain of to much coffee and not enough sleep. Either that or someone in a white lab coat cracked a book and said “hey, how about we do this?” “Sounds good Bob, are there any frosted donuts left?”

Oh, fine! Here’s the TMI part of the post. It was a benign tumor roughly the size of Montana. They said they needed to shrink it before they would even attempt to remove it so, they gave me hormonal drugs. The result of which was my summer of Sudden Extreme Menopause…home edition. Now, I may be a late bloomer since I haven’t even come near menopause yet but if that’s how it’s going to roll when the time does come, I’m getting a sex change or going into an induced coma. Whichever one the insurance covers, I don’t care. There’s just no way I’m ever doing that again! Did I mention…EVER! Holy cow I thought I was on fire half the time life was dull as dust and I lost the will to live and…and…just thinking about it makes me want to curl up in a fetal position and suck my thumb.

Figuring out the source of the problem was just the first bit of resolving it. They had fueled me back up but the Evil Gnome was still working his evil disappearing magic operations. The supply lines needed to be reinforced and fresh troops brought in. Over the next few months they yo-yoed me between ridiculous amounts of birth control and the menopause from hell shots. I was on an iron dosage so high that the pharmacist actually laughed at me when I told him what I needed. No, he actually laughed. Out loud. He looked at me like I was two pills short of the Prozac prescript I should have been asking for. Then he gently explained that “the human body simply can’t process that much iron.” I said “Well that’s OK ‘cause it’s just going through the express lane anyway. Now give me the damn ship anchor and I’ll be on my way.”

I was instructed to eat a Caveman meets Popeye kind of diet. This also included such things as dinosaur eggs, lizard tail and pumpkin seeds all of which are apparently high in iron. As if sucking an iron ship anchor like a giant lolly pop wasn’t enough. Well I’m a good patient and since I have clearly displayed that I lack the good sense to know when I’m dying I obey the new diet rules dutifully. The dinosaur eggs tended to be a bit pricey and the lizard tail just too chewy, so I went with the pumpkin seeds. I put little jars those potential pumpkins all around the house so that I might snack on them throughout the day. I nibbled these little iron packed chips between sucking down eight million pills and moving rocks.

Yes, of course I went right back to slinging the pick axe and lugging rocks. I said I was a good patient I didn’t say I was a smart one. I’m actually a complete idiot when it comes to recognizing a limit. I took that first day off because well, I figured I had already missed most of it by the time I got back from the hospital anyway. The next day however I was right back out there on that darn ROCK digging away. It took a few days for the new juice to flush through the lines so things didn’t seem that much different at first. What’s that? Oh, where was the Saint? Safely back at work of course, where his annoying meddling in my affairs wouldn’t bother me. I always made sure to drop the pick ax and scurry back up onto the porch when I heard him coming.

I figured that we were going to need some river rock for this little project but upon learning that an Ivey League College education would cost less than the amount of rocks I needed would cost, I decided to scout out some other sources. I’ve been advised not to discuss the details but let’s just say I did find a source. I began daily trips out to the afore mentioned source and loaded my car up just until the tires began to flatten out from the weight. There was a lot space on that pond to consider so there were a lot of daily trips, sometimes three in a day. Sure I was loading and unloading rocks but I reasoned that I was actually resting more because I had to drive twenty minutes or so each way. I had to sit to drive. You can see the logic.

During this round of adventures however I began to suspect that something somewhere might be going a little askew. I began to have a little pain in my mid section. Ok, it wasn’t so little. I cried like a convicted hedge fund manager and begged to be put out of my misery. And just like that I was back in the ER visiting with all my old friends. Tests scans or whatever was done and I’m back in the too small paper gown with the blue pelt uni socks. This time I get a skinny bed with wheels and a sheet but no shower curtain. I do get my own room though, except it goes up and down and has little round buttons with numbers that light up. Cool! I’m getting sudden unplanned surgery. And I thought it was just going to be another boring night at home with the heating pad.

“That’s OK giant Evil ROCK. I’ll be back! I will be back to finish you. I’ve got my three feet down and that’s room enough for fishes. Do you hear that? Fishes!” Now I don’t know if the Evil ROCK actually heard me but I swear I heard him chuckling. Of course it may have just been the anesthesiologist.

On the next episode of Survivor Extreme Home Edition the Sainted One gets another confused call from a doctor and vows to never answer the phone again. The handsome chiropractor will actually make his appearance. No, really I promise this time he shows up. The track hoe riding neighbor and his wicked sense of timing will make an entrance and two famous Hollywood actors will share a heartwarming moment with our heroine.
See you next time on Survivor Extreme Home Edition!

Washington Apples

2009-10-25T23:30:00.000-07:00

Just outside of Leavenworth is the Wenatchee Valley. I suppose technically the town of Leavenworth is within the Wenatchee Valley but somehow it manages to stand on its own, laying claim to a more mountainous identity than fecund farm land. That’s OK with me. A two minute drive around the corner and I am thrust deep into ample hillsides richly covered in sweeping orchards. Swaths of delicious fruit trees and lush grape vines cover hillsides that look down into a wide sparkling river cutting through the valley floor.
As far as the eye can see there are fields upon fields of trees and vines. Seemingly random impromptu fruit stands appear along the road side with upturned fruit crates for tables and simple awnings for a roof. Magic marker signs of cardboard announce the enticing farmer’s market prices and the variety is almost too wide to choose from. Samples of delicious fruit are handed out like free candy at a birthday party.

There are makeshift shelves lined with homemade jellies and jams. Recipes for pies and sauces compete for space on wooden tables covered with red checkerboard cloth. There are no green aprons or pristine white smocks of the conglomerate grocery here. There is just some member of the family who came in from the orchard that day to man the fruit stand.

The worn weathered hands of farmers hold out sugary slices of their hard work. They offer easy conversation and helpful information about their product. When I take a sample from their hand I know that this is the result of years of hard work and dedication. I can smell the soil on their skin and see the shimmering sun in their eyes. The satisfaction on my face as that sweet juicy fruit hits my tongue is their reward, their pride and joy. I am happy to pay them. In the performance of this simple transaction there is the completion of a circle that is often broken by the glare of florescent lights and plastic bags.

The markets and impromptu stands each have their own personality. Some are simply upturned crates with cardboard boxes and a lawn chair. Others have vinyl awnings hung over jarred treats and long wooden tables. While still others offer colorful banners beside dried corn stalks and hay bales complete with petting zoos and miniature cow trains for the kiddies delight. I love them all. We often ask if we can collect fallen apples for the horses back home and they always give us some bags just before asking if we’d like a box instead. I am so grateful that I live close enough to visit and soak all of this in.

I have been waxing poetic on the glories of fruit fresh off the tree and all things farmy but have left out one important element of the area and that would be the Applets and Cotlets Capital. What this means I have no idea. They make some kind of fruit based candies here and apparently they are quite famous for it. I don’t understand it. I don’t care for the candies so I don’t go. I just wanted to mention that these guys seem to know their Applets and Cotlets stuff and have really made a name for themselves since the early 1900s. The town of Cashmere is where you can find Liberty Orchards and take a factory tour of the Applet/Cotlet production. It looks pretty cool and I know a lot of people really love these candies. If you like this sort of confection, you couldn’t find a better place to visit. I just wanted to make sure that my personal preference for um, chocolate didn’t short change any of you fruit candy loving peeps out there. Just keeping it real folks.

There is a little stand that we frequent because they are one of the select few that grow the Cameo apple. This is my favorite apple. It is sweet, crisp and bright in flavor. It is in general an all around perfect eating apple. During this season we took a few trips over to the orchards and stopped at this particular stand for some of those Cameo apples. The farmer there is a sweet gracious man who is always eager to offer fresh fruit slices and tips for the best apple sauce combinations. On this last visit the gentleman was not at his stand. There was no one to be seen anywhere around. Just the highway and the dirt lot with fruit trees going off into the distance. Cue crickets. We had come a long way for some Cameos and Boscs so we were reluctant to leave without them. Then we noticed the cash box on the table. Sitting there simple and alone was an unassuming little silver box with a slit in the top. The man’s cash box. It wasn’t bolted down. The fruit wasn’t locked in Lucite boxes. It was just sitting out there in wooden crates with plastic bags hanging from the side. A sign hung on the wall with price per pound written in black marker. We smiled and began filling our bags. We weighed and reweighed our bounty on the old metal scales and then counted out our money. We folded the bills neatly and slipped them into the little slot that represented so much.

For many this kind of trust is a common affair but I come from a world of mistrust and suspicion in which the worst is assumed and “get them before they get you” is the code of the day. While I have never been able to assimilate this defensive attitude I often worried that I was hopelessly outnumbered and desperately naïve. I don’t consider this a gift of trust toward myself or even others so much as I see it as a gift of hope for the world I live in. It is an act of faith in the better nature of man and for that I am truly grateful.

PS. For those of you who are local: Stockings Garden and Nursery is just outside of Monroe but they get their produce from the Wenatchee Valley. I like their display and they sell Cameo apples.

Bavarian Disneyland

2009-10-23T00:50:00.000-07:00

Leavenworth Washington is a special place. That’s a pretty simple statement isn’t it? I love this town but oddly not for all the reasons I usually hear. It truly is a beautiful magical place, romantically nestled in the shadows of majestic mountain peaks. The town of Leavenworth is like a Bavarian Disneyland. Everything and I do mean everything is Bavarian themed. From the Hotels, restaurants, and gift shops right down to the gas stations, Safeway grocery and Starbucks. Heck even the McDonald's payphones are housed in tiny Bavarian chalets.

The gift shops boast the finest quality to be found. Exceptional creative works saturate the entire area. Hotels are adorned with exquisite art which can often be found in one of the many gallery boutiques. There are all sorts of shop doors and windows filled with whimsical art, unique clothing and the most wonderful confections. Oh, had I forgotten to mention those? The warm buttery scent of big toasty pretzels with dipping sauces draws you into quaint bakeries full of aromatic breads and pastries. Savory hot bratwurst with potato salad washed down with a frothy micro brew draw you into underground lairs of deep forest timber. And then there are the candy shops filled with a kaleidoscope of rainbow colored treats. Sparkling glass jars filled to the brim with the delicacies of childhood and the richest chocolates of your wildest dreams.

Music plays in the streets while costumed merchants stroll and do business along the bric-a-brac lanes. Horse hooves and carriage wheels can be heard clicking and clomping as they carry people through the streets in a festive display. In every season Leavenworth has found a spectacular way to celebrate with festivals and events that revel in the natural beauty and charm of this amazing place. The piece De la resistance however simply has to be the winter lighting festival. If you have ever wondered what it would be like to live in a Currier and Ives Christmas card or even a Thomas Kincaid painting this would be it. I have never seen a more enchanting winter wonderland.

Now having said all that, singing the praises of this quaint little Bavarian Disneyland in the Great Northwest I must go back to my original statement. These things are not why I love this town. The reason I love this town is because it is the most inspiring little town I have ever known. Leavenworth was originally a timber, rail and fruit town. It was never a large town by any measure and only has about 2,100 residents at this time. In the not to distant past it boasted a dubious reputation of brothels, saloons and hard living. In the 1920s the rail line moved its roadhouse and rerouted the rails to bypass the town thus killing the timber industry in one fell swoop. The depression further hammered the town’s economy and the subsequent war years drove the last nails into its economic coffin. By the 40s and 50s Leavenworth’s boom years were a faded dusty memory. With their economic opportunities dried up and gone there was little hope of survival.

Then in 1962 the town leaders went to the University Of Washington Bureau Of Community Development in search of ideas that might save their town. It was the natural beauty of the area that gave birth to the idea of a Bavarian theme with the hope of attracting visitors. While longtime residents, Pauline and Owen Watson are credited with being instrumental in this Hail Mary pass it was a total team effort. In 1965 key business owners made the brave decision to remodel their buildings. Pauline drew up some sketches for the remodeled store fronts and sold the idea to other business owners. Soon an agreement to Bavarianize Leavenworth was reached and Project Alpine was formed to guide the process along. By that summer in 1965 the first remodel was underway.

Now here is the part that makes me love Leavenworth the most. They did it all on their own dime. The whole town got together, made a decision and gave it their all. There was no government money used. Instead it was entirely financed by the hard work and sweat of people who were dedicated to a goal and to each other. They used their own money, mortgaged their own homes and took on a tremendous risk individually and as a team. Their town was a dust bowl in the middle of nowhere dying a certain death with no hope on the horizon. And they banded together, pulled a stroke of genius out of the air and had the good sense to grab it will all their might. This is a true story of survival and redemption.

So while I do love the Bavarian Disneyland and the picture perfect winter playground what I really love about Leavenworth is something you don’t see. This town is a beautiful testament to beating the odds. When I visit and I do visit often, I see something else in those cute little payphone chalets and lederhosen clad shop owners. I see the triumph of the human spirit. Passing the bric-a-brac fronted buildings which are teaming with visitors from all around the world I am filled with awe, though not of the exquisite Currier and Ives images that meet every turn. I am filled with awe at the people who took a dying town and not only breathed life into it but turned it into something far beyond anyone’s wildest imagination. I love Leavenworth because it makes me proud. It gives me hope and renews my faith in the impossible.

Oh yeah, you may be wondering about the hats. I can't explain it. There is a fantastic silly hat shop. They are the official mad hatters of the town apparently. I think the ample beer gardens help.

An Eternal Love

2009-10-20T21:55:00.000-07:00

Every year we take this particular drive to see the fall colors. We often end up taking it twice because the first time we go too early. I am quite certain that we could eliminate this redundancy if we did a wee bit of research before hand. Each year one of us mentions this little fact and each year we both look away and pretend not to have heard a thing. We like this drive. We take our time and will often take mysterious side roads for no apparent reason other than curiosity. It adds a sense of adventure and discovery to our little drives.

We follow rivers and waterfalls to cut through mountain passes and ski resorts. There are sweeping vistas of the richest greens cushioning fierce and rugged mountain peaks with crystal clear waterfalls seeming to pour from every rock and crevice. When winter’s cold hand turns them to ice it will look as though the mountain is crying diamonds.

Passing downward we again follow along the rapid flowing river as it winds its way through the mountain pass. There are so many places to stop and marvel that it is impossible to imagine having to pick only a few. We always turn our heads to grab a quick peak at Deception Falls. That is an entirely different trip though so we have to pass it by on this one. Spring time is the best for that one when the snow is melting the falls are rushing and roaring so loud you can barely the person next to you. But this is fall so we just give it a fond glance as we pass by.

The scenery on this drive is enough to break your heart. You almost have to wonder at the purpose of such beauty. Edward O. Wilson suggested that the world was beautiful to us because we were creatures of it. In his book Consilience he connects science to beauty in such an elegant and reverent way saying that everything about who and what we are is created to perceive this beauty. It is as though our very existence were meant to rejoice in the beauty around us. I am gratefully not finding it difficult to perform this portion of my human duties.

The river winds along chasing rocks and fallen trees as we follow it to the valley below. The trees and shrubs along the way are bursting with an unimaginable explosion of color and seeing the sunlight through the autumn leaves always makes me cry. It is as if these two elements were always meant for one another. It is a beautiful love affair between them, perfect and eternal. I feel small against this spectacle. It is one of those blessed times that I am granted a clearer perspective of my own humanity.

Of course fall is one of those cozy up to the fire times full of pumpkins, hay bales and hot apple cider. It is warm and pleasant with the sweet melancholy of sepia toned photographs and faded summer flowers. There is a moment however just before that which touches my soul deeper than any memory or personal thought ever could. It is this beautiful dance between eternal lovers. When the sunlight hits those leaves its like there’s no one else in the room. It’s just them, each one glowing in the other’s gaze. And so we stop at this little grove every year to watch this dance between the sun and the trees. There will be plenty of time for pumpkins and cider but for right now I am content to watch a beautiful love story play out another chapter in this golden romance.

We will follow this river to our next stop in Leavenworth for some Bavarian fun and then onto the Wenatchee orchards for tree fresh apples and pears. There may even be some grapes left at the vineyards.

Scrappily Honest

2009-10-15T20:34:00.000-07:00

This is a slightly different post for me today but then again I don’t really have an actual theme do I? I keep looking for one but just can’t seem to figure it out. I have decided that I will post pictures for no good reason. Why? Because I like them, because it will give you something to look at while you are wondering just why in the world you come to my blog. It will distract you from my writing and you will forget all about that dangling participle or misplaced comma. Quick! Look over there. Ooh pretty flower….

Tara over at Eye Feathers hit me with… I mean honored me with the Honest Scrap Award. It’s sort of like Slug Bug for the Internet. It’s a game, people get hit, somebody cries and someone always gets in trouble. So I said, “You bet I’m in!”
Here are the rules:
You tell ten truthful things about yourself.
You pass the award on. You know like that horrible cold you had last winter.
You include the link for the louse…darn, I mean the super great friend who gave it to you
And include links to your victims, shoot…nominees.
Not only does Tara have a wicked sense of injustice she is also a pretty savvy editor and not to shabby with a pen and paper of her own. She is currently working on a novel for young adults. Give her a visit.

OK so here I go. Just like truth or dare but without the bottle and the cute guy your spin never lands on. At least my hands aren’t sweaty…anymore

Ten truths about me

1. I paint to disaster movies. It keeps the other side of my brain occupied so I can just do and not think. Dante's Peak being a frequent disaster. As a matter of fact the more you watch it the more you see just how big of a disaster it is. Love that movie. hehe
2. I regularly encourage my adult son to quit his day job. He has a good job. I have my reasons.
3. I bite M&Ms in half. OK, there’s no defense for that I just do.
4. When I was a kid in the first two weeks of the school year I would read through all my text books and do all the work. I think I might be an undiagnosed nerd.
5. I saved a man’s life. (not kidding)
6. Painting or sculpture I always hate it right before I am finished. I have learned to stop tossing them out.
6.a. Bonus truth: I secretly want to take back paintings I have sold and “fix” them. My ego is attending group meetings. We’re working it out.
7. When I was kid I ate Peanut M&Ms while watching Sean Connery in Live or Let Die. I got sick. I threw them up. To this day I can not look at a Peanut M without gagging. Looking at Sean Connery, not a problem.
8. I worry that I will die before I have done anything spectacular with my life.
9. I’m not afraid to die. I’m just not interested. No seriously. I’m not interested.
10. While I appreciate grocery stores I hate shopping in them. It’s the lighting and deliberative psychological layout. It rubs my instincts the wrong way.

Now this is the part where I list my victims…I mean my nominees. There is a wonderful mix of characters here so I hope you will stop by each of their blogs if you don’t already. Yes, even if they don’t want to get all honest and stuff. Oh, come on guys, it’s not like I’m asking you to reveal your deepest darkest secrets to the whole wide world. Well, unless you want to that is. I mean that’s ok if you do. It’ll be just between friends. You can totally trust us. It’s only the Internet after all. Who could possibly be watching?

Terry Lynn Johnson: I want to learn more about someone with such an appreciation of nature and her adventurous spirit. Was she outdoorsy as a kid or is this new? Has she ever been attacked by wild animals? What’s the strangest thing she ever ate? Does she secretly wear fuzzy pink slippers because they make her feel girly?

NuttyGnome: Because while we have only just met she sure seems like very interesting character and I have questions. How did she get that way? What is going on in that quirky head of hers? Does she have a maniacal master plan written up somewhere? Does she have minions and what’s the application process for that?

Rosey Pollen: because she just seems really fun, brave and like a pretty cool person. I also bet she has some juicy dark secrets. Hehe Has she ever been in a motorcycle gang or a member of a quilting bee? Does she have a secret talent that we don’t know about?

Janie is a brand new mystery to me. I just met her but I love her energetic spirit, joy for life and I would like to know more about just what makes her tick. What is it that puts that great big light up a room smile on her face?

FlowerLady: My sweet dear friend who has had a pretty interesting life and yet is so shy about it. What wonderful adventures has she had that she keeps stored away in a box at the back of the closet? What makes her such a sweet and thoughtful person? Is it the bread machine or her adventures in Europe? Who is the mysterious DH and does he have anything to do with it? Does she wear fuzzy pink slippers because they make her feel adventurous?

Jeni at Highly Irritable: just because I wanted to see if she would yell at me for tagging her. The woman is a terror and her children are plotting world domination. Seriously, if you want to know the enemy you should read her blog. Her stories are hilarious and so representative of what we’re all thinking but too chicken to say out loud.

Jewel at Pink Ink: this amazing woman is always trying on new hats in her life. She lacks the good sense to be insecure and embarrassed like most of us. She lives boldly, with passion and honesty and I just want to see what she has to say. It should be a lot of fun!

You realize of course that I have we will never hear from these guys and that I have been banned from their blogs. sigh. It is a terrible price we pay for art.

A Post post correction: In item number 7 I stated it was Sean Connery in Live or Let Die. A reader has graciously informed that it was actually Roger Moore in that film. A great big Oops and apology to all involved. I still think Sean Connery is pretty nice to look at though.

Survivor - Extreme Home Edition episode 4

2009-10-15T15:01:00.000-07:00

When we last left our contestants the unsuspecting, hardworking, pure hearted heroine and the loyal, dedicated and steadfast Saint were readying for bed. The kindly old doctor, having been driven over the edge by a clerical error, was pushing his own special brand of health care and the cruel eeevillle Rock was last seen plotting world domination. A maniacal laughter was heard rising in the hills.

“It’s almost eleven at night what the heck is he thinking?” asked the Sainted one. “Well, I don’t know but I don’t want an ambulance coming out here. I think the old guy’s cracked” replied our hardworking and did I mention excruciatingly beautiful heroine.

So off we go into the night for a long drive of uncertainty. Sure there was a hospital near by closer to home but we were still city folk and I wasn’t ready to share a straw lined waiting room with the local livestock. We drove the extra thirty minutes into the city so we could be appropriately greeted by sickly florescent lights, scratched linoleum and cold surly indifferent doctors. In times of stress it is of the utmost importance to feel that extra care and comfort that can only be delivered by overworked underpaid nurses who didn’t have the grades to get into Corrections training at Maximum Security. I mean seriously, if you are going to be naked in a paper gown three sizes to small for your um… personals, and cheap uni-socks are your only claim to real clothing as some stranger sticks, probes and generally molests you, it really should be a professional.

Sure there were some worried moments on the drive over but this was ridiculous. There couldn’t be anything really wrong with me. I was hammering away on the rock, moving stone and hauling logs just a few short hours ago. How could anything be wrong? But there was worry. Your doctor doesn’t call you at home after ten thirty if there isn’t something “wrong.” I just couldn’t imagine what it might be. So we joked about it instead. We blamed it on computer error then, we worried. We blamed the doctor for hiring lousy assistants, then we laughed, then worried. Eventually we got to the hospital emergency room.

I walked up to the admitting desk and told the nurse why I was there. She said they knew and had been expecting me. I wondered, “Could this get any weirder?” Yes, yes it could. One nurse worked on taking my vitals as another worked on taking my information. I said I was confused and could they explain just what the heck was going on? I couldn’t decide if I should be worried, annoyed or amused. The admit nurse turned her computer screen so that I could see it and said “This is what your doctor saw when he got your report back this evening.” On the screen was a long list of well, doctory things I had never seen before. It was the complete work up on my blood from earlier in the day. She showed me columns and rows of items and numbers all highlighted in green. She scrolled down a bit and pointed to several rows in bright flashing red with the word “Critical” bolded in capital letters blinking like the nose on a cheap Frosty the Snowman display.

I smiled. “Well sure, I cold see why he was a little unnerved then. I suppose that kind of error will get your attention.” She didn’t smile back. “Well what does it mean?” “It means you have no blood.” She didn’t say to me, “It means you’re anemic.” No, she said you have no blood. “This test says you have only a third of the blood volume you should have. A person with this low blood volume doesn’t just walk in here on their own. They come in an ambulance. Nor do you show any signs of anemia which is why it most likely a mistake but we have to check it out.”

More nurses and another vitals check just in case. They even checked my eyes for the tell tale paleness but found them fresh and rosy instead. They took some more blood to test which seemed oddly counter productive considering the situation. And everyone was in agreement that there I seemed perfectly fine. We all had a good laugh at how silly this whole thing was and I went back to wait with the Saint who was pretending to be comfortable on an impossibly hard chair. I was tired a becoming just a bit annoyed at being inconvenienced for someone else’s error. Eventually someone wearing a white coat over pink and white sheep pants called my name. Finally this silliness was over and we could go home.
Uh, NO.

”I need you to follow me into the back here. Your husband can come also if you like.” OK. We are ushered into the triage room where a row of beds is sectioned off with plastic curtains on shower rods. The woman in the shower curtained stall next to me is intoxicated way past being funny and shouting about something which apparently happened in an alternate universe. I still have no idea why I am here but I have been instructed to dress up in a high quality paper gown. The uni-socks are lying next to it like tiny blue pelts. The intoxicated woman in shower stall 4 still shouting now begins to violently throw up. I miss the impossibly hard chairs.

Finally when I am all gussied up in my brand new outfit someone in a white coat who is not wearing pink and white sheep pants comes in to tell me how I will be spending the rest of my night. “The blood work has come back and the original test was accurate though your numbers are a bit lower now.” WHAT? “We are setting up a room for you now. The blood for the transfusion is on its way.” WHAT? Apparently I can’t hear anything he is saying because while his lips are moving there is no sound coming out. I just smile at him like he’s a little slow. He smiles back and I stare at him like I am a little slow.

He explained that while it didn’t seem to make sense and that I shouldn’t be in the apparent good condition that I was it was however true that I had no blood. Well mostly. He told me that my wrongly maligned doctor had probably saved my life because I would probably not have made it through the night. He said they would be down to take me to my room in a few minutes. I sat there on the edge of the shower curtained bed with the exact same expression the farm animals I expected to see in the straw lined waiting room back home. The woman next door continued to wretch.
It was a much longer process than I had ever imagined. In the movies they just wheel some desperate looking sap in on a gurney next to the pale dying patient. They hook up some tubes and poof, blood starts to flow and everyone is up for a cup of tea in a few minutes. Turns out it doesn’t work that way in real life. It was an all night affair on a slow drip with bags coming and going.

I sent the Saint home and settled in. In the meantime the big pond would miss a day of work. The blasted Rock had won this one but this isn’t over yet. I shake my tiny bloodless fist at you Evil Rock and vow my vengeance. A break for refueling and it’s back ON! Just you wait and see what I can do with a full tank buddy. It was starting to get personal.

And this concludes today’s episode of Survivor Extreme Home Edition. Tune in next time when we find out just where did all those river rocks come from? How big is this beast anyway and why did one solution lead to an entirely separate emergency surgery? Will the handsome chiropractor make his heroic debut or will our heroine finally be crushed in a stony defeat? Until next time on Survivor Extreme Home Edition episode 5…

Don't you feel tired yet?

2009-10-12T00:07:00.000-07:00

It has turned cool the past few days. A cold system from Alaska and beyond has been slipping by and teasing us with winter promises. It is still a bit too early for the trees to really be in their flashy fall outfits but some of them are too eager to wait and have begun primping for the big show. The long dry summer we had brought some unusual rewards in my garden this year. Many plants that would be dormant many weeks by now are instead blooming. There are oriental poppies blooming with fiery red sumacs and forget-me-nots putting on a private show behind the waterfalls. The “blooms once a season” climbing roses are flowering like it was June. Candy tuft is making an encore as are the delicate lavender water hyacinth. I had planned on filling the compost bin with them. They had other plans apparently. I even have sword ferns that have decided to unfurl one last frond or two before the winter season hits. Honeysuckle is sweetly blooming right along as though it had no idea what time it was.

I have loved every single flower and speck of green this year; from the first colorful peek of tiny crocus to the full blown shameless display of six foot daisies. The colors and flowers of spring and summer have paraded in the grandest display of exuberance. The scents have carried me away to distant lands of memory and future fantasies. I have delighted at the determined and unexpected sprouts that grew to become spectacular plants. Just not exactly where I planted them.

I have especially rejoiced in the tenacious spirit of plants that refused to die. The little sumac tree in these pictures for instance. Last summer I dug him out of my neighbor’s trash. Her rambunctious dogs had chewed the poor thing down to a nub. It looked pretty darn dead. One day I noticed that dead stick in the trash was leafing. There was no dirt anywhere to be found in that trash can but this little stick was not impressed with that trivial detail. He wasn’t giving up so easy. I took him home and put his one foot length of dead stick and single leaf in a bucket of water. Later I planted him above the pond and he took off like the weed he knew he could be.

I have stories of near death experiences throughout my garden. There are plants that I culled from the dead racks parked by trash bins at nurseries and behind Home Depot. Orphans that no one wanted, sad little flowerless plants with sagging leaves kicked to the curb and left for dead. I offered them sanctuary from neglect and pretty plant syndrome and they found a home in my garden. They have rewarded me with an abundance of lush growth and riotous color for which I am truly grateful.

Now the weather begins to hint at an end to this long day we call summer and I am finally ready. I am ready to put my pastel summer dress away in favor of a warmer richer sweater. I am ready to turn my iced tea in for a hot cup of cocoa and cool salads in exchange for hearty stews. This has been one fantastic party and I have partied like a rock star. I took pictures like a tourist with a new camera and I oohed and ahhed like a fan at a Hollywood premier. I have had a ball but it’s getting late and I am getting tired. I am ready to curl up next to the fire with a blanket and a hot cup of Joe. So will somebody please tell my stupid garden to pack it in and go to sleep already? I don’t want to be out there deadheading in the middle of December! Oriental poppies in October? Come ON!

Survivor - Extreme Home Edition episode 3 The Big Pond

2009-10-07T00:15:00.000-07:00

On this week’s episode of Survivor Extreme Home Edition our contestants risk their sanity and good gardening tools while putting their very lives in danger in their quest for the prize. A great big time sucking hole in the ground filled with watery green slime. Whoohoo! Now who wouldn’t want that? If you would like to be a contestant on Survivor Extreme Home Edition please call this toll free number 1-800 What was I thinking or text Quick somebody check my meds. Operators are standing by…most likely laughing their butts off.

The rules of the game are: two players, two dimes not on friendly terms so rubbing together, one pick ax and a shovel, and someone’s going to the hospital. This last card may be replayed at random intervals.

The arrow on the left in the above picture is where I thought there was a dig-able rock. Well there was a rock there and it was sort of dig-able but it certainly was not dig-out-able. It literally was the mountain side. The spot there under the arrow turned out to just be a high point. I mistakenly thought High-light. I just thought we would start with something big and make a focal point out of it. We started trying to dig and found we were not so much digging as much as we were scraping. Apparently there had been just enough debris collected for weeds to grow. The deceptive little bast*%#@!

A lot of times when talking about the work in building this garden I will say I this or I that. The reason for that is because it was pretty much I this or that. Not to be misleading, my husband is a complete saint and he did help me tremendously whenever he could but he was simply not physically here for most of it. I am an artist and therefore have a lot more control over my time than someone with a “real” job. I had been working on scaling down my work load and other commitments for some time so that at this point I could focus on building something new. I didn’t know what that something was going to be. I just knew that it was time to fill up my personal well and forge a new direction. While I did continue to paint and sculpt to a much lesser degree my sainted husband kept his day job. This was probably much more self serving on his part than I realized at the time. Again, the deception!

While he worked his cushy air conditioned day job, going out seeing people and being in the world, I worked the Rock. I worked the Rock in the hot blistering sun wearing ratty old clothes while my fancy high heels sat in a box in the closet. I swung a pick ax into hard rock while my sable brushes gathered dust and I sucked dust while my friends were sipping wine. I dug up boulders from the earth and found new and clever ways to utilize a refrigerator mover (also known as a hand cart). I scouted for gnarly stumps and logs in the woods to drag home. I didn’t care how big or impossible a rock or stump was to move if I liked it. All I knew was that I was going to figure out how to get it back home. I rigged pulleys and levers when I needed but mostly just built new muscle to get the job done. It was hot sweaty hard man work and at night I fell into bed like a member of a chain gang and woke at dawn to do it again.

The Rock just laughed at me. It had mocked me and my suburban vision of a nice little focal piece. I continued to scrape and clear away the debris, I pulled the evil weeds and the rock just kept going. There was no end and I could hear it snickering late at night. I swear that thing grinned at me when I came out in the mornings. Oh, it was so ON.

One day the Saint came home and asked what I needed him to do. I told you he was a saint. I cast a sly grin toward the Rock and said “honey… let’s turn this thing into a pond.” He just smiled. And I smiled back. Then he smiled harder. And I nodded my head yes. Then he began to cry. I didn’t care. I’m heartless that way. I grabbed the shovel and began to outline where I thought the pond should go. He continued to sob loudly. I took that to mean that I wasn’t making the pond big enough so I outlined some more. I lost sight of him for awhile. Later I found him sitting in the closet for some reason. I grabbed a shoe box and began to detail my plans with a stick on the lid. He seemed very excited. He had begun to cry again.

The next day I set out to work my new vision. I began a daily routine of pick axing the gravel then shoveling it to the side. I would work this way until I had to give that set of muscles a break and then would lug some rocks or sawdust for awhile instead. In the evening the Saint would come home and help me with the things I couldn’t do on my own. We worked together till the sun went down and the endless days were filled with mind numbing labor.

One day a couple of months into the work I decided that I should see my doctor for a small complaint I had. I had been ill with the flu just prior to moving here and starting this little project and I just didn’t feel like I was getting my strength back to the level I thought it should be. Perhaps I thought I had some lingering infection that I just couldn’t quite shake. So I took the precious time away from my little project and drove myself into the city for a little check up. I was a bit embarrassed at being such a hypochondriac but I was just getting annoyed at having to take breaks, so in I went.

He checked me out took my blood pressure looked at all the things they look at and took some blood for good measure. He told me that I seemed fine and sent me on my way saying that maybe I should take a day off once in awhile. We both chuckled at this. He knows me. I got home, donned my chain gang clothes and hit the Rock for the rest of the day.

Later that night around ten thirty, I was getting ready for bed when the phone rang. The Saint answers and a few minutes later and says the call is for me. “I’m in the bathroom brushing my teeth; tell them I’m in bed already.” “No honey, you need to take this.” “Well who the hell is it?” “It’s the doctor.” “What?” I was incredulous. So late at night where are his manners I wonder? He begins to tell me that I have to get to the emergency room immediately. I am completely confused but I am pretty certain he has lost his mind. Sad really, he was such a nice man. I tell him that I am just getting into bed but I promise to go first thing in the morning. Like all crazy people he had an uncanny sense that I was humoring him and then he said this; “If you do not go to the emergency room immediately I will send an ambulance with police escort to get you.”
Oh my goodness, look at the word count! We are going to have to pick this up again next time. Is the kindly old doctor losing his faculties or has there been a clerical error by his long time and loyal assistant? Will our contestant take the threat seriously or will the police escort be necessary? Find out next time on Survivor Extreme Home Edition episode 4.

Trolls and the Cruelest Mother Ever

2009-10-04T21:04:00.000-07:00

There were no rocks on my mind today, no doubt a few in it but not exactly on it. Then I suppose that just veers off into some silly Monty Python episode. But I digress, though I’ve barely started. I think sums up my Sunday.

Monty Python actually had some pretty healthy advice laced throughout their comedy. Life is too serious to take seriously. I am a huge advocate of taking control of your time on earth and living every moment at least a couple of times. I have skipped out on death often enough to know that every moment actually counts twice. You don’t have to climb mountains or jump out of planes, you don’t need to conquer the world or even travel it for that matter in order to live fully; but you do have to own every moment inside and out. I don’t believe that you have to be happy and infused with joy all the time but I do look for it and try to create it if I can.

When our son was a teenager I told him that we were not going to buy him a brand new car like the rest of his friends at school. I told him that I thought kids should suffer a little in life. He was genuinely shocked and appalled and he took personal offense that I had actually said that to him. It wasn’t about getting a new car as this was his first volley into that arena. It was about giving him the gift of no. How’s that for a parental phrase?
At the time there was no way he could understand what I meant by my comment on his suffering. All he knew was that I was the most horrible mother ever to walk the earth.

All his friends had brand new expensive cars purchased by their generous parents. They were birthday gifts, Christmas gifts, getting a good grade gifts etc. and they were sporty and shiny will all the bells and whistles. He on the other hand drove what he called “The Troll.” It was an old beater Oldsmobile Calais. There was a recurrent electrical issue with the turn signal when it rained so he often had to use hand signals. Then the inside mechanism of the driver side window wore out. When he had to use his hand signals he was forced to reach behind to the back window, roll it down manually and stick his hand out that window to signal. He became quite agile with this maneuver and could have won some serious Olympic medal if it had been a recognized sport at the time. The dome light would sometimes stick on and if he didn’t catch it in time the battery would die. The car was old, completely uncool and had a suspicious musty smell to it. His favorite feature however had to be the mysterious and consistent stalling out on the off ramps. For some reason no one could ever figure out the car would just die when he slowed down to stop on the off ramps. The Troll would take a few minutes to rest and then he could start back on his way. Eventually he began to figure this resting time into his schedule.

He hated that car with all his soul. He cursed it with his every breath and he resented us just a wee bit. Eventually he bought a newer car but still not a brand spanking new one. It didn’t have odd electrical issues, the window wasn’t taped shut with silver duct tape and it continued running even on the off ramps. When he went off to college he was still a tad bitter but he was starting to come around. Then day finally came when the cruelest mother to ever live was rewarded for her horrible comment about the suffering of little children. He had come home for a visit and said to me “You know, about the Troll, I get it. I can’t explain it but I get it. I couldn’t believe you would say such a thing to me at the time but now I am glad that you did. I wouldn’t have had this experience if you had bought me a new car.”

We weren’t punishing him or testing him and he never had to prove himself. It must have seemed pretty unreasonable to him at the time because by all accounts he was one of the most deserving kids for such a reward. He was a straight A student and top notch person all the way around. He was a hard worker and understood the value of a dollar better than anyone. This is why it was so hard to explain why he needed The Troll.

Character is built not in adversity but in fully owning your time on earth. It comes in owning your decisions and the responsibility that comes with them. And with hammering out your priorities and desires longer than it takes to swipe a credit card. Sometimes in our zeal to “want for nothing” and to erase bad feelings we seem to give away our growing pains, our rights of passage. It is in those less than elegant times in our lives when we learn not the value of a dollar but the value of a moment. We learn the value of our heart’s desires and of our goals whatever they may be. It allows us to know that what we are doing with our time on earth is the value that we have chosen.

What do Monty Python’s comedy, lazy Sundays and gardening have to do with any of this? Well you simply can not take yourself too seriously when participating in any of them anymore than you can take yourself to seriously when you are driving a Troll that has a window closed with silver duct tape. You have to let go of your preconceived and often misguided conceptions of how things “should” be and find the absolute truth of your moment’s value. You have to get down in the dirt of life and find the root of what is really making you grow. Once you have done that you will know what to nurture and what to prune away.