I Am No Match for Drought and Heat

I am no match for drought and heat.
My perennial perennials have done their best,
but my avoidance of garden plots and spots
has brought disaster to all involved in this year’s
Summer Orchestration.
It does not soothe the soul to gaze upon its totality
From my kitchen window.

The weeds do not enthrall.

Where annuals and careful tending have wrought calm in past,
this year is emptiness or worse.
The products of seeds dispersed
by that which I used to pull out with vigor
have triumphed this time around.
The rabbits do not care as they hang about,
nibbling with unceasing self-possession.

What man neglects, wildlife will have for its own.

I complain of knees and back that hurt me,
of lack of funds, of water bans,
of anything to make me seem the one to pity.
“She has worked so hard in past years.
It should have paid her back
with gratitude.”
But, no, that is not Nature’s way.
Attentiveness, or nothing will hold sway.

A single dandelion – late in the season –
lifts its blossoming head, and laughs.

Viewed on Saturday

A pair of goldfinches
visits the backyard.
They balance on flower stems
then are gone.

Bushel Basket

There is a bushel basket out back by the potting shed (the floor of which will break through one of these days). The basket is filled with chrysanthemums that should not be. It – the basket – was stored in the garage (really more of a large shed with a leaky roof and peeling paint; there is a theme here), in the dark all winter. It had been planted with chrysanthemums from Walmart for the fall, inexpensive annuals meant only for a season. Across from the basket (the bottom of which is sure to give way if it is lifted) stand three pots of more annual chrysanthemums that were stored in the shed, and on the other side of a small wall is a large square planter filled with even more. The shed has filtered light that comes through plastic-covered windows at either end, so the yellowed leaves that shot forth in the early spring had some reason for being, but not much. The basket’s residents had none.

I think perhaps Mother Nature is extending some kindness toward me this year. The dog ate my summer annuals, you see. She took us to the veterinarian and spent well over $200 on vaccinations, leaving the budget bereft of plant money. I can’t blame her. She needs to protect herself from the unkindness that nature can extend to her, although she does, in fact, not like doing so. She would rather have had my brightly colored annuals available for tromping down if she pleased.

On the other hand, there are the roses that held such promise weeks ago. Now they don’t and I am not sure what I did – or did not – do to them. Their rose garden is old and should be stable, but perhaps it wants to follow in the footsteps of the garage and the shed. The blossoms try, but then wither on the branch, barely able to display the petals and colors they want to offer up so naturally. I trim them off sorrowfully and ask Mother Nature how she can be so cruel here while so kind to the bushel basket.

She is also kind to the hostas and ferns that have grown to gigantic proportions already this year. Their abundance is startling. I have done nothing to deserve them, or perhaps doing nothing is what they needed. They will stand while the garage may fall, and then they can move forward to take over the former home of the lawn mower, enemy of the grass that wants to grow beside them.

The buttercup (“Ranunculus”) flourishes throughout, attempting to destroy whatever good there is in the garden – choking, spreading, anchoring itself tightly in soil where it is not wanted. If I let it be, it may knit together the floorboards of the potting shed and become a friend to me. I am doubtful. Buttercups must have some use, other than determining whether or not one likes butter. I want to like them; they, however, give me scant chance.

I have meandered. I had little reason to begin. The bushel basket struck me with its greenery and bade me set fingers to keys to announce its success to the world. The rest merely marched onto the page to accompany her, as they do outside. She is the key to the garden this summer, the image I will bear in mind as I face whatever tasks are demanded of me. I applaud her stalwart demeanor, her determination while in the dilapidated garage and her energy in holding up the shed.

She is a bushel basket filled with nourishment of a different sort. I am willing to be fed.

I Suppose I Should Thank You, Bev

The tentative promise –
made in response to the healthy suggestion –
now waiting to be fulfilled.

These are the first words
to arise in timidity,
and how weak they are.

But, a start they are.

Can I make it a habit?
A weekly sojourn on the page
taken in pencil steps.

Ink is too firm of foot for me.

Perhaps that is true overall.
I wanted to be written in pencil;
Potential erasure always seemed the best option.

Is it too late to dare the pen?

Afternoon of the Flan

I would have been better off taking my donkey and a rope and finding the nearest mesquite tree, standing on the donkey, forming a noose, looping the rope over a tree branch, encircling my neck, and kicking the donkey from beneath me.

I didn't know that 1-3/4 hours previous, however, when I took the flan mix off the shelf in the pantry. It had been sitting there since before the turn of the century, minding its own business, and I thought - how wrong of me - that because it was a mix, it would be easy, like Betty Crocker. It only called for 1/2 cup of sugar, a small fry pan, 2 cups of milk, the mix, a medium saucepan (I chose a nice copper one with a little spout for pouring.), and four "heat-proof" ramekins. Actually, the box called them bowls, but I like to be proper about these things, even if I am stupid about the cooking process involved.

To begin:

Measure the sugar. Feel guilty. It's way too much for us to eat, but I am not wasting anything as I am using up something from the pantry. And, of course, we deserve a treat (just like every other night). Put the sugar in the fry pan. Turn heat on low with the expectation that "caramelization" will occur. Stir. Stir. Stir some more. Move so that I am blocking the air from the ceiling fan because I am certain that it is interfering with the flame and, thus, the heat that is not melting the sugar. Stir. And stir. Then stir again... and again. Nothing happening. Forty minutes in, call Lois, but get no answer, so leave a message about having a cooking question. Stir. Call Jeannie and leave a message that maybe she needs a break from work for a giggle (and to give cooking advice). Stir. Stir. Stir, damn it! Call Helen. Leave a message surmising that she is at Christmas Tree Shops. Wish I were there and not here. The heat from the burner - and due to the fan not hitting the front of me at all - is really becoming irritating. Call Cyndi and don't leave a message because I am just too frustrated. But, wait! A touch of brown amidst the white crystals! How silly it was of me to call anyone! Stir. Stir. Lumps forming. Minutes passing. Glop developing. Keep stirring and pay no attention to the stuff sticking to the wooden spoon; it will come off if I jam it against the bottom of the pan and let it melt. Why do people do this? I am not one of them! FINALLY, something that resembles "caramelized" (per the instructions). I'm not sure if this should be a thin or a thick consistency, but I go with a bit thick since I am sick of waiting.

The next step is to pour said caramelized sugar into the bowls (ramekins) and "swirl it around." Number 1: I burn my index finger. Number 2: There are threads of caramel everywhere. Number 3: How is this stuff ever supposed to "swirl"? It sits and hardens. Number 4: I have candy hardened to my pan, my spoon, my spatula, my counter... I can lick some of them like an all-day sucker, but not all, so I still have to face a clean-up that I may leave for Jim.

Move on to milk and flan mix step. Now, I should have known this would be an issue. "Add milk gradually to mix in pan, stirring constantly over medium heat until milk comes to a boil. Mixture will be thin." Now, I have always questioned this. If one is "stirring constantly," how does one know if the milk is boiling? And, if one stops stirring, will the milk scald as the bubbles are awaited? Will the mixture thicken when it shouldn't? Will both happen? I already know that it takes far too much time for two cups of milk to come to a boil, so that should have been a clue to throw the mix out and save myself from the mesquite tree. I missed it, though, thus imperiling my afternoon of lemonade and a good book. At any rate, I start the process and once again, stir and stir and stir. You know what happens. I stir and think about the tree. And the rope. I also look at the solid caramel in the bottom of the ramekins and think about people who make candy. They are saints. We eat the products of their labors without a thought to their travails. Never again will I take them for granted. Then again, nearly breaking a tooth while trying to "clean" the spatula, I may never eat a piece of hard candy again. (I just lied.)

I cheat. I go run water in the dishes in the sink and come back to the stove to look for bubbles in the milk. No bubbles, but when I stir, I feel the dreaded thickening in the bottom. So, you know what I do: I stir and stir and stir! Forgive me directions! I promise never to leave the milk - any milk - again! No dice. The thickness lessens slightly, but won't give up. Might as well just go ahead and pour. The little spout on the pan works well, but the caramel at the bottom of the ramekins remains thoroughly intact. It is laughing at me. It is also laughing at my efforts to measure evenly because it knows it has me beaten. It also knows that it has one more little joke to play. It's called "The Refrigerator."

There is, of course, no room. I refuse to accept this after all the effort spent over the course of the afternoon, and I spend a few minutes adjusting ("cramming") the current contents to make way for ducklings, which they might as well be at this point. Then the transfer begins. Open the door. Cross the floor. The little devils are HOT! The door swings shut, so I return to the counter and get a pot holder. Reopen the door. Maneuver the flan. One in! Two in! Three in! One really full specimen to go. You know what is going to happen. No, the entire thing doesn't spill - just enough to make the shelf below a mess, forcing me toward the paper towels with a promise never, ever to do this again. Couldn't any of my friends have answered their phones and stopped me? Couldn't the donkey have been less stubborn and left the stall?Will the flan be edible? Or, will Jim break a tooth?

***********************************************
Afternoon of the Flan: Part Two

The flan actually tasted pretty good, and some of the caramel at the bottom liquefied enough so that we got a touch of the flavor. (I have no idea how it liquefied in the refrigerator, or if this is a good or bad thing for the lifespans of other foods that reside therein, but I won't go there.) Then I had to let the ramekins soak overnight to dislodge the rest of the rock-solid sweetness. One is still soaking - that's how tough the stuff is. Jim bought pre-made tapioca as a back-up... And Brigham's ice cream is on sale at Market Basket this week. Why didn't I buy some when I was in the store two days ago? I'll tell you why: I left the coupon in the car... If I'd had that little $1-off baby with me, I could have saved myself an entire afternoon. I will use it today as there is plenty of room in the freezer.

Jim didn't break a tooth, by the way.

The Envelope of Sand

Once there was a talented young woman who was very good in advertising sales. She was hired by the publisher of an extremely successful chain of weekly newspapers. Upon hiring her, however, the publisher, who understood that the young woman’s husband could only take vacations at particular times of the year, agreed that the young woman need not abide by the “All advertising employees may not take vacations when there are special advertising supplements.” He and the young woman reviewed the special supplement schedule and realized that, in fact, there was at least one that might be affected – “Automotive” – for which she had no accounts anyway.

The young woman built an extremely loyal group of clients and was known for her expertise in servicing them efficiently and creatively, especially in copy writing. Her husband, who was a brilliant yacht sales broker, was also doing well. (He did, unfortunately, have a habit of lying, which made living with him a bit of a challenge for the young woman.)

At one point, the husband and his wife became quite friendly with a very wealthy couple who were boating customers. They enjoyed each other’s company so much, in fact, that the wealthy couple invited the less well-off couple to join them in St. Lucia for a week – fully paid. The husband’s employer was quite pleased; this could be excellent for the yacht business.

The newspaper publisher, however, was disturbed that the young woman wanted a week off at the time of a special automotive advertising supplement, and refused to honor their original agreement. The young woman was terribly disappointed in his lack of integrity. She knew that she could not quit her job, however, since she was concerned about her husband’s increasing lying and that he might lose his position if something couldn’t be done about it. So, she continued in the job with as much vigor as she could muster after she shrugged off the disappointment.

The following Sunday, the weekly free newspaper that circulated to a large number of homes featured a story on the front page about prostitution. It was not a bad story; it was, however, presented in such a tasteless way that the young woman – who had believed in ethical journalism – was horrified that she had sold space in the edition of the paper. She contacted the publisher, who she had thought shared her point of view, but his response was basically, “Oh, well, that’s what it takes to get people to read the paper and see the ads.”

This added to the young woman’s dismay over her treatment in regard to the vacation policy. In fact, she was so incensed, that she went to her local advertising manager and said she was very sorry and she could not continue to represent the newspaper chain. She went home and told her husband to go ahead and let their friends know they could join them in St. Lucia. She typed a letter of resignation, took it along, and sent it from the island in an envelope containing a fair measure of sand. She and her husband, along with their friends, then had a lovely, relaxing vacation.

Since the young woman was a local resident and saw many of her former clients in the months following, she heard of their dismay over her departure. She accepted a position with a new start-up newspaper that had a “fun” time competing with her former publisher, who lost at least a healthy portion of revenue.

The young woman then went to work for a large international advertising firm as an account executive. She did well, but it was a long commute and very demanding job. So, when she received a call from the newspaper chain publisher who needed an advertising manager for one of his publications, she decided to go speak with him, if for no other reason than possibly to mend some fences. They had a good talk, during which he admitted that she had given him quite a few sleepless nights when she worked for the competing newspaper, and that he had – possibly – been wrong in his handling of the “vacation” situation. They parted amicably and the young woman said she would “think over” his offer.

Ultimately, she decided that one can’t necessarily go home again, and there remained some major trust issues for her. So, she stayed with the advertising agency, which was a good career decision money-wise; she had finally given up trying to “reform” her lying husband and gotten a divorce. This meant that when an honest, loving man entered her life, she could marry again and have two lovely children – to whom she could tell a story about integrity in the workplace and an envelope filled with sand.

Where Me Is to Be

There are low places,
damp and filled with plants
who like to keep their feet wet.
They would not think of lifting themselves out,
and when drought
encroaches upon their comfortable lair,
they despair.

I envy their enjoyment of their surroundings;
Finding myself there I think I would
struggle to get out,
all the while feeling the frustration
of mud holding me with its firm grasp upon my being,
moistening my breathing to the edge of suffocating fear.
I would question, however, whether in fact I belong stuck,
whether it is my true home,
as it is theirs.
After all, there is a certain beauty
to them, but then
they like themselves while there.

I know, though, that in ways I yet have to accept,
that the low, damp places,
often watered by tears,
are a natural part of me.

I like the higher ground,
only sometimes moistened by nature’s hand,
while fed by her abundant care.
I like the firm footing there,
the earth that helps the evergreens stand tall and proud
in their year-round beauty.
Only the meanest of storms,
or bugs or blight –
whether natural or imposed upon them by man,
can destroy their resolve to stand,
often above the rest,
to offer blest relief from heat –
welcoming us to retreat.

I wish to stand firm,
tall and proud of whatever beauty I have to offer –
and offer it always.
I wish to avoid the storms, the bugs and blight
that might disturb my quiet existence
and destroy my personal resolve to be
the “me” that I see when
I feel solidity beneath my being.
I wish to offer relief,
retreat,
to others who might be in need
of dry ground and firm footing.

I wish to be deeply green, serene,
high above the mud,
as nourishing as I can be for others –
other than me.
Yet if I find myself in the low, damp places,
I must learn to accept
the nourishment they may offer:
that which is learned from struggling to be free..