After a goofy-cold winter, I'm a little surprised to see spring leaping out at me, but as I walked back toward the house from picking up this morning's paper, I noticed a cheerful little row of white, bell-shaped blossoms peeking out from my somewhat disorderly front flowerbed.
Like a lot of other plants in my front yard, these babies have a history. The liriope and monkey grass that define my planting spaces started in the backyard of mother and daddy's best friends in Houston. The springeri fern has burgeoned from a tiny root I swiped from the first apartment I lived in after I married. Most of the amaryllises are probably great-grandchildren of the house where I grew up, and the daylilies are from one or the other of my sisters or from one of mother's cousins who brought daylilies to cheer her during the months when we knew she was dying.
These little white guys are from the backyard of the aunt who lived in town until a few years ago. Auntie's husband, my dad's brother, had been daddy's business partner when they first moved here more than six decades ago, and she lived in the only house I ever remember as hers until Margaret Joan and her husband shipped Auntie off to the nursing home a couple of years before she died.
For a couple of years before that, I tried to do the Good Samaritan thing (although that has never come as easily for me as it has my sisters) and pop in to visit Auntie from time to time. Once or twice, she needed help with yardwork, so once I mowed the lawn for her and other times I helped water or move or otherwise tend the plants that so eagerly grew on her back porch.
The little guys in question—I have no idea what they are called or where to look to find out—grew in a little clump about halfway from the back porch to the vegetable garden that had gone for years untended. Most of the time, the clump just looked like a stray clump of liriope or some grasslike kin, but in early spring, it tossed up a sprinkling of small, bell-shaped flowers with little green dots on each of its tiny "petals," if they could be called that.
When Margaret Joan moved Auntie into the nursing home, I went by the house and collected what I could of the pot plants and dug up a few ground plants that I figured would never be missed. I'm sure I could have taken the whole clump of white guys, but instead I scooped up a small clump and tossed them into the truck.
When I got them home, I planted them in a few places around my yard to see if I could find somewhere where they could grow. At Auntie's house, they sat in full, open sun; my yard doesn't understand that term. I remember putting maybe one clump in the front yard, in the sunniest spot I could find, and two or three other clumps in the back yard. They managed to poke up in a place or two, but I don't remember much more than that.
After Soldier Son's dog Tank moved in with me a couple of years ago, I lost all hope of anything surviving anywhere in the backyard except a small flower bed that I preserved by putting a fence around it. I have a vague recollection of digging up a clump of the white guys from a flower bed I had begun around a tree that died a couple of years later. Since I didn't have much hope for blooming plants in the shady front yard, I didn't bother to remember where I might have moved it.
Apparently, I broke it down into a dozen or so little clumps in the front bed, because that's how many were sparkling up at me this morning. I was glad to see the little starscape and to smile as I remembered my diminutive Auntie with the bright green thumb.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Weird dream
I had a very strange dream the other night.
When it began, I was the door of my friend Alyssa’s house, a tiny place where Alyssa lived alone. As my friend welcomed me in the front door, I was fascinated by one heavily-textured, rich-milk-chocolate-brown wall, dominated by the image of a large cross sculpted into the texturing mud. What I would normally have considered oppressive or weird somehow made the whole wall feel like a work of art.
The room was sparsely furnished: a chair, a loveseat, a couple of end tables. A lamp turned on near the chair where Alyssa was seated lent the room its warmth and dignity. The few knickknacks on the tables and a small bookshelf were all spotless.
Through an open door, I could see the dining room. Its cinnamon red walls extended the sense of warmth and art from the living room, although in contrast living room, they had a linen texture. Beyond the dining room, the bright white kitchen invited conversation and friendship.
In the kitchen, I drifted mentally back to the days when Alyssa and I had been friends. We sat next to each other in Ms. Gatlin’s fifth grade classroom. That was the year our school was bulging so much that they had divided the cafeteria into two classrooms, leaving only enough room for students to file in along the temporary wall and back out through the serving line with their trays.
I had always taken my lunch to school, so for most of my years, I took a shortcut through the milk line instead of the lunch line, but that year we were all stuck in one line together. We all filed in along the temporary wall, out through the serving line, and back to our classrooms and our desks. Ms. Gatlin allowed us to talk quietly that I desk as we ate, and Alyssa and I used the time to laugh about things as simple as my blue vinyl kaboodle kit lunch box.
In retrospect, I wonder why Alyssa and I were not also after school friends. I was not one to make friends, and that was the year Mattel introduced the 0dd Ogg, with its catchy little jingle that I heard probably more than I deserved. Alyssa was gorgeous and tall and already beginning to “blossom,” as my mother said, making her a target for a lot of impudent fifth-grade boys. I don't know that we ever talked about it, but I think she was rather embarrassed. If we had nothing else in common, we both were the targets of childish teasing.
But after school, I was as much a mole then as I am now. I would go home, grab a snack, ride my bike, and maybe visit a friend who lived a couple of houses away. The five o'clock train whistle was the signal to come home for supper, maybe a TV show, homework, and bed. By junior high school, Alyssa often accompanied the school choir on the piano, and I suspect her afternoons in the fifth grade involved a lot of practice. Somehow I can't imagine her running home, playing, or riding a bike, although it's entirely possible that she did.
By sixth grade, I'm sure we annoyed a lot of our classmates. The sixth grade homeroom teacher like spelling bees, and Alyssa and I were good at them. I can't remember if we had spelling bees in the fifth grade, but Friday afternoons in sixth grade were spelling bee time. I don't remember how the spelling bees started every Friday, except that the whole class stood along the chalkboard and Mr. Newman started with the weekly spelling list. Two or three or four of our classmates went down on every round; I suspect the most of those didn't want to participate, and some who stayed up longer probably just wished the contest would end. Mr. Newman would work his way backward from the list of the week to the beginning of the school year as long as anyone was still up and spelling.
I loved the spelling bees; spelling was one thing that made me feel like a winner, and I didn't have many. I think Alyssa liked them, too, because she usually was the other one left, and she probably beat me as often as I beat her. I remember clearly that the last word of the last spelling bee was “mustache," but I don't remember which of us spelled it right, so I suspect it must have been Alyssa.
In my dream, we walked together from the kitchen, through the small "master" bedroom and into the remaining bedroom/sunroom. I remember the master bedroom being an earth tone shade of green, and I remember the sunroom having almost a wall of windows, a French door, and a cheery feel, but I drifted back into deep sleep before I really saw any details.
I've sometimes wondered if a time will ever come when I might ask an old friend how she remembers those times half a century ago. As I woke up the next morning, I realized how much I would like to know Alyssa’s side of my memories. But I know that can never happen.
I never saw Alyssa much after sixth grade. Partly, I think that's because she got shuffled off into the “smart kids” group in junior high, while my math grades pushed me back to probably the “second tier." I always thought of her fondly when I heard that she had played for a school performance, and I assume that she was aware of my work on the school newspaper. But I don't remember sharing another class with her, and I don't recall whether she was in pep squad with me.
Alyssa married not long after we got out of high school and had a baby within a year or so. The last news I remember hearing of her was that she had taken a ride on her young nephew's new motorcycle. He had turned too fast on loose gravel, and she had been thrown off and died.
We were not yet 20.
Monday, February 21, 2011
My kind of kid
The tv turned on this afternoon to some story about a preposterous birthday party for a grade-school kid (8? 9?) with a marvelous ending.
I came in on something like, "Princess dress for the birthday girl, $750; rented castle, $20,000; birthday cake, $2,300...." I wasn't paying enough attention to get the whole list, but the punch line was that the total ticket was something over $32,000.
I was rolling my eyes when I caught the camera panning to a purple bird—part of the birthday cake? a piñata?—that had played a pivotal role in the party. I have no clue what the whole story was, but the purple bird was supposed to have been blue...
I feel really bad for whoever was responsible for the bird, because I'm sure they not only didn't get paid but also probably got ripped—and, at those prices, probably sued for ruining the "little princess's" birthday party. Because from the time she spotted the purple bird, the princess was distraught, her makeup rolled down her face (yes, the tot had on mascara to go with the princess dress), and the party was pretty well over with.
Get a clue, parents: it's a kid's birthday party, and with any luck, she'll live to have another one.
I'm guessing the price tag of this one was about 32 grand more than what it should have been.
I'm halfway sorry the kid's party was so disappointing for her, but I'm thrilled that the parents got what they so richly deserved—and you can take that any way you want to!
I came in on something like, "Princess dress for the birthday girl, $750; rented castle, $20,000; birthday cake, $2,300...." I wasn't paying enough attention to get the whole list, but the punch line was that the total ticket was something over $32,000.
I was rolling my eyes when I caught the camera panning to a purple bird—part of the birthday cake? a piñata?—that had played a pivotal role in the party. I have no clue what the whole story was, but the purple bird was supposed to have been blue...
I feel really bad for whoever was responsible for the bird, because I'm sure they not only didn't get paid but also probably got ripped—and, at those prices, probably sued for ruining the "little princess's" birthday party. Because from the time she spotted the purple bird, the princess was distraught, her makeup rolled down her face (yes, the tot had on mascara to go with the princess dress), and the party was pretty well over with.
Get a clue, parents: it's a kid's birthday party, and with any luck, she'll live to have another one.
I'm guessing the price tag of this one was about 32 grand more than what it should have been.
I'm halfway sorry the kid's party was so disappointing for her, but I'm thrilled that the parents got what they so richly deserved—and you can take that any way you want to!
Monday, February 14, 2011
Where are those brownies when you need them?
This past weekend afforded a lovely opportunity for my siblings to get together, with clear, mild weather following a couple of weeks of cold mush. My sisters and I spent most of our time working jigsaw puzzles, which gives us time to visit over an otherwise mindless but satisfying task. I figure any challenge is good for our brains at this age, and jigsaw puzzles put us head to head around a small table where we can visit as we play.
Friday night and Saturday were lovely, but Sunday would have been nicer if I hadn't known I had a rather large puddle of doggie puke to clean up when I got home. The out-of-towners in our crowd left around 1 with the last puzzle unfinished, so Margaret Joan and I huddled over the table for a couple of hours more to finish it up.
Shortly after we finished, I left her house and ran a couple of errands, then came home to several loads of laundry and the doggie puke. I put away my purchases, played a bit with the dogs, and shuffled laundry a bit, then I dragged out the carpet cleaner to see if I could do any more damage to the floor.
The first part I cleaned doesn't see a lot of traffic, so I wasn't surprised when I didn't see much water coming back up into the collection bucket. The next part sees more traffic and had another, smaller puddle on it, but I didn't see much return water there, either. After a bit more "cleaning," I ran out of water in the dispenser, so I unlatched the collection tub to empty the pickup water and get a refill.
The container holds at least a half-gallon of water, but when I lifted it out of the vacuum, it contained only about a cup of pickup. I know it can't possibly pick up as much as it puts down, but my recollection from the last time I ran it was that it should pick up half or more of it. This wasn't anywhere close.
For some inexplicable reason, I decided to hold the bucket about eye-level to check it out. I suppose lifting it that high unlatched the lid, and the bucket dropped out of my hands, bounced on the edge of the bed, and landed upside-down on the carpet. Only a few drops got on the bed, and the skirt has already seen much better days, but this was the floor I was attempting—clearly somewhat unsuccessfully—to clean. This wasn't going well.
I grabbed a screwdriver and disassembled the return-water pathway, cleaned out a bit of stuck lint, and made sure it was as clean as I could get it before I screwed it back down. I still wasn't too happy with the return rate, but I figured my next best shot was to refill the tub and try again.
When I snapped the tub back onto the machine, I checked carefully to be sure I had it snapped firmly into place and then rolled it over the spilled water. Sure enough, the cleaner slurped it up just as designed. I rolled back over the worst of the parts I had already cleaned and watched it suck up water as if it had never had a problem. I was finally on a roll.
After several starts and stops and some special attention to the big puddle in the hallway, I had at least made a cursory pass over most of the "exposed" carpet in my room. I found out I couldn't run around in sock feet because the carpet was still wet enough to get my socks damp, but I felt as if I had done a reasonable job in the artificial light.
After I had been up long enough for the sun to rise, I got to see the work I had done by daylight.
It may be the best job I've done with that little cleaner yet!
Friday night and Saturday were lovely, but Sunday would have been nicer if I hadn't known I had a rather large puddle of doggie puke to clean up when I got home. The out-of-towners in our crowd left around 1 with the last puzzle unfinished, so Margaret Joan and I huddled over the table for a couple of hours more to finish it up.
Shortly after we finished, I left her house and ran a couple of errands, then came home to several loads of laundry and the doggie puke. I put away my purchases, played a bit with the dogs, and shuffled laundry a bit, then I dragged out the carpet cleaner to see if I could do any more damage to the floor.
The first part I cleaned doesn't see a lot of traffic, so I wasn't surprised when I didn't see much water coming back up into the collection bucket. The next part sees more traffic and had another, smaller puddle on it, but I didn't see much return water there, either. After a bit more "cleaning," I ran out of water in the dispenser, so I unlatched the collection tub to empty the pickup water and get a refill.
The container holds at least a half-gallon of water, but when I lifted it out of the vacuum, it contained only about a cup of pickup. I know it can't possibly pick up as much as it puts down, but my recollection from the last time I ran it was that it should pick up half or more of it. This wasn't anywhere close.
For some inexplicable reason, I decided to hold the bucket about eye-level to check it out. I suppose lifting it that high unlatched the lid, and the bucket dropped out of my hands, bounced on the edge of the bed, and landed upside-down on the carpet. Only a few drops got on the bed, and the skirt has already seen much better days, but this was the floor I was attempting—clearly somewhat unsuccessfully—to clean. This wasn't going well.
I grabbed a screwdriver and disassembled the return-water pathway, cleaned out a bit of stuck lint, and made sure it was as clean as I could get it before I screwed it back down. I still wasn't too happy with the return rate, but I figured my next best shot was to refill the tub and try again.
When I snapped the tub back onto the machine, I checked carefully to be sure I had it snapped firmly into place and then rolled it over the spilled water. Sure enough, the cleaner slurped it up just as designed. I rolled back over the worst of the parts I had already cleaned and watched it suck up water as if it had never had a problem. I was finally on a roll.
After several starts and stops and some special attention to the big puddle in the hallway, I had at least made a cursory pass over most of the "exposed" carpet in my room. I found out I couldn't run around in sock feet because the carpet was still wet enough to get my socks damp, but I felt as if I had done a reasonable job in the artificial light.
After I had been up long enough for the sun to rise, I got to see the work I had done by daylight.
It may be the best job I've done with that little cleaner yet!
Thursday, February 10, 2011
A wrenching experience
The new consulting job I have taken on has caused me to spend a few nights in hotels lately, and Monday of this week was one of those nights.
I got to the hotel just about dark, which gave me time to go find dinner and get some work done on the computer before bedtime. I took a novel with me to dinner, so I lingered longer than I planned, but I still had plenty of time to spare before bedtime. I got back to the hotel, changed into jammies, and settled in.
I got out the laptop and located a wall socket, but the cord to the computer was definitely not going to go into that socket: I don't know how I did it, but I had managed to bend one prong of the plug to almost a 45° angle, and it wasn't going to go into any socket, not just the one in the "economy" hotel I'd picked for this trip.
Not a huge problem; I keep a "multipurpose tool"—one of those foldable wrenches that has an assortment of other tools tucked into its handles—out in my car, and it would be fine to fix my plug.
Except, of course, I was already in my jammies, and I didn't want to get dressed to go out to the car in about 30° weather.
I own a couple of housecoats, but I rarely wear them at home and I never pack them, so even running around in the hotel was a little iffy.
But my daughter has gotten a kick out of my pink trench coat for years, and since it's the warmest coat I own, I had it with me. Over my star-spangled pajama bottoms and tennis shoes, it would do.
I grabbed the car keys in case I had to go out to the car—which at least was parked really close to the hotel—and the power cord and headed to the lobby. I didn't see any signs of life around the front desk, but when I approached it, a voice from the room off to one side said, "Can I help you?"
"Do you have a wrench I could borrow?"
The little Asian man who had checked me in emerged from his room nodding. "Yes, yes," he said, "How can I help you?"
After I showed him the deformo plug, he reached into a drawer across from the desk and pulled out the Big Mac of Channel Lock pliers. Not exactly what I had had in mind, but certainly enough tool to fix a plug.
Without offering me the tool, he hooked it onto the prong and started to bend it back toward the center of the plug. But since he had gripped the prong near the plug, he completely missed the bend in it and started to bend the base off in the wrong direction. He figured out that he wasn't really fixing my problem, so he slid the pliers away from the plug a little and tried to squeeze enough to straighten the prong, but with no leverage, he really wasn't making much progress.
I watched about as long as I could stand it, then reached for the pliers. I moved them up on the prong enough to get the right leverage and straightened the prong with an easy bend. "Oh, I didn't want to break it!" he assured me as I handed back the pliers.
"And you did a good job!" I assured him. Didn't seem to know how to handle pliers, but hey—I got the plug fixed without having to go outside. Good enough for me.
I got to the hotel just about dark, which gave me time to go find dinner and get some work done on the computer before bedtime. I took a novel with me to dinner, so I lingered longer than I planned, but I still had plenty of time to spare before bedtime. I got back to the hotel, changed into jammies, and settled in.
I got out the laptop and located a wall socket, but the cord to the computer was definitely not going to go into that socket: I don't know how I did it, but I had managed to bend one prong of the plug to almost a 45° angle, and it wasn't going to go into any socket, not just the one in the "economy" hotel I'd picked for this trip.
Not a huge problem; I keep a "multipurpose tool"—one of those foldable wrenches that has an assortment of other tools tucked into its handles—out in my car, and it would be fine to fix my plug.
Except, of course, I was already in my jammies, and I didn't want to get dressed to go out to the car in about 30° weather.
I own a couple of housecoats, but I rarely wear them at home and I never pack them, so even running around in the hotel was a little iffy.
But my daughter has gotten a kick out of my pink trench coat for years, and since it's the warmest coat I own, I had it with me. Over my star-spangled pajama bottoms and tennis shoes, it would do.
I grabbed the car keys in case I had to go out to the car—which at least was parked really close to the hotel—and the power cord and headed to the lobby. I didn't see any signs of life around the front desk, but when I approached it, a voice from the room off to one side said, "Can I help you?"
"Do you have a wrench I could borrow?"
The little Asian man who had checked me in emerged from his room nodding. "Yes, yes," he said, "How can I help you?"
After I showed him the deformo plug, he reached into a drawer across from the desk and pulled out the Big Mac of Channel Lock pliers. Not exactly what I had had in mind, but certainly enough tool to fix a plug.
Without offering me the tool, he hooked it onto the prong and started to bend it back toward the center of the plug. But since he had gripped the prong near the plug, he completely missed the bend in it and started to bend the base off in the wrong direction. He figured out that he wasn't really fixing my problem, so he slid the pliers away from the plug a little and tried to squeeze enough to straighten the prong, but with no leverage, he really wasn't making much progress.
I watched about as long as I could stand it, then reached for the pliers. I moved them up on the prong enough to get the right leverage and straightened the prong with an easy bend. "Oh, I didn't want to break it!" he assured me as I handed back the pliers.
"And you did a good job!" I assured him. Didn't seem to know how to handle pliers, but hey—I got the plug fixed without having to go outside. Good enough for me.
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