“Garden”, #inktober52, #inktober

I started writing this post about how the darned varmints keep eating my garden.  I got up to get another cup of tea and looked down from my kitchen window to see deer eating my gooseberries.  They’re shameless.  They don’t even seem to care about the gooseberry’s vicious thorns.  The twins camped out in my yard for 2 days.  They didn’t care about my loathing.  Sure, I had a few moments when I thought about how pretty and cute they are, but I collected myself and remembered to go back to hating them.  I fantasize about eating venison.

Okay, let’s switch topics and talk about something more pleasant.  I was at Mom’s house and commented on a framed collection of pictures by my great aunt Ila Rhea (Lee) Little that Mom had on the wall which I hadn’t seen before.  Mom said I could have it.  Whoopee!  I took it home and realized I don’t have enough wall space either.  I propped it up against the dining room wall and find Ila Rhea’s art makes me happy whenever I walk past it.  That’s got to be a sign of good art.

Size: 20" x 24"

This piece is very nicely and professionally framed so I didn’t want to take it apart to scan it.  The reflective glass and shadow box format made it hard to photograph.  That said, let me share Ila Rhea’s art from her college days, from 92 years ago…

I think I inherited that table

Obviously, studying my aunt’s work is much better than studying the devastation of my garden.  She was a lovely lady.  I imagine her decades of students were glad to have her as a teacher.  I wish she was still alive so I could ask her things it didn’t occur to me to ask about life and art when I had the chance.

Mom got upset with me the last time I posted some of Ila Rhea's work (which you can see here).  Mom said it was a violation of Ila Rhea’s privacy.  I said I thought Ila Rhea would be pleased people could see her art.  It’s a way for her to live on although she’s no longer with us.  How many years after you die is it okay for other people to blog about you?  I think I’d be happy if one of my nieces or nephews posted my work after I’m gone.  What do you think?

As an afterthought, I googled Ila Rhea's name and found this post about the school where she worked early in her teaching career.  Fascinating.  More stuff I wish I would've thought to ask her about.

 

The great lady herself :)

"War"

I woke thinking about dodge ball.  Brains are like this, spitting out ancient, trivial data for no apparent reason.  I sometimes enjoyed playing the game.  I thought boys could be unnecessarily rough, but I wasn't particularly scarred by the experience like some.  Why would my brain regurgitate dodge ball?  Why would the smell of the medicine ball and storage locker come back to me with such vividness?

When I saw this week's IF word is "war" dodge ball made sense, though I'm not sure how my dreaming mind would know which word was coming, and I'm not sure what to say about gym classes so long ago.

The actual war I'm fighting lately is against wildlife.  I hit the deer with a rock and broke my slingshot.  Both me and the doe were surprised I actually got her.  She looked at her chest in mild confusion, then went back to eating my tree.  I jumped around on the deck and yelled while she munched.  "I'm getting bigger rocks!" but I just chucked slingshot rocks.  A couple of lazy bounces later she was in the neighbor's yard.

It's pointless.  I'm on her daily rounds.  She walks right next to my window as I work on my computer every morning.  Her spotted twins tagged after her yesterday and I was torn between, "how beautiful!" and "damned varmints".  It doesn't help that I have a vast herd of groundhogs (6) and a squirrel.  They're cute too if they weren't trash compactors of everything I want to grow in the garden.

Against my social conscience, I went to Walmart for slingshot tubing because that's the only place I know that carries it.  I looked at people in the store because I've heard the dress code at Walmart is youtube worthy.  Everybody seemed pretty normal.  I saw guns lined up next to the slingshot supplies and briefly considered buying one.  I'd have a better chance of hitting the wildlife with a bullet than a rock, but you know, city ordinances, not really wanting to kill things.  I'll stick to rocks.  The wildlife is safe.  I'm just venting frustration.

I'm willing to share with wildlife.  Eat a little, but save some for me.  No, they just destroy everything.  I haven't gotten a pear for years.  They mowed down my tomatoes over and over last year.  Selfish and destructive.

I'm glad the US didn't start a war with Iran this week, but the warmongers will keep trying.  Of course, none of them would fight it and it's a proven way to win elections and siphon money from the populace into rich people's pockets.  I don't believe anything the administration says about the situation.  I assume the drone was over Iran.  Why have it anywhere except over their territory?  There was another incident recently where the US accused Iran but those claims were disputed by the people who were actually there. 

I've already admitted I considered shooting my wildlife this week, but it only took a little thought to get past that idea, an idea I probably wouldn't have had if I hadn't seen the easily accessible gun display.  People in power need to think a little more before they make war plans.  It would be better to challenge Iran to play dodge ball.

The illustration is something I did for the June edition of Mensa's Bulletin magazine.

"Green"

A friend of mine fixed my slingshot yesterday.  I am now armed and dangerous.  I'm just waiting for the deer or groundhog to show up.  I've acquired a squirrel and bunny too.  Forget all my earlier warm and fuzzy feelings for wildlife.  I'm feeling murderous.

I was weeding my garden the other day when a fawn jumped up and leapt away.  I briefly thought "How beautiful!", then lamented the fact that I hadn't hit it on the head with my shovel.  To make things worse, I found a tick on my leg.  This is a new thing for my part of the world, and I know the deer brought it.  The tick hadn't attached itself yet so I picked it off of me and the damned thing bit me, which hurt far more than you'd think a little bug could hurt, except I'm still suffering from spider bites from my basement so I know small beings can create a world of misery.  Nature is against me!

My turnips are thriving and the rhubarb is doing great.  Sigh.  Really, how many people want to survive on turnips and rhubarb?  The happiest thing I can report on my garden is that my peonies have finally decided to bloom after 3 or 4 years of disappointment and my slingshot fixing friend gave me a new idea for deer obstacles.  I'm also very pleased that the caretaker of my next-door neighbor is clearing that backyard of years of neglect.  The view from my back windows is a very happy green and I'm trying really hard not to let the incessant sound of the chainsaw or tractor drive me insane.

My city had a garage sale day and I lugged lots of things to my garage.  About 10 people showed up because apparently all the other sales were on the other side of town.  I don't think I can even count all of my visitors because that included a neighbor and Mom.  I'm torn between putting all my stuff back in the basement or donating it to a good cause.  I also wonder about leaving it all in the garage and having another sale later in the year.  I did manage to sell 3 large and heavy objects so even with such a poor turnout I'm counting my sale as a success.  Besides, a few friends came over and kept me company, and that always makes for a pleasant day.

The sentence which spawned this illustration for the Mensa Bulletin is "For dinner, the Girl Scouts ate steak, onions and ice cream."  Well, that's just silly.  It sounds like the ice cream has onions in it, and that isn't an ice cream any of us wants to eat. 

I am not a grammarian.  I know some of the rules, and I've read a lot, but I'll admit I just put in commas where they feel right.  I think I get it mostly right?  Sometimes I ask my friend the former English teacher for advice.  Despite my lack of conviction about most grammar rules, I'm certain that I fully agree with the article's author, Richard Lederer, in the use of the serial comma (also called the Harvard or Oxford comma).  Example:  The groundhog ate my basil, Swiss chard, and tomatoes.  The comma we're talking about is after "chard".  It has become a popular trend to leave that comma out, but that trend needs to be stopped!

It feels like I should say something nice about Girl Scouting, but I have to stop writing and rearrange the garage sufficiently to get the lawnmower back into it.  Maybe I'll help the noisy neighbor for a while too, but especially, I'm going to find some time to just look out the window at the lovely green of the season :)

Another green thing, though not an original idea, a cactus I made by painting rocks as a gift to someone who hates taking care of houseplants.  She was thrilled with it.

"Neighbor"

Let me tell you a ghost story.  Well, sort of a ghost story?  I don't really know what to call it.  One of those what-the-hell-I-don't-understand events.

Let me back up.  I had the nosiest neighbor.  She was friendly.  Too damned friendly.  Before you judge me, you have to understand that she sat in her lawn chair, feet from my back door, waiting to pounce on me while blasting country music.  Not the better kinds of CW.  I had to listen to endless twangy repetitions of how the wife left and took the truck and dog but left the kids.  God, I hate country music.

I put up a 12' long privacy fence, just enough to block her direct view of my back door.  She moved her chair 12'.  I added more fence.  She moved her chair back a bit more -- but the "music" originated from the same place.  She just turned up the volume.  I blasted some rock in return.  One time, I was scantily clad while painting the inside of a bedroom window, and she literally shoved half her body through the open window to talk to me.  Do you understand wet paint, bedroom, get out of my house???

It didn't help that she had a large, vicious dog.  She was a hoarder.  She didn't clean.  She wasn't a beauty, and her horribly rotten teeth didn't help.  Sometimes I felt drunk from the wafting beer fumes coming over the property line.  I hate the smell of beer too.

For all of that, sometimes I fell for her friendliness.  Her nosiness was universal, so she told me the dirt on everyone on the street.  She told me all the dirt on herself for that matter, so I doubt she'd care about me talking about her now.  She had a brain tumor removed when she was younger.  Maybe they took out the part that dictates boundaries?  Whatever.  For the most part, we got along well enough.  I just kept adding fence.

One night, the paramedics came and I saw them wheel her out on a gurney.  She sat up and argued with the paramedics before they put her in the ambulance and took her away.  I didn't see her again.  I wondered what happened, but I didn't want to go over to the filthy house to find out.  I might've felt obligated to sit in that house and make nice, and I have bad history of being forced to sit in a different filthy house.  Back then, it was with a certifiably crazy old woman.  I couldn't make myself do the neighborly thing again.

The mailman was often lackadaisical about getting the mail to the right houses, and I got something that looked important for the next-door neighbor's husband.  I handed it over the fence and asked about his wife.  He said she'd died.  I expressed my sympathies, adding, "I didn't think it looked good when they took her away, but since she was arguing with the paramedics I thought maybe she was going to pull through."

He looked at me very oddly and said, "She was already dead when they got here.  I'd been out for the day, and found her dead on the floor when I got home."

To completely change the topic, let me continue my seasonal rant about wildlife.  My dog set off the skunk twice, but thankfully wasn't sprayed.  My pear trees are dripping with fruit, and the damned squirrels are picking them, nibbling a bit, then knocking more pears off the trees to nibble some more.  They do the same thing to the tomatoes.  Why can't they just take one and finish it??  I wish the groundhog would kill the squirrels, then commit suicide.  I made giant balls out of grapevines, and they seem to be working against the deer because they don't like to get their legs tangled up.  I think I'll make more deer balls.  The first of the garden's bounty is starting to come in and I've gotten the canning stuff out again.  Enjoy some summer pics...

Plums, cherry/plum/rhubarb, bread and butter pickles

Squirrel damage

Hoping that I'll get to eat at least some of the pears?

Turnips

Ripe tomatoes which are kind of a green pink brown.  No idea of the variety.
I kept seeds from a salad I enjoyed a couple of years ago.

Jane, this pic's for you :)

My 17-year-old puppy refused to pose by the deer balls to let me show you their size.

"Garden"

My new neighbor came over to introduce herself when I was picking gooseberries.  She's missing a cat.  Haven't seen it, but sure, I'll keep an eye out for it.  I offered her gooseberries, but I think she was confused by them.  I thought about making her a gooseberry tart in neighborly good will, but, well, you know, that would take effort.  Isn't the thought enough?

I brought the gooseberries and a colander of currants inside, then saw the deer eating my crab apples a few feet from the kitchen window.  "Scat!  Get out!!" He leisurely moved behind the garage.  I went back to my berries and he came back.  "Scat! They're not even ripe!"  Stupid deer.  My brother said he's beautiful.  Sure, majestic even -- but he eats everything.  Then the squirrel spiraled down the apple trunk and into the garden and I launched into the murderous thoughts of summer with venison fantasies.  I want a scarecrow with rocket-propelled missiles.

I like to garden, in a lazy way.  I put in seeds, watch the miracle of life, then eat the bountiful harvest.  Maybe sit and weed the garden a couple of times to make myself feel like I'm responsible and tidy about it all.  Maybe weed it a lot if I have stuff to think about.  I put all these berries in the freezer so I can put them in chocolate cakes, because you know, if chocolate cake has organic berries, it becomes health food.

I haven't made much progress on the dining room floor this week.  I took a walk in the park, obsessed about work, started reading a book about cults... You know how all this stuff goes.  I could make a lot more progress if someone would just pay my bills and leave me time for baking gooseberry tarts and creating.

When I was a kid, gooseberries were extra special because they were rare.  There were only 3 bushes of them in my pilfering range.  Now that I think of it, I was taught early to steal.  I ate berries, climbed orchards... whatever I wanted, and could get away with taking, was fair game.  It was standard, expected behavior from children in an area of summer homes and unattended gardens.  Children expected to get sworn at and occasionally threatened with firearms.  Bus stop conversations included tips for access to especially tasty treats while we waited to go to school.

We stole from adults we liked least.  Our ethics were nuanced, and had nothing to do with stuff we learned at church.  The adrenaline of possible consequences was part of the joy.  I was taught to be a risk-taker and rewarded with pie if I brought my pilfering home.

I just wandered into this bit of memory, but now that I'm thinking about it I have to wonder about how robbing summer gardens steered my life.  I feel a little conflicted, but mostly remember the sweet taste of berries on a hot summer day and laughter in the chase.

Then there's karma.  Maybe my gardening suffers from the consequences of my early pilfering?  Is that damned deer a reincarnation of one of my old neighbors?  Maybe I'm good at growing currants because I never stole them from anyone?

"Flattened"

The angel in charge of my prayer requests has a wicked sense of humor. At various times throughout the summer I have thought:



I want more exercise and fresh air
I’d like to see more of my brother Peter
I’d like my garden to get more sunshine
I don’t want the deer to eat my apples
I wish I had more wood to make a better deer barricade…

I think you can see the general train of my thoughts here. I didn’t realize that wishing for a better garden was going to result in a mature silver maple tree squashing the garden flat. Amazingly, even though an 11 foot circumference tree fell on my cultivations, I think my tomatoes and butternut squash survived the angels’ joke. It's a whole 'nother level of watching leaves fall in autumn!

Click on Marv Newland's art (or here) for a movie classic :)

"Cultivate"

When I was little, gardening was a required activity. Dad spent this time of year discussing strategies with neighbors and plotting out his gardens on graph paper. When the time came to actually get out the shovel, he loudly sang Irish ballads in the back yard. If Dad was singing, the world was a happy place.

After the soil was turned and raked, my sisters and I were lined up for duties. Dad wanted mathematically perfect gardens, so our fingers and arms were measured to guarantee seeds were planted the appropriate depth and distance apart. Taut strings were stretched across the garden to ensure rows were perfect too. Despite Irish ballads, his German relatives must've had an influence on his sense of order.

I didn't care. I liked putting my hands in warm, dry dirt. I liked tucking loose worms back into the soil. I liked having a part in the new life we were inviting into the world. I liked watching things grow. I didn't like rutabagas, but I guess that topic can wait for another day.

Maybe it was an effort to get rid of excess rutabagas? I got the idea that our neighbors were in desperate need of fresh vegetables. I thought they'd be so glad to have it delivered to their door that they'd pay me for it. Dad liked that idea. Maybe he was sick of our bumper crop of rutabagas too? He allowed me to fill my red Radio Flyer wagon every week. I was allowed to keep my profits -- after "taxes". That was his somewhat arbitrary decision that he should get half of the profits to cover expenses for seeds and his labor in tilling in the first place.

To tell the truth, this was a pretty profitable venture. My old ladies loved my visits, fed me cookies, and gave me gossip for the next house. You'd think this would've made me a better gossip, but I didn't master the skill very well. I didn't see the point in telling anybody that Dottie was mad at the Hendershots or that the Taylor girl stayed out too late with her boyfriend. I think I just collected their stories so I could write about them some day. I got a lot of material from lonely old ladies.

I've sold produce as an adult too. I was onto organic gardening before anyone seemed to know what it was. I started selling produce, herbs, and flowers at a local farmers market. At some point I threw up my very tired hands and resigned, but my husband at the time contacted other growers, and we started buying and selling on a larger scale. "We" being a pretty generous term. He liked coming up with ideas, but I was the one who did the actual work.

Even so, I liked going to market every Saturday. It was kind of like having my old ladies back again. No cookies, but I still got the gossip. The patter of voices is a pleasant thing when nothing really comes out of it. People just want to feel connected, and why not connect over vegetables and flowers?

It has finally warmed up in Ohio. It could still snow again, but I saw my first buzzard yesterday and the mourning doves are back. Today I'm going to start some seeds in the window. I saved them from last year's garden, and hope to have a never-ending supply of heirloom tomatoes throughout the summer. For those of you who saw my last post, I'm thinking it's important to see new life when facing a funeral. Despite tears, life goes on. It's important to cultivate simple pleasures.

The art is a card I made for those racks of tourism destinations you can see at hotels and such. No new art today. I want to put my hands in dirt.