I just wrote an e-mail to a new client and mentioned I was attaching something. When I hit “send,” a dialog popped up:
“You wrote ‘Attached is’ in your message, but no files are attached. Send anyway?”
Translation: “Hey, moron, try to get with the program! Do you want this guy’s business or not?!”
Gmail, I love you. More than is probably healthy.
Garfield (the cartoon, not the president) once demonstrated the difference between weeds and flowers. He stomped ferociously on both; unsurprisingly, the flower ended up broken and crumpled, but the weed, if possible, was even more tenacious for the abuse. “Weeds,” he concluded, “have a greater will to live.”
Being a bit less cynical than he, I always seem to find that every living thing has an amazing and powerful will to live. Here are a few recent examples from my humble patch of earth:
A head of lettuce growing from a plant I discarded last year after it bolted. Growing through a 1/4″ aeration hole in my compost ball. Growing after having endured the worst winter in Maryland history.
The gooseberry and currant vines I planted last spring from sticks, ignored, thought had died, gave up on and even mowed over (it’s true — I’m horribly forgetful) are back with a vengeance, and even bearing fruit. Now I just have to figure out which is which.
Bronze fennel (alas, it’s only decorative, not edible; I discovered that after trying to harvest it last year!) Probably a mistake to let it go to seed, but somehow I thought that SIX AND A HALF FEET OF SNOW might have dampened its enthusiasm.
In this photo, you may or may not be able to see the two trellis attempts that have been swallowed by the rosebush monster. However, you can certainly see that the lamb’s ears and sundrops are keeping their distance.
Assorted lettuces I planted from assorted seed that was between 2 and 6 years old.
Nasturtiums I didn’t plant. They must have re-seeded themselves. Way to go, guys!
Ditto for these tomatoes; I yanked out half a dozen before I realized what they were. I’m not sure whether I planted heirlooms or hybrids last year, so there’s the possibility they won’t fruit, but I figure they at least deserve a chance!
By contrast, these pale, wan things are the tomatoes I intentionally planted, watered and fretted over for several months. We’ll see which are more prolific, but I have my suspicions!
It’s interesting, the way your best-laid plans may or may not pan out, but you can always count on pleasant surprises from the earth.
An overview of Phase I: before you express your admiration, know that the bottom half is entirely herbs, and herbs are most correctly defined as weeds for which someone has been able to find a use. The lemon balm, in particular, is out of control, even after some ruthless pruning earlier in the spring — it’s surrounding the tarragon, which seems undaunted nonetheless.
Phase II, which I started today, involves summer vegetables — peppers, tomatoes, beans and squash. Stay tuned.
This post brought to you by Kirsten, whose profound and moving thoughts in her garden inspired my rather banal update. Lylas!
The list of specialists I visit regularly seems to be increasing exponentially as I approach my 30th birthday. Yesterday, for no apparent reason, my eyes started itching furiously and swelled up, almost shut; I seemed to be perpetually squinting, or maybe winking. It would have been a lot funnier if I hadn’t been in the middle of lessons.
The first student was too absorbed in his work to notice, and the second was a family friend who generously refrained from staring, but my last student of the night was a sweet, inquisitive four-year-old who simply couldn’t concentrate until, as Carole Bigler would say, he had cleared his mind by speaking it. I apologized to both parent and student for the ice pack I was holding over my face and explained that I was having some sort of allergic reaction. His mom gallantly claimed she hadn’t noticed. Her son, however, had. “WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR EYES?”
I don’t know, honey. But don’t worry. I’m all right. Can you play Mississippi Hot Dog for me?
This seemed to satisfy him, and he played it beautifully. On the last note, he looked up at me. “ONE OF THEM IS BIGGER THAN THE OTHER ONE!”
Yes, this was true, I agreed. And how about Ice Cream Cone? Can you play it with your left hand?
He complied, but this time got only a few bars in before whirling back around: “IT’S RED!”
His mom and I laughed, and I told her one of the best benefits of teaching: it keeps you humble. At no point can you pretend you are above it all when there are people around you who remind you constantly of your ordinary-ness.
This reaction has happened half a dozen times in as many months, and I haven’t been able to narrow it down to one factor or another. First I thought it might be an evergreen allergy, as it was near Christmas; then I suspected calamari, which I had eaten twice before having the reaction; but this time I had had a lunch of whole-wheat pasta, and the near-constant drizzle of the last 48 hours has prevented me from going outside at all.
So, another call to another doctor, and another appointment. It’s as if my body knows the warranty’s about to expire.
. . . getting all your seeds into the ground the day before a nice drenching rain.
Answers to Frequently Anticipated Questions:
1) Yes, I realize the rabbit was fake. It was a “gift” from some dear friends when they moved (well, not exactly a gift; through some sort of a prank it ended up in my garden.)
2) No, the sorrel is not fake. It’s an “annual” that’s survived for 4 years now and appears to have enjoyed the 6 1/2 feet of snow we got this winter! Delicious, lemony leaves, best lightly steamed with butter.
3) What did I plant, you ask? Well, the photo shows radishes, beets, carrots, peas and chard. Below the photo’s scope are cress, lettuce, spinach, onions and fennel. Inside, still, are tomatoes, peppers, squash, beans and basil; the plan is to switch them out in May, once these crops have matured and the weather changes. Sharon, it’s on.
Well, it’s official: no school at all this week. Add to that the extra day off on Friday and the holiday on Monday, and you have an unexpected 11-day vacation for teachers all over the tri-state area.
When something like this happens, the trappings of everyday life are dreamily suspended. There are no deadlines, no to-do lists, no causes for anxiety. Just simple pleasures: all weekend spent with friends and family and pets in a never-ending stretch of food and games and merciless needling. Yesterday some friends brought their son over for a makeup piano lesson and stayed for several hours, drinking Rob’s homemade krupnik and telling stories. Later, we walked the half-mile to the home of our new godson and his parents: the busy roads were utterly quiet and untouched, save the crunching of snow under our boots and the prints they left behind us. We walked glove in glove down the center of the street, enjoying the feeling of doing something daring without a bit of real risk.
Our backyard is a mass of white punctuated by a blip here or there — the compost bin, the picnic table, last year’s forlorn tomato cages. The sky is gray, the wind strong. The tunnels we dug several days ago, from street to car to house, are almost invisible amid the four-foot drifts. I’ve never seen anything like it.
We are reading good books (The Joy Luck Club, A Separate Peace) and watching bad movies (The X-Files, St. Elmo’s fire) and cooking to use up all our non-Lenten delicacies. This morning I made a cherry coffee cake with marzipan and molasses, and we drank tea out of the World’s Most Beautiful Teapot, an Uzbek creation courtesy of my globetrotting friend Mary.
The thought of returning to school fills me with dread, because I know I’m going to have to make some hard choices about our plans for the semester. Do I push them and risk mutiny and confusion? Do I cut material and worry they’ll need it later? I don’t have answers yet, but I’m not worrying about it either. As we sit at either end of the couch, covered by a fluffy down comforter and a fluffier contented cat, listening to the howl of the storm and the gentle voices of my favorite French quartet singing Russian chant, we are pretty sure everything will be fine.