My friendship garden

 

These three are among the many friends I treasure

I didn’t do much work today. Instead, I spent much of the day emailing back and forth with friends, or, as I came to think of it, tending my friendship garden. I have long likened friendships to a garden—you have to work to maintain them. I know people who have few if any friends and people who have only their friends of the immediate moment but have lost contact with those from the past. I think that’s sad. I am blessed with friends from my childhood forward—many these days by email, but some still in person. But I work at it. And I think as I age, keeping my friendships alive and healthy becomes more and more important to me.

Today many of my emails had to do with the loss of a friend of fifty years or more. Bill Benge’s death put me in touch with friends from Colorado to New York City who wanted to know how to contact Sharon, when was the service, where should they send memorial donations. I think I said recently that my mom said one of the saddest parts of growing old was that your friends died all around you. That’s true, but I hadn’t thought through to the fact that a death puts you in touch with others who also held the deceased dear. I wouldn’t say it’s been a benefit, but it has helped to share the grief and the admiration for a life well lived.

But then there were also emails about the yard and work that needs to be done, my hearing aid which suddenly went dead, the menu for a guest who’s coming tomorrow night and insists that I have fed her enough and she will bring dinner—I have willingly agreed to that because I’m still a bit gob smacked and the menu I planned, an asparagus tart, suddenly sounded overwhelming. It was the kind of day when I had to stop and think, “Now who was I going to email next?”

A few professional emails worked their way in—one about an upcoming review of my new book, another to send off a guest post, and one in response to my newsletter which just went out yesterday. (Didn’t get yours? Just let me know at j.alter@tcu.edu and I’ll see that it gets in the mail.) And there were a couple of emails that tied to the TCU community.

All of this emailing was a welcome activity because I am, as I’ve said, between projects and faced with deciding what I’m going to work on next. Ideas for a new Irene are rattling in my brain but not solid enough for action yet, and there is always Helen Corbitt … but I keep procrastinating. Perhaps if I reread what I have, I’d regain my enthusiasm.

But I digress, because I really wanted to talk about friendship and communities. My webmaster who is profoundly deaf wrote me that she hopes to move from Long Island to Rochester, NY where there is a large deaf community. I asked if it is a close-knit community, and she said it is and she already has friends and connections there. And that got me to thinking about the various communities in which we all live.

These days I think mine are the mystery writing community and my church community plus maybe the close-knit neighborhood I live in is a community. When I was younger, the world of osteopathic medicine was also a community for me. When my husband and I first traveled, in so many U.S. cities there was usually a D.O. who I had known as child, several of whom I called uncle. And then for thirty years, there was the TCU community where I spent some of the happies—and some of the most difficult—years of my career. Facebook is a critter of a different nature and yet, a community of its own. I find I have many Facebook friends that I have met online, never met in person and probably never will. But they are important to me.

Communities, I am convinced, shape our lives, but they are not mutually exclusive—a mistaken notion held by many. It is possible to move easily between communities and, as we age, to move from one to another. For instance, my mystery writing and Facebook communities have lots of overlap. But my point about friendship is that you can still maintain contact with some from a community that is no longer a part of your life. That is the case for me and the osteopathic community and, in many ways, for the TCU community. Life brings change, and change usually is growth—but you don’t have to leave behind the people you have treasured.

I may have been wandering in a field of words here, but I think what I’m trying to say is that as we move through life—for me from childhood to golden years—we meet a lot of people, many of whom will pass out of our lives. Their part in our story is done. But there are some in each community or group or aspect of our lives, that we treasure and keep with us as friends. Those friendships don’t automatically survive without attention. You have to tend to your friendship garden.

In an apropos metaphor, I plan to go nursery shopping this week to tend to my springtime garden. A different kind of garden but also important.

The Kindness of People

Melinda, my longtime pal and production manager at TCU Press, had the great idea that we should go to Joe T.’s for lunch today. Perfect weather to sit on the beautiful patio and enjoy just the slightest of breezes. We chattered, caught up with each other’s families and professional lives, laughed a lot, had a bit of wine for me and a margarita for her, and it was all delightful. There were obvious groups of tourists there—big clusters of people who oohed and aahed when they saw the gardens, and I thought how lucky we are to have that available all the time (okay, all the time if you will stand in line).

But Joe T.’s is not an easy access place for me. We parked around the corner from the patio entrance, so I had to walk a bit. Then I opted for stairs rather than the long, sloping ramp. Melinda took the walker up the stairs and prepared to come back to help me, when a man came up, asked, “Need help?” and held out his arm. He helped me to the top and saw me firmly reunited with my walker. I sat on a low bench, while Melinda went back to the ramp and stood in line for our table. (I realized later my helper was with one of the tourist groups.)

The paths at Joe T.’s, so scenic, are not great for a walker—flagstone and pavers, lots of cracks to catch the wheels. When we got on a smooth patch and I said, “Now I can go like the wind,” the young man showing us to our table grinned big-time.     

All that difficult walking makes me breathless, and when we left, I asked Melinda if I could sit on the low bench while she went to bring the car around. She did, and this time when we started down the stairs, she said she could carry the walker with one hand and help me with the other. A man started up the stairs and asked, “You need help?” but she assured him we were all right. I wanted to tell Melinda never turn down a willing arm, but I didn’t. The woman behind him said, “Let me take that walker,” and she took it down the stairs and opened it up for me.

It’s what I’ve noticed all along—most people go out of their way to be helpful and kind when they see the walker. Would I rather be walking on my own two feet? You bet! But it is what it is, and there are some saving graces. I didn’t realize it, but my hip was deteriorating for years before I had surgery. Between that and the neuropathy, my balance—and sense of security as I walked—sunk to nothing. I needed railings, walls, something to give me security. Walk across an empty parking lot alone? Not me!

The walker has given me back my sense of security. I go places now with confidence that I wouldn’t have gone before. It does mean that walking takes more effort—got to push, lift, and drag that walker, lightweight as it is—and I run out of breath and tire easily because o my atrial fibrillation. But still I am grateful—I am much more mobile than I was three years ago, I am once again out in the world, and I am not in pain.

Occasionally I see people who are so unsteady they need a walker or even those who fall frequently, but it’s a point of pride not to use assistance when they walk. I want to say, “Get over it!”

And to repeat, people are so kind and helpful. There’s only one longtime friend that I’ve lost over the walker—and I’m not sure that’s the reason, but I think it is because his desire to go to lunch with me cooled (after years of happy lunches) after the first time we went with me on a walker. I’m sorry for the loss but I am much too busy to worry about it, too busy appreciating the wonderful support I get from family, friends, and strangers.

God is good, and so is the world. And, hey, Melinda, let’s do it again soon.

How does your garden grow?

A botanist friend and I were corresponding about gardens, and we agreed that we both like free-form gardens, with plants allowed to grow into the shapes they want—within reason, of course. But we weren’t in favor of the sculpted, manicured look so favored today by much of suburbia. What you like in a garden tells much about what you like in life, just as do the foods you eat, the books you read, the things you choose to surround yourself with.

At one time in British history, garden were carefully delineated, neatly plotted and formed. Beyond their borders, nature could grow wild, but the garden kept the wilderness at bay and gave man a sense of control, creating order in an unruly universe. Sometimes during this period, carefully manicured bushes and trees came into popularity. The topiary tree and other shapes. While I wouldn’t have one in my garden, I have seen recently beautifully sculpted topiaries of animals.

The Victorian era saw gardens as an extension of the house, to be lavishly decorated as evidence of taste. Not only were geegaws, from gazebos to benches, desired, flower displays were lavish and colorful to fit the exterior of Queen Anne homes with their gingerbread trim. Today most of us would call these gardens fussy and overdone.

In the early nineteenth century, the Craftsman style became popular as a protest against mass production and the standardization of parts. When houses all began to look alike, designers used natural materials—wood, stone—to distinguish their houses and give them individuality. Similarly, gardens around Craftsmen homes were allowed to grow free rather than sculpted and carefully trimmed into an organized pattern. The typical Craftsman home’s garden has the feel and appeal of an English garden.

Today in the United States garden take many shapes and forms—we have tried to surround our homes with manicured and mowed lawns, which proved to be a mistake in some parts of the country. In the desert Southwest, for example, the cost of maintain a lawn, in water alone, is astronomical and suggests we should think of a new way to garden. It’s not easy for some—one of my sons routinely mowed down the evening pinks which sprouted in my lawn. I loved them, but he said, “They’re weeds, Mom.” In our neighborhood newsletter, a contributor complained about people who do not used weed-and-feed regularly and thus provided a crop of dandelions for the whole neighborhood. I wanted to tell him to make a salad out of the greens and enjoy.

But I like gardens with lots of native plants—yarrow, cone flowers, coreopsis, Mexican hat flowers, oleander, rosemary, mint, lantana and a long list of others. I don’t have much sun either on the front or back of my house, so my choices are sort of limited.

Some of us do like to let nature take its course. Granted, some plants need a little taming. Yaupon holly, for instance, does not need to be painstakingly trimmed, it’s interior opened up as one friend showed me years ago—talk about a time suck. But neither does it need to grow out of control until it shouts neglect. What I ideally aim for is a moderate course between two alternatives.

I have neighbors who have been growing vegetables in their front yard. The result is plants of all sizes and shapes with no discernible pattern—I find it distracting and think such gardens should, like the traditional kitchen garden, be in the back of the house.

And much as I like free-form growing, I don’t like when a jungle sprouts in the bushes to the west of my house, with volunteer trees offering to get out of control. I guess maybe in gardens as in politics, I’m a moderate liberal (no hooting, please, from friends and family).

How does your garden grow?

Tidbits from the Day

 

I did diddly squat today. Honest, I don’t think I accomplished one things, except to inquire how to get a mechanical (back cover, spine and front cover) all in one file for The Gilded Cage. The contractors came by, and we talked about the difficulty of dealing with the city over permits for the garage remodel. Then Greg came by and we talked gardening and a thousand other things for a long time. He has suddenly decided he wants to take out a big bushy youpon smack dab in the middle of the front of the house. “All you see is this busy green,” he said. “We’ll find an evergreen that will work there.” Sounds good to me. My house gets strictly northern exposure in front—no sun. So except in early spring it tends to look all green, and I always wish for color to brighten it. By the time they were all gone, it was almost my early lunch time.

I did stuff at the computer which seemed to occupy a lot of time—or maybe I was moving slowly but I was content and under no pressure.

Three nice things: last night I got a terrific email compliment on the excerpt I posted from The Gilded Cage (see the excerpt at http://www.judyalter.com if you missed it) and then a friend and Megan both forwarded Amazon emails which had apparently gone to everyone who ever bought one of my books.  It highlighted The Gilded Cage, now available for pre-order (http://www.amazon.com/Gilded-Cage-Novel-Chicago-ebook/dp/B01C348KTS/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1456968092&sr=1-1&keywords=the+gilded+cage+judy+alter) Please note if you search for it: there are a lot of novels named The Gilded cage (my bad) and you’ll find it if you add my name after the title.

And the third thing: I got my first pre-order, from a bookstore in Wisconsin which cheers me because it’s in the right part of the country. Pretty heady stuff for a newcomer to indie publishing.

My niece came to pick up a set of my mom’s china I had set aside for her. My heart danced when she said, “I’m thrilled to have something that belonged to Grandmother.” I’m sure she was remembering, as I was, Sunday night dinners at Grandmother’s house when we ate off that china. Jenn brought her two beautiful daughters, and I got nice hugs. But the older girl-Emory, in second grade, has been dog bitten twice and was afraid of Sophie. So when the younger one wanted to pet Soph (we’d locked her in the office), I saw the look of alarm in Emory’s eyes. Asked her to sit on the couch by me and assured her I would keep her safe. She snuggled right in. I don’t see much of these girls, so it’s a joy now that they feel they know me well enough to hug.

Tonight weekly dinner with Betty. Since we had Jacob in tow, we went to the Tavern where he likes the mac and cheese. Christian joined us, and we had a jolly dinner.  I now have half a cheeseburger in the fridge for tomorrow’s lunch—love cold cheeseburgers.

All in all, a nice, satisfying day. And I’m sleepy way early.

January--the cleaning out, cleaning up month

I used to know an older doctor who told me he hated January because he'd just paid for Christmas and here came January and quarterly taxes. Well, my dislike isn't quite that severe, though I do pay quarterly taxes. But to me, it's a month of cleaning out and cleaning up.
First of all, I leave my Christmas decorations up through Epiphany, so January 7th is the big take-down-Christmas day. It involves having my local kids and/or neighbors get the storage things out of the attic (I'm not allowed up there except in extreme cases with four younger adults in the house). Then I have to dismantle, wrap and pack all those decorations--and there's always something you find after you think you have everything packed. This year it was a music box Santa in a sleigh. Then kids/neighbors, whoever, has to put the boxes back up in the attic. Christian has become kind of keeper of the attic, and vows to get me large storage bins but think how hard they'd been to get up and down--he doesn't like my 15 or so grocery bags. This year I was appalled when he said his goal is to see a tree in my house at Christmas--haven't had one in years because I'm usually gone. Jacob, Christian and I got it all back in the attic the other night. I wanted to clear out the guest room because other branches of the family will be coming the end of January for rodeo weekend.
The other January chore I dread is accumulating tax information--once I get that questionnaire from the accountant I feel honor-bound to get it done quickly. This year I've developed a new system and have dealt with quite a few categories--but I have miles to go, and twelve months of bank statements to check. I resolved to do one tax chore a day, but I've fallen down on that. So that huge task still looms.
This year, the leaves were slow to fall from the trees, and I have a lot of oaks on my property. When they did fall, it was first too icy and then too cold to rake, so when we came home at the end of December we waded through piles of leaves. They're mostly gone now and it's a joy to walk down a leaf-free driveway after dark, but the yard and porches are discouraging--devoid of plants that I've brought in to winter. Those that are still outside are mostly ones that will flourish again in spring (well, not the dusty miller Jacob had to have and has since ignored) but even the oregano looks pretty pitiful. The wandering jew has died, as has a plant I don't know the name of--it was lovely with dainty white flowers in the spring, but they disappeared with summer heat and now it looks like straw. Greg has cleaned out the cyclamen and some other non-survivors, but the whole aspect is discouraging.
We think of January as a time for a new start--resolutions and all that--but I think it's a month designed to get us ready for spring. Of course we still have stock-show weather and February to go through. And it's to be bitterly cold day after tomorrow.