beeconcise

Sept. 5 – Lovely geranium on the patio. This small planter, bought at Albertson’s, has been a magnet all summer for hummingbirds.  I felt guilty when I bought it, thinking it was a shame I was too lazy to plant my own planter.  And yet this small pot of flowers had given me untold joy for months as the hummingbirds have buzzed around it. Must look for another one just like it next year. Always nice to find joy in unexpected places.

On my facebook page, I’m posting a photo each day in Sept. of things I love, from my Fall 2012 album.  These berries were my first photo for September, as I so love to pick fresh raspberries early mornings from our garden, usually in PJs, robe and slippers.

As a quick catch up, since I just today learned how to post photos to his blog (which makes me ever so happy) I want to do a quick catch up for the next two days of September.

For Sept. 2, here’s a favorite picture of mine, of fresh tomatoes and peaches from our woderful Green Bluff growers’ area north of where we live, only 12 minutes away. It makes a wonderful outing to drive up to Green Bluff and bring home tomatoes, peaches, blueberries, apples and more, plus you-pick strawberries. They also have some incredible huckleberry fudge and huge ice cream cones. I love where we live.

For Sept. 3, the picture had to be this green pepper on the bush in our garden. It’s the first time I’ve ever been able to grow a green pepper, although I have no idea why this is the summer that it finally worked. I’m sure this little pepper will have the place of honor soon in a big tossed salad for dinner. I just wonder if it knows how much excitement it has caused around here?  Who knows?  Maybe it does.

I’m doing this in the hopes that I can have a more purposeful writing life, updating Facebook, then this beeconcise blog, and then the website (at least monthly), and finally … on to the real writing project that has been lurking in my life for far too long. I’ll have to post a picture of that, too, but not today.

This lovely hydrangea blossom reminds me of my mother. At 88 she went shopping with me to a garden center, her last visit to such a store. At 94 now she no longer gets excited about flowers, but at the time she wanted to buy us a plant as a house-warming gift. It bloomed only that first summer, and after four years of no blooms, it has suprised us this summer with this beautiful flower. I intend to dry it and keep it forever, as it will always remind me of my mother, when she loved flowers as much as I do.

Over the past few weeks my granddaughters Jamie and Tate have piled belongings into the family car and headed off to Pullman, WA to become WSU Cougs, Jamie intent on a career in business and Tate with her eyes on a history major and great fun with the Cougar Marching Band. But wasn’t it just yesterday that I had a picture of Jamie standing in front of their house before heading off to her first day of third grade, and little sister, Tate, standing beside her, ready for her first day of kindergarten? Or was that pre-school?

Before I can digest this, I have a brand new photo of grandson Asher hurrying down the driveway at his home in Danielsville, Georgia, heading off to his first grade class. He’s missing five baby teeth and proud to be a two-wheel bike rider. He’s had a busy summer. If I blink, will he be going off to college tomorrow, like his cousins in Washington state? It sure does feel like a wrinkle in time to me.

I close my eyes and see 6-year old Phil, heading off to first grade in Denver, Colorado, where he once took his little sister, Allison, for show & tell. As we stood by the door a class mate, holding a large paper bag asked, “What did you bring for show & tell today?” Phil answered, “My sister.” He nodded toward me and his 2-year old sister. The other little boy asked, “Why didn’t you put her in a bag?” We simply didn’t have an answer, but it still makes me smile. A short four years later I have a picture of big-brother Phil, a protective 5th grader with his arm around his sister’s shoulder as he and Allison stood in front of our home in Omaha, NE, ready for her first day of school. I was as excited as the kids about their new pencils, colors and erasers.

For my own first day of school, in 1949, I wore a light blue suit with a small purse strapped over my shoulder, holding a child-sized umbrella and wearing my new rain boots. I was more proud of them and eager to be out in the rain than I was excited about the first day of school, or waiting for the school bus. My mother stood beside me, a slim woman in her own suit, high heel shoes, holding her own purse and umbrella. As soon as the bus rumbled to a stop, we climbed on for the long drive up the curvy mountain road to Country Day School in Ashville, N.C.

Later today I’ll Google the name of Ashville’s Country Day School to see if it is still in existence. I remember the class rooms and the playground with amazing swing sets. I also remember frustration if I wasn’t first to know the answer to an English quiz, but it never bothered me not knowing the answers first to the math questions. English. That was my game. And still is.

On reflection I realize that my children and my grandchildren focus on the future, with so much life to be lived, while my ninety-four year old mother lives in the present moment, having packed her memories away a long time ago, with no wish to revisit any of them, not even my first day of school. I’m sure on the next rainy day I’ll find that picture of my mother and me on my first day of school, I’ll scan it into the computer, and then pack it away in a safe place with my other sweet memories I can revisit any time I choose. For me now, living somewhere in-between my elderly mother, my children and my grandchildren, must be the real wrinkle in time.

For now, I’m ready to begin looking forward again, like the kids. In fact, I think I’ll start today.

Lately I’ve been reading a journal by Debbie Macomber called One Perfect Word, but have to admit I downloaded this on my Kindle thinking it was another novel. But, no … I find it’s a journal, a wonderful, thought-provoking journal, about selecting one perfect word to focus on each year. After reading part of this book I was, naturally, curious as to what word I might select if I were to share this adventure.

The author spoke of selecting a word for one year as Desire. Just that. Desire. And she talks about the things that happened during that year after thinking and writing about the word Desire. Another year she selected the word Believe. Just believe. And then she talks about things that came into her life that year, because of this continuing focus.

Slowly but surely over the next few days it came to the front of my mind, several times to the point that I realized I was being given my word for the year, or at least the rest of this year. And for me that word is less. That’s it. Less. Simply less. Less of everything.

I look at the cookie jar and think I need less of that. And wine? One glass will do. Make that less again for just about everything. Less food. Less work. Less worry. Less activity. Less struggle on every level for anything I undertake. And writing? I need less introspection. It’s a wonderful feeling, like cleaning out a closet and being able to stand back and admire the space inside.

For me now, I’m going to journal privately on my one perfect word – Less – this year, and see where it takes me. It’s a brand new adventure.

Yesterday when I picked my almost-94 year old mother up for a 4th of July lunch at our house, she handed me a small blue pottery fish she’d won at Bingo, and I think it changed both of our lives.

She was happier than I’ve seen her in ages. She has been living in an assisted living facility for the past year, with all meals prepared, med techs to dispense medication per doctor’s orders, and staff on call to change oxygen tanks & help with showers. Housekeeping services are provided, all meals are served in the dining room, and a beauty shop and mail boxes are only steps from her apartment.

But my mother sat in her room for one solid year, watching the weather channel on T.V, with the sound off. There was no convincing her to do otherwise. For the last month I’ve asked her to attend the afternoon Bingo games offered several times a week, and circled the schedule on her activities calendar. “Here, see? They have Bingo at 2 p.m. Wednesday, and again at 3 p.m. on Friday. It’s just down the hall in the dining room.” There was never a response from her.

But yesterday when I picked her up she was all smiles. She handed me a small blue pottery fish that she’d won at Bingo. I almost cried from joy. The Bingo Fish now lives on my fireplace mantle next to several wooden angels friends have given me. I doubt it’ll ever be moved. I could just as well call it the Angel Fish for all the joy I feel each time I see it.

For me this little fish, decorated with colorful seashells, reminds me of Pensacola, Florida, where I was born and where my family lived for years. It also represents the long struggle my mother has given up. Her acceptance of her physical condition has come full circle. She’s on oxygen 24-7, doesn’t take a step without her walker, has lost 8” in height from osteoporosis, has congestive heart failure, worsening dementia, is totally deaf in the left ear and hears only at the nerve level in the right ear with the help of a hearing aid.

A year ago the manager at her independent-living facility called me on the phone to tell me I had to move my mother to assisted living, because she had become too needy for their facility, even though she had a care giver who stopped by on a regular basis to help, and had me to pick up medications, buy her groceries, take her for doctor and dentist appointments, spend the night when needed and so much more. With one phone call all of that changed. Now, one year later, my mother appreciates where she lives. And so do I.

Her Bingo Fish symbolizes a new sense of freedom for our entire family, including my mother, knowing we’ve done the most caring thing for her in her condition. And best of all, now she knows just how much fun it is to win at Bingo! She’s elated that she WON the first game of Bingo she played there, and got to pick out a prize. What’s not to love about that? Her Bingo Fish might be an angel fish, after all.

Her 94th birthday is August 12. Maybe we’ll have a Bingo birthday party. For certain ballooons will be involved!

My daughter, Allison, visited from Georgia recently with her family. Afterhaving her here only a few days I observed that this child of mine is able to walk through any room & make it better.

After watching me climb on the kitchen step stool to hunt for a box of Graham Crackers and coming up with Saltines and Ritz, but no Graham Crackers, even though I swore I’d just bought a box, she casually suggested, “Have you ever thought of putting all of your crackers in the same place?”

The idea ate at me like a beetle.I prided myself that the baking good and cereals were all on their very own shelves, and canned foods had their own shelf, but that’s as far as it went. Every time a space opened up by using one thing, something else moved into its spot. “Well, I know I bought some chocolate Nestles’ Quick. It was right here, yesterday,” I’d say and then find that space occupied by a jar of salsa or a jar of pickles. And on this day when I searched for the Graham Crackers for my grandson, they were not to be found.

Allison also mentioned that I might think about moving the tall pitchers we seldom used to the top pantry shelf that was hard for me to reach, since I seldom used the pitchers, saying it would open up the low cabinet (where I’d stored the pitchers) for something else – like crackers, I knew.

As soon as company left, I tackled this project, which only took half an hour. I took pictures and sent them to Allison. Tall pitchers, top shelf. Graham Crackers, Saltines, Ritz, Wheat Thins, Triscuits, granola bars, trail mix , chips – crackers plus snacks in the low cabinet vacated by the tall pitchers. I am sure I beamed with joy as I snapped the photos.

I smile now remembering a photo of Allison when she was 18 months old, wearing a white T-shirt and blue leggings with white ruffles on the back. She’d just opened the third drawer of a kitchen cabinet where I’d put Graham Crackers, her favorite snack, so she could reach them with ease. And now, a mom herself, she’s returned the favor, suggesting I move all of the crackers to a low shelf where I could reach them with ease. Of course the Graham Crackers are front and center.

I look forward to sharing our low cracker cabinet with my five year old grandson the next time they visit. He’ll be six by then but still love Graham Crackers, I’m sure. But this time he won’t have to wait for me to hunt for them in the pantry and come up empty handed. I’ll be able to say to him, “Sure. Have a Graham Cracker. They’re right here in this low cabinet. You can reach them all by yourself!”

If his mom decides she doesn’t want those snacks where her young son can reach them by himself, I might have to bring out that photo. On second thought, I’ll just put her picture on the fridge. It’s really true what they say – what goes around comes around.

Early this morning I slipped outside in my bathrobe and hard-soled gardening clogs, long before the sun was up, to clip and prune the iris by our patio, and even those out by the fence, then headed for the compost bin. It’s become a morning ritual for me, with several beds of iris now blooming to their hearts’ content in our back yard.

It has occurred to me that iris take care taking. They take tending on a daily basis once they begin to bloom, like our children or our husbands, or even our elderly parents. They lie dormant all winter, spring forth with greenery in the spring, and then suddenly they are front and center in our lives, just as
those we love become more prominent, wanting our attention and needing more from us on a daily basis. And of course we rise to the occasion.

When the kids were in school and needed cookies or cupcakes for the next morning, even if they forgot to tell me until bedtime, they’d be ready the next morning. When someone needed something ironed, on the spot, it was ironed. I suppose this made me an accommodating mom. So now, when the iris need pruning, they seem to call to me. Come. We need you. Help us.

That’s when I grab my trusty gardening shears and head out the back door to the patio, surveying the
deep purple beauty of the iris I’ve both planted and transplanted from one side of the patio to the other, and even to the back and side fences. Iris everywhere. Just like I like them.

My message to anyone wanting to plant iris in their garden is this ~ they’re just like children. They need you once they begin to bloom. Keep them trimmed up and they’ll reward you with more beauty than you ever imagined.

I once saw a woman with a bed of iris of all colors. I was taking a walk in a neighborhood where I used to live. I stopped to admire her flowers and commented on several brown iris. They were strange – brown and bearded. I remarked that they were the most unusual iris I’d ever seen. The gardener frowned, glared at her brown iris and said, “Aren’t they the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen? I really should dig them up and give them to someone I don’t like.”

For once in my life I think I was speechless … I smiled and walked on, laughing inside. So, my suggestion to anyone planting iris is … of course, to plan to tend them once they bloom, but whatever you do, plant them in colors you’ll always love, and you’ll never regret having them in your garden.

When did my mother stop caring about plants and flowers? When did she begin to think of them as work she had to do, even when she received bouquets of flowers from friends or family? When did she stop listening to the birds chirp outside at the feeders? When did it all become simply too much work for her? How on earth does loving something equate to having too much work to do?

She’s 93 now, closing in quickly on 94. Is this the problem? If we live long enough we’ll stop loving? The idea is so foreign to me I can hardly speak it. Surely that won’t happen to me, or will it?

Even five years ago, at the age of 88, my mother went with me to a garden center, where we picked out a beautiful pale pink hydrangea for my yard on Yale Court. Even five years before that, when she was only 83, we bought a beautiful French Hybrid Lilac for the corner of our condo yard, out by the trellis that Dennis had built us, at Whisperwood. Surely I won’t stop loving my garden when I’m as old as my mother.

I always watched her in our yard in Pensacola, Florida, when I was just a child. I’d watch her pampering her plants, bringing in living vines to put in the crystal glass dish on the living room coffee table, as she settled down to play the piano and sing for me. I thought my mother was the most beautiful creature who had ever lived, and with the voice of an angel.

And now, she’s a shell of her former self, living in an assisted living community, where she receives excellent care, but no longer wants to have flowers around, or plants; she wants no books to read; no tapes or videos will be left in her room. Nothing. Nada. Just the weather channel on TV and a few pamphlets she likes to read again and again, from some evangelistic preacher.

If I live long enough, will this happen to me? Will I ever fail to notice when the iris bloom, when the peony opens up for the first time, or when the quail walk across the patio? Will I ever decide I’m too tired to watch birds at a feeder? Or that I don’t have enough energy left to love anything?

I do so love touching and nurturing my plants, love seeing them thrive, just like my own children and grandchildren. And I always have. Maybe that’s the difference, the secret we must remember. At least I can hope.

My daughter and her family visited from Georgia recently, when the weather here in Spokane, WA was warm and lovely, when the kids came out to play after dinner and had pop sickles n’ such, or ice creams on a stick. We live in a neighborhood with a Cull de sac and have very little traffic. As a result, the kids can ‘play in the street’ always with a watchful parent nearby, of course.

Last summer I borrowed a neighbors’ tricycle for my little grandson, who was four at the time. He loved it and went on ‘walks’ with my daughter and me around the neighborhood, with this little guy on his tricycle. This summer as a five year old I thought he needed to move up to a bicycle, although he had not quite out-grown training wheels, so that’s what I borrowed this time, along with two tennis rackets (kid sizes) and some tennis balls.

It warms my heart to tell anyone within ear shot how much I loved sitting on the porch bench to watch my little grandson whack the heck out of those tennis balls. During his stay here he managed to ‘play tennis’ (as he called it) with his mom, his dad, his teenaged brother, and a twelve year old girl who lives across the street. I don’t think he missed a shot, either, but his little legs were awfully busy chasing down those balls.

Originally I’d cruised around to find fairly deserted tennis courts and planned to have a picnic in the park, take lawn chairs, etc., but the Bright-Idea Fairy visited us and said, “Hey, why not walk out in front of the house and bat a couple of balls around?” Turned out to be one of those wonderful ideas. How easy. And how rewarding for me. I even have a picture of the little guy, just after whacking the ball early one morning still wearing his pajamas bottoms and his No. 9 Zak Parise N.J. Devils T-shirt, his favorite. It’s currently the wall paper picture for my cell phone and makes me smile deeply each time I look at the phone.

Of course this all makes me remember my two beautiful granddaughters growing up with Easter egg hunts, Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners, kindergarten, elementary school, middle school, high school graduations and beautiful young ladies now college-bound for the fall. Today, in fact, is my oldest granddaughter’s 21st. birthday. How can this be? Where have all of the summer evenings gone?

If I contemplate this long enough I’ll slip back into memories of my own children as babies, then toddlers with first steps, then school kids in a neighborhood similar to where I live now, where the kids also went out in the evenings with pop sickles and ice cream bars on sticks, to play chase and catch fire flies by the light of the moon. Summer evenings still warm my heart, and I’m quite certain they always will.