Spring is here

My gardeners at work

It wasn't cold this morning for the first time, and tonight Elizabeth and I had the first dinner of the year on the front porch, so I'm sure spring is here. But the biggest sign: Greg, the neighbor who cares for my lawn and garden, took Jacob and me to the nursery shopping today. We got herbs, a hanging basket, another lantana--that on one side of the front steps is looking sad, fountain grass, sweet potato vines, parsley, a flowering blue plant whose name I can't remember, and a dusty miller. Jacob pointed to the dusty miller, and Greg said, "No, we're not getting that." Jacob asked why not, and Greg said, "Cause it's an ugly plant." But Jacob liked it, so we bought one for him and put it in a pot where it can't do much damage. We forgot sage (mine died) and a cherry tomato plant, which I really want. Jacob piped up and said he loves them, so I'll go back, maybe next weekend.
Then Greg put him to work planting, loosening old soil in pots, etc. Jacob loved it--so much better than an out-of-school morning spent watching TV. And my porch is beginning to look like spring again.
Elizabeth is gradually sprucing up the back yard, which I've pretty much left a dog yard all these years. She's added statues, including a Buddha, and bird feeders (she now fills the one I had too) and plans pots and hanging baskets. Let's hope Sophie behaves. We've also put a table (on extended loan from Jordan) and four chairs (from my storeroom) out there. Greg griped and moaned but admitted he can move them ever week to mow. I'm seriously considering a small deck at the back door.
Earlier in the day, Jacob and I went to get my hair cut. Out of the blue he asked, "Juju, when are you going to get married again?" Me: "I don't think I'm going to." Jacob: "Why not?" My first reply was inappropriate: "Well, I tried it once and it wasn't much fun." When he said "What?" I amended it to, "Don't you think I'm kind of old?" Matter-of-factly he said, "Yeah, you are old." Thanks, Jacob. Then later he picked up the stylus I used with my iPhone if I want to send a wordy text and said, "Can I take this home?" I said no, and he asked, "Can I have it when you die?" Little ghoul!
But it was a good day.

Grace--or a good rant?

Squirrel bulletin: this is my new super-duper bird feeder. It has spring-loaded perches--a bird's weight doesn't do anything, but a squirrel's weight closes them down. I put it up this morning, and at first I saw neither birds nor squirrels, but by afternoon I saw a brave bird eating; when another bird came along, he'd chase it away--there are plenty of perches, for pete's sake! They are really mean and squabbling little creatures. Several were fluttering around and chirping; even the papa cardinal flitted by a few times. I suppose they'll get used to it. One squirrel got on it and prowled up and down, never did get any seed that I could tell--and I stood inside and watched. It occurred to me if he went at it upside down he might get some--here's hoping he doesn't figure it out.

Last night I read a blog about grace, that quality that is bred into southern girls. Now, being a northerner, I could beg off, except that I know my mom tried hard to teach me about grace, with such sayings as "You catch more flies with a teaspoon of sugar than a cup of vinegar." It's a lesson I've learned to a certain degree. Grace is about turning the other cheek, meeting an insult with a smile, being above the fray. I'm sure it makes you look the better person, but sometimes it surely is hard. The woman who wrote the blog got a cancer diagnosis and a pink slip from  her employer in the same day and yet she managed apparently to handle them with grace. What she wasn't able to handle so easily was counseling her young daughter on how to handle insults.

Sometimes a rant is good for the soul. I let loose with a rant (mild) at someone near and dear to me yesterday. I felt better, but I don't know about the recipient. Still, I'd been carrying the burden of my hurt with me for several days--as my kids would tease me, "My nose was out of joint." So I unburdened myself. I think if I'd relied on grace, I'd still be carrying that burden--not good for my soul. And sometimes those things you want to rant about and don't get buried deep and come back to bite when you least expect them. The trouble with a rant is that you never know if it's justified or if you're being petulant and you can end up feeling guilty for petulance.

My conclusion: grace most of the time, but an occasional rant if you're sure it's justified and the object of your rant will listen. What's your thought on grace or a rant?

Went to a wrap-up party tonight for the highly successful poetry symposium at TCU, featuring Billy Collins, former poet laureate of the United States and a poet with many books to his credit. I went with my friend Mary Volcansek--we joked about being dates, but neither of us really wanted to go alone. To my delight there were several people there I wanted to say hello to, and I met some new faces, including the writer Alex Lemon who recently made a good splash with a memoir. He's on the TCU faculty and I'd heard a lot about him but never met him--liked him a lot. So it was fun. Mary and I stayed an hour and left--just enough time to greet the people I wanted to but not so long that I hung around wondering who I should talk to next. And it was good to get dressed up (well, sort of) on a Saturday night and go out.



Squirrels are making me squirrely

My dad was an avid gardener and a lover of birds. Especially in his retirement years on a gorgeous piece of property in North Carolina, he put out bird feeders all over, but the main one was by the picture window at the dining table. There was a hummingbird feeder, and we'd sit and watch those feisty little birds chasing each other away. But there was also a seed feeder and too often we'd watch the squirrels pillage the contents. Dad tried every kind of squirrel-safe bird feeder then invented, and the little beasts outwitted him every time.
Now I'm fighting the same battle. I have a cylindrical mesh bird feeder outside my kitchen window, and I love to watch the birds. I'm not as knowledgeable as Dad about the kinds and the other day saw a small black-and-white bird with a bright red spot on the top of his head. Betty is always asking what I want for my birthday, so it was an aha! moment. I've asked her for a small illustrated guide to the birds of North Texas. I do of course recognize a few--a cardinal mama and papa come to the feeder, and Jacob loves to watch for the "red bird." He'll creep quietly into the kitchen and stand and watch (well, he also likes to watch the washing machine through the glass door in the front, so this may not say much about his powers of observation!). Mockingbirds try to get on the feeder, but they're so big they flap around in an ungainly manner.
Alas, the squirrels have discovered how to stretch from the tree to the feeder. They wrap themselves around it and feast away until I happen to the kitchen window and commence to shouting--and, yes--swearing. I bang on the window with a toy gun (I tried shooting it, thinking the clicking noise would alarm them but no such luck). Some of them scurry up the chain, into the trees and away, but some bolder fellows just stare at me with the bright eyes. That makes me so mad I go charging into the back yard, waving a wooden cane, and yelling for Scooby to do his job of squirrel chasing. By then, of course, the critter is gone. I filled the feeder to the top yesterday and it's empty tonight. At a hardship to the birds, I'm going to leave it empty for a couple of days and see if that teaches the squirrels.
The squirrels have already begun to dig in my planter boxes. For Pete's sake, nothing's blooming  yet, and they're disturbing my seeds. I may try mothballs.
But I know what I want for my birthday--children, are you listening?--a caged bird feeder. I saw one in Westcliff Hardware that was neat. The birds land on spring-controlled perches and eat but if a squirrel lands on one, its greater weight closes the trap on the feed. Some caged feeders won't let the medium sized birds, like cardinals, fly through but  this one would let everyone eat--except the critters. However, it was priced beyond what I consider an impulse buy, so I put it on my wish list.
I know we should love all God's creatures, but the squirrels try my patience sorely. Only worse thing was the year roof rats found my bird feeder--and then my attic!

A shaky day

I really like something President Obama said on the day after Father's Day: "To have a child is to know that your heart is walking around outside your body!" True, no matter how old they get!

Today I had what I call a shaky day, though not for any good reason. I was determined to go to PetSmart, not an easy place for me because of walking across the parking lot--open spaces make me anxious. I want something to hold on to, if needed. But I had a plan--I'd park by a cart rack, wheel one in, and be fine. (All this for three plastic lids for open cat food!). I did, all went well, and I bought a bird feeder (the squirrels destroyed the last one) and some fresh seed, and came home, but without the triumphant feeling of "Good job, Judith" that I usually feel when I do something like that. At home I made an absolute mess of filling the bird feeder--tonight I even found seed on my yoga mat! It will never again be filled inside! Besides, I haven't noticed any birds partaking of the feast I went to such great lengths to provide.
After that mess and talking to the plumber who is going to have to "rebuild" two of my commodes, I went to Swiss Pastry to get lunch for Jeannie and me--1 bratwurst apiece, kraut and potato salad. And discovered I didn't have my debit card. I dropped off Jacob's favorite life-size stuffed doll (very primitive) to be repaired and high-tailed it to Jeannie's, where I dumped out my purse and went through everything--no debit card. Called PetSmart and some kind soul had found it in the parking lot (as Jordan said, there are still good people in this world). By this time I was really shaky, so Jeannie offered to ride out there with me. The store manager was nice but he asked for i.d., and I'd left my purse in the car, for which Jeannie scolded me severely. While she went to get it, I had an idea and recited the card's 16 numbers to the manager. He grinned and said, "It's yours."
I was glad to get home, piddle at my computer, nap and have a good long yoga session. I'd heard a segment on meditation on NPR this morning, and I really tried to concentrate on what was going on with my body, what muscles felt stretched, strained, where I felt comfortable, and all that--to clear my mind of everything but the poses I was doing. It was more successful than usual--my mind still tends to wander, but I'll keep working on it.
Now I've had supper, hung the bird feeder and cleaned up the mess, taken the garbage carts to the street, fed the dog, and am generally feeling in control of my world. Tomorrow will be a better day. All of us have off-days, for one reason or another--anxiety is just my reason, as opposed to stomach trouble, asthma, migraines, etc. Each of us probably think we'd trade our "problem" for the others--ah, if they only knew!

Hard thoughts on writing, some memoirsand some critters

If you follow this blog at all, you probably know I am about 12,000 words into a mystery. I keep putting it aside for other things, even while I read all those posts on the Sisters in Crime and AgentQuest listservs about persistence, keeping after your writing, writing is hard work, etc. As I sit at my desk, trying to drum up free lance projects which require more research than creativity, thoughts flit through my head about that mystery--how to toughen it up, make it different from the thousands of cozies editors see every day. And then I go back and rewrite that first 12,000 words. It occurred to me yesterday that I am running away from the hard work of writing, looking for the easier, distracting chores. I used to know a historian who said, "A page a day is a book a year." Some days I'd do six or eight pages, and then coast on my laurels. But I think I'm going to go back to Don's advice--I'm going to write something new on that novel every day. You see, last night I rewrote again--the characters keep taking firmer shape in my mind, which occasions all that hard rewriting. Even now I've thought of something I didn't rewrite last night and have to, if things are going to work out the way I think they will.
Right now I'm reading a book with a wonderful title: I Loved, I Lost, I Made Spaghetti. The recipes are good, basic Italian, and I'm enjoying it. Author is Giulia Melucci. Just finished It is Well with My Soul, the autobiography (with a co-writer) of 106-year-old Ella Mae Cheeks Johnson, the first black woman to receive a masters from Case Western Reserve University (in social work). It's a good lesson in communication and parenting--words are everything.
Critters: Yesterday morning I glanced out the front door and saw something with a long hairless tail scooting across the porch. Having been invaded by rats a couple of years ago, I was really apprehensive. It proved to be a possum--I think that's who's (or what's) eating Scooby's food when he doesn't. Later when I went down the driveway I saw that the possum had a buddy. I'm not much on judging the size of possums, but I thought these were young. My neighbor said he had no idea either. When I was unloading groceries later, one came quite close to investigate. I shooed it away gently--what would I do if it got into the car to investigate my groceries? I know when cornered they can be mean, so I surely don't want to corner these.
I finally found a reasonable bird feeder that looked squirrel proof and hung it in the yard yesterday, but so far no birds.
But I had a cat underfoot all day. My fussy eater smelled the chicken I was cooking and would not get out of my way. Finally I put a few scraps in her dish and poured a bit of broth over it. She lapped it up, but today I was cooking vegetables--not her deal at all--and she was still underfoot. If I wanted her in the kitchen, she wouldn't deign to be seen there. "Dogs have masters, cats have staff."
Good dinner tonight with company--my successor as director of the press and his wife. We had wine and salmon tartare on the porch--hot as it's been, there's a nice breeze. But we decided dinner indoors would be better because of the noise of the traffic. My cold supper was a hit--the chicken loaf was good as was the roasted vegetable salad. Nice company, a pleasant evening.