My Accidental Garden

My gardening style is pretty simple. Plant it and if it lives it can stay. If it dies, it wasn't meant to be there. When I lived in Florida I had one section of the yard that was more reminiscent of a dust bowl, than the garden of Eden. I finally pulled out the sparse grass, put in a walkway, and planted a few hardy bushes that would grow anywhere. During the Christmas season our house was decorated with poinsettias. As spring rolled around I would take the poinsettias outside and stick the potted plants along the fence in the 'dust bowl' garden. Three months later I would plant any that were still alive. The hardier ones made it. The weak ones didn't. My style of gardening.

Here in Pennsylvania it's been a little different, but as I've related before, gardens and planning are two words that don't really work well for me. Most of my landscaping was not the original plan I had in mind, but consists of the 'substitutions' the landscaper assured me would work better. He was right. I am very happy with his choices!

At the edge of our yard is a ravine that was partially created by the developer. It is steep and was bare when we moved in. Now it is covered with wildflowers and renegade trees. I wanted to create a barrier garden to separate the 'weeds' from the grass.  I marked off the garden, killed the grass, and covered it with mulch. I planted a few daylilies with plans to divide and plant more in other areas. I transplanted some cone flowers and Queen Anne's Lace from a neighbor's yard. One day I saw some zinnia seedlings and thought they might be a pretty addition. Before I had a chance to plant them I discovered something was eating my plants. The cone flowers were nubs cut off at ground level. The Queen Anne's lace wasn't much better.

Hmmm. Not a good place to plant tender zinnias. I decided to plant them around the corner of our patio. I've never had zinnias before so I wasn't sure what to expect.

They liked the location. And I love zinnias! ( Ah yes. You will notice a morning glory also was planted there. Probably not a smart move since I routinely have to rescue one of my zinnia plants from the sneaky, or should I say snaky, tendrils of the morning glory. But we are all working it out. Live and learn!)

It is now late summer. Who am I kidding? Fall starts this weekend! As I sit on the patio reading, my zinnias bloom in a bouquet of many colors. The garden fountain gurgles in the background. Ageratum, a rose bush and ornamental grass frame out the space. None of it was planned. It all just happened over a space of a few years. It's my kind of garden.

It has become a peaceful refuge for us. Maggie lays in the grass, soaking up the sun. I enjoy the birds, the water, and the summer colors that linger into fall.

And the zinnias? They'll be back next year! My favorite accident.

A Little Apple Tree Grows Up

Last year, I wrote a story about our apple tree. We first planted this tree in the spring of 2009, but it did not 'live well and prosper'. (Thank you Mr. Spock)

http://viewfromanemptynest-connie.blogspot.com/2011/04/little-apple-tree-true-story-with-happy.html

After a difficult beginning, we kept the tree on the deck in the summer, out of harm's way, and for the last 2 winters it has stayed in the garage. (It is getting so big Larry needs to trim it so it fits inside.)


Every spring we wait for the blossoms. This year we were rewarded with lots of pretty little pink flowers. Some of those blossoms turned into apples. There were several baby apples that turned brown and withered before getting big.

However, one grew. We watched it every day as it went from a tiny green apple to a larger green apple.

 

A month ago it really began to turn red. Where it sat high on our deck I could see a spot of bright red from whereever I was in the yard.

 

Today, we harvested the little apple.

I cut it open. It was tart, but not sour, and I ate it!

 

 

Next year, maybe there will be 2! Only time will tell, but the apple tree knows we'll give it as much love, nurturing and time as it needs.

3 Old Dogs

We had a party last weekend; our "2nd Annual Labor Day Party". There was great food, lots of people, plenty of kids, one old dog, an array of beverages for all ages and types, and of course.... crummy weather.

Isaac had been making his way up through the heartland and had finally turned east. We watched the weather closely to see how we would be affected. Saturday morning the weather man optimistically assured us the rain would arrive late. Saturday should be OK, except for the occasional shower, but Sunday and Monday could be pretty wet. We set up an awning for people to sit under in case of a shower, or to keep off the sun. We cleaned the patio. We packed coolers with ice, water, and sodas so the kids would stay out of the refrigerator. We packed the refrigerator with beer. Lots of beer. Several kinds of beer. And Wine. (gotta have the wine.)

At 2:30 the first 'shower' arrived. Not to worry, I thought. As long as it is out of here by 5:00. At 4:30 the thunder began. At 4:45 the heavens opened. At 5:00 the rain paused and people began arriving. The coolers were placed in the basement Man Cave/party room. At 5:05 the heavens once again opened all its doors. A few neighbors had not shown up yet.

One texted "Is there a rain date?"

"NOPE, we're all in the basement. Just wait until it slows enough that you can see our house, and run on over."

The kids played. They played Tag. They played Hide and Seek. They played Squeal and Shout. They were having a wonderful time.

The adults talked, and mingled, and drank, and nibbled. They drank some more. We moved from appetizers to the main course. They ate, and talked and mingled, and refilled glasses. The kids continued to play the Squeal and Shriek game.

The old dog paced, went from child to child in search of food, and adult to adult in search of love.

The rain cleared and we sent them out to play. They saw lightning and came back in. One parent's eyes crossed as she mumbled to her friend, "oh go out and play anyway. it won't hurt you..."

The lightning moved on. The adults moved outside, and wiped off benches and seats and sat in the muggy, dark, quiet, cool of the night.

The next morning we woke up. I remained in bed in a groggy half sleep as Larry got his shower. He dropped something making a clatter and I jumped, (in my sleep). The dog slept on.

We went to breakfast at a local, popular tiny restaurant that is always packed. It is the kind of place 'where everybody knows your name'. After waiting for a table we took the one nearest the door. Shouts of welcome greeted newcomers from people already eating. It truly is a local haunt. Our eyes glazed over. The din was relentless. If we were hungover, we would have deserved the pain. But we weren't. We simply have Old Ears. Ears that are far removed from the normal noise of a household of kids. Ears that have adjusted to the Empty Nest. Ears that no longer bend and flex to the varying sound waves the way they did when we were 20.

Breakfast over we went back to our quiet home. No TV. No radio. No noise. We moved slowly through the day.

The dog slept.

Oh yes... Sunday and Monday they were still predicting 60% chance of rain, but alas, the skies were overcast, but dry. Perfect for a picnic.

Silver Sneakers and Golden Girls

Silver Sneakers and Golden Girls

I've developed a problem with my feet. My feet are not my strongest feature. For years I've worn orthotics in my sneakers. I never wear truly flat shoes (like the ones in vogue right now... with all the support of a ballet slipper). I rarely wear sandals, and only for a few hours at a time, like to church or out to dinner. And those heels every one wears on TV. Really? No way. I have flat feet and they tire easily when I am on them for hours at a time. All that being said....

This summer I have added a new problem. I don't know if it is because I am working out more, but the toes next to my big toe have learned how to scream when I've exercised a lot. For years, yoga was not a problem. Suddenly, this summer, after a yoga class I would find I couldn't do my traditional 2 mile walk around the township building. Then one day after an aquatics work out, they said the same thing.... YOOWWWW!

I imagined turf toe. I suspected arthritis. I hoped for a bandaid or toe pad that would make it feel better. What I got was the diagnosis of a 'neuroma', and a cortisone shot. The pain in my toes diminished, but the bruise from the cortisone stayed for days. In a way the good news was that the doctor didn't tell me I had to cut back and stay off my feet. I've worked hard this summer. I don't feel like losing the gain.

But the doctor also said there wasn't too much that could be done. The cortisone was the first step. The verdict is still out as to how much relief it will bring, but it has put a definite crimp in my workouts. Hopefully it will take care of the problem and I can get back to normal.

The rules are simple. Shoes feel best. Slippers even work. Barefeet (Yoga) bring on the pain. Although the doctor didn't feel as if I needed to take it easy on my feet, common sense says cutting back can't hurt, (no pun intended).

I hate getting old. A few years ago I started walking and exercising hard, pelvic tilts were my new focus. I ended up with shooting pains in my butt and down my legs. It felt like electric shock! Fortunately it was short lived. After 2 weeks it stopped. But so had my walking workouts.

Bad ankles, worn out knees, arthritic hips, sore feet. It's a wonder any of us over 50 can get out of bed in the morning, let alone get into an exercise maintenance program. If this keeps up, I'm going to have to head over to the Senior Center and join the Silver Sneakers gals. I'm not ready for that. I may have a lot in common with the Golden Girls, but in my heart I just see the GIRL part.

Until I get up and walk.

Humph!

A Perfect Day Ends with Food for the gods

A perfect day. How do you describe it? I find there are many kinds of perfect days. Sometimes it is a rainy day with a book. Other times it is time spent building a snowman with a grandchild and then admiring it over a cup of hot cocoa. And then there are days like today. A summer day with few "must do's" on my list.


Today dawned beautifully. Clear, cool, sunny, gorgeous. A perfect day. By noon I had eaten breakfast, showered, cleaned the shower, vacuumed half the house, read a couple of meaningful scriptures, had lunch and was ready for a manicure. Now that's a way to start off an afternoon!

It was truly a gorgeous day so after my manicure I treated myself by sitting on the patio watching the robins feed their babies and reading. After all, I couldn't mess up that manicure by doing yard work, now, could I?

And then it was dinner time.

On weekends, Larry is the grill chef. Sometimes I prepare something for him to grill but at least 2 weekends a month it is steak and corn on the cob.

When I was growing up my dad used to love to build a fire and cook chicken and roast corn in the coals. It was without a doubt my favorite summer meal. He cooked the best chicken. Slightly charred, juicy, never overcooked. Just the right amount of salt and pepper. Why anyone thought they had to do the southern style of buttermilk soaked, breaded, fried chicken I could never understand. It is still the very best way to cook chicken in my book. I drool just thinking about it.

Larry doesn't like the careful monitoring of chicken although he cooks it just as well as my dad did. He is a red meat man. And can he cook a steak! Oh, wow! I rarely buy one when we are out. His is just as good, and often, better.

But corn roasted in the husk on a grill, or in the coals is magnificent. As a child I was blessed with the experience of fresh corn. A favorite childhood memory is stopping at a farm stand and asking for a dozen ears of corn, which was then obligingly cut in the fields and sold to us. Fresh corn! There is nothing as sweet. Within a couple of hours it was steaming on the table. Butter dripping off the corn and running down my elbows, a bit of salt. It was like sugar on stick!

The best part of summer in Pennsylvania is the abundance of farm stands selling corn cut just that morning.

So tonight, after spending a perfect day, (chores...done, manicure...pleasure, reading outside on the patio...delight) I had dinner fit for the gods.

Steak perfectly seasoned and cooked, fresh corn on the cob and a glass of merlot to wash it down. I am still floating in a mellow mood and feeling like I have experienced heaven on earth.

It is days like this that remind me what true riches and blessings are.

Center for Hope Gives Me a Warm Glow

When we moved here I wanted to get involved in something that would help people, but because I traveled a lot, I was hesitant to volunteer anywhere on a regular schedule. A few years ago I learned about a program that impressed me so much I wanted to be a part of it. The Center for Hope is a non-denominational Christian based community center that provides educational programs for adults, after school kids programs, utilities and housing assistance, clothing and a food pantry that distributes food 2 days a month to families that qualify through the state. And that is just for starts. Sue Otto, the director, has a motto: A hand up, not just a hand out. And that's her criteria for adding programs.


I like volunteering at the food pantry that distributes food 2 days a month. I usually help one day. The people are a mix of old, young with children, healthy, infirm, smart, or educably handicapped. Many (not all, there are a few gnarly apples in every bushel) are very appreciative and happy to be there.


This week was my pantry week and a group from my church went with me, but one day last winter really stands out in my mind. We had taken a new volunteer with us. As Sue Otto, the director, started handing out assignments, she asked the newcomer if she 'had the gift of mercy'. This is actually a trick question, which most of us knew. If you have the gift of mercy it means you will probably find it difficult to say no to a client who wants something they aren't allowed to have. For instance, occasionally we have a few bottles of syrup and boxes of pancake mix. On those days, in the Breakfast section, everyone will get cereal, but only the large families will get an extra apportionment of pancake mix and syrup. A single person will occasionally fuss and ask for it. It is difficult telling them no and making them move on. Sue knows this so if she feels it will be hard for you, she will give you a task that removes you from this situation.

Center for Hope receives it's food from the State. Food is allocated to families based on the old Supply vs. Demand principle. State allocations must be followed to the letter or the pantry will lose it's license. Sometimes it is hard, but volunteers must follow the rules.

Sue also receives a lot of items from local collection groups: churches, school clubs, scouts. For instance, our church collects toiletries and pet food that we send there. Grocery stores give them surplus items. She has more leeway over how those items are distributed. They are put on shelves or in bins in what I call the "Free Select" section. Families of 1 may get 1 item from each section, while familes of 5 may choose 2 or 3 (supply vs. demand, again). Understanding these details will help you understand the predicament I was presented with one day.


A tall, clean, but shabbily dressed man came in for his food. I've seen him there before, but never worked with him. As he went through the pantry he was very selective about what he needed. The cans of meat were welcomed, but he had plenty of pasta. He wouldn't take any of that. Then came the Free Select section. The first shelf had everything from a couple of boxes of pancake mix, syrup, soups, cake mixes, oatmeal packets... My client looked the shelves over and was delighted to see a box of salt! "Oh," he said. "Salt! No pepper? Oh well, I could use salt!" (Do you know how inexpensive salt really is?) We went on. The next Free Select section was a bin of candy. "No, I don't need no candy, " he said. Then we came to the toiletries. He was a single person so he was only allowed 1 item. "Oh man, soap! I could use me some soap," he said. He looked through the bin until he spied the toothbrushes. "A toothbrush? I really need a toothbrush."

It was my turn. Time to push that 'gift of mercy' to the back. "I'm sorry. Only one item. You have to choose." 

It was hard to do. The problem is, the were only a few toothbrushes, and several bars of soap. But there were many more families who would be coming through. As Sue reminds us, we have to be sure there are things left for the last family, too.

It was a tough choice. "I really need the soap. I could use a new toothbrush, too." He looked at me, took the toothbrush and acted like he was going to slide it in his sleeve. "I could hide it in here, couldn't I?" he asked. My heart sank. I looked at him and gently removed the toothbrush.

"I can't encourage you to do that," I said. I held the toothbrush in my hand. He kept the soap. We moved on. He finished collecting his order and I turned him over to the baggers. As he left, I tucked the toothbrush into his bag. "I'd like you to have this, too. Have a good day."


He just smiled and nodded his head.

There are times when you have to hold the line. If that toothbrush had been part of the State allocation, I would have kept to the rules. He would have had to choose, and be stuck with his decision. But that toothbrush came from my church. How would the person who bought it felt if they knew someone who really needed it was denied it?

All I know is that tiny flicker of light I usually feel (see my post on Feb. 19) warmed me like a campfire when I went home that night.

Realities of an Olympian

I have had a hard time keeping up with my blog this past week. I've been glued to the TV watching the Olympics. If they ever make television watching an event, perhaps I can qualify for a team! I've written and re-written this post several times, but I keep tweaking it as I watch a little more. (I find it interesting that women, who would normally groan when their husbands are glued to the television watching sports and flipping through channels to catch all the games, are quite likely to be doing the same thing when the Olympics are on.) The athletes amaze me. The stories behind them are interesting. I have to say though, I don't think anyone did the background stories better than ABC in the 80's. I learned about people in different countries, saw their villages and towns, and therefore, became involved in the outcome of obscure sports I knew nothing about. This year a few stories really stuck out.
 
Olympic Athletes run, swim, jump to the beat of a different drummer. They sacrifice normal childhoods. They carry determination and dedication to levels that leave the rest of us breathless.

And then there is another huge part in the life of an Olympic Athlete. The Parents. I watched them in the stands, barely contained in their seats as they encouraged, prayed, and rooted their children on. The bond between the parents and these kids is special. Without their infinite support, many of the athletes would never have made it to London.

The story that touched me the most was Gabby Douglas. Not because she is aptly nicknamed The Flying Squirrel. Not because she has a smile that could end world wars or a perky effervescence that makes you want to grab the person standing next to you and hug them. No, those are nice qualities for a star, but that's not what Gabby's story truly signifies. If the dictionary showed a picture of Sacrifice, Gabby's face should be it. And so should her mother's.

Two years ago Gabby decided that she wanted to go to the Olympics and in order to do that she convinced her mother to let her move to Des Moines, Iowa to train with Shawn Johnson's trainer. The family didn't move. Just Gabby. She was 14. What guts that took. Nerve. Sacrifice. Dedication. Love. I'm talking about her mother.

Gabby moved in with a host family. When asked how many times she has been home in 2 years, she said 'I haven't been home'. Wow. From age 14-16, never went home. I assume her mother has been out to see her at least a few times, but that question wasn't asked, so I don't know. It costs money to travel. And raising an athlete is expensive. All I know is that I don't know if I could make that sacrifice as a mom. How do you let them go? For most of us letting our kids go to summer camp for a week is hard.

As much as the athletes sacrifice, what the families sacrifice is almost beyond comprehension for me. The money. The time.  (Any parent of a child athlete knows how much little league can cost in both time and money.) These families are into full time sports training! As a parent it is always a struggle to find a balance between pushing a kid too hard, or holding them back. But the financial sacrifice would stop most of us.

Athletes sacrifice a lot, but their sacrifice is different than their parents. A parent didn't sacrifice for something they loved. They sacrificed for someONE they loved.

I watched Gabby's mother and her host mom as she took gold in the All-around in gymnastics. I'm a weeper. Give me an emotional moment...happy, sad, nostalgic, patriotic...I'll be hugging the box of Kleenex.


 I watched them through my tears and I heard myself whisper "You go, Mom! You earned this too."
The athletes may be our heroes, but the parents... well they are in a class by themselves.