One tiny last hurrah

Hubs has been working really hard on the leaves this week.  It’s a big chore with all our oak and maple trees.  He is a machine when it comes to the leaves, however, and he has machines to help…a blower and a vacuum thing that goes behind his tractor.  Except for the amount of time it takes, it is much easier than it was years ago before obtaining these pieces of equipment.

I don’t want to take anything from him, though.  He is a hard working guy and I appreciate all that he does to keep the yard in tip-top shape.  It looks beautiful out my office window.  He took the extra step to blow the leaves off my walking trail and bridge and it makes all the difference when looking out this window to see the trail cut through the woods.  I love it.

I did bring up a sore subject yesterday, however, in the midst of his packing up his gear and tools for the day.  Christmas lights.  Now, we have a tree we decorated with lights last year.  This small tree, near the house, has the lights on it year round and is super pretty.  But, I like lighted trees and yesterday I walked around in the woods looking trees over to see if there were any candidates out there.  I pointed out a couple and he only grunted.  You would think he didn’t enjoy the lights, but I know he does.  He either hates putting them up or hates putting them up with my “assistance”. 

Let’s face it, I’m not much help.  I get cold.  I can’t reach very high and I’m kind of fussy.  I try to direct the circling of the branches as gently as I can, but, it’s not always the sender, you know, sometimes it is the receiver.  Some of this may sound a bit familiar to you as the little tree, which now has lights, has been talked about before.  Anyway, he didn’t see a tree that he thinks will work so that brings me to fake trees.  I have asked if he could “build” a tree from branches cut from live trees and he looked at me like I have developed a third eye. It can’t be impossible, can it? To put some sand and rocks or whatever in a bucket, shove some fairly good sized limbs in and call it a tree? I’ll let you know how this discussion goes…it ain’t over.

I was busy yesterday, too, emptying planters and putting away garden ornaments.  I removed flowers and dirt and put all the empty pots in one place, moved shovels and watering cans and rakes.  I sometimes have let flowers winter over in pots and then have that to deal with in the spring, when I am anxious to plant.  This year, I was rewarded as I emptied a pot near a rose bush.  Near the ground, on a little tiny branch, was a small, fragrant rose.  A bit cold and late for new blooms, isn’t it? But this was my reward for being a good steward to my plants this year…isn’t she sweet?   

Watermelon, watermelon.

I had the cutest, little round, sweet-faced grandmother of all time.  She was iconic in her ways and her appearance.  So absolutely precious, and almost as wide as tall, she raised chickens and sold watermelons by the side of the road.   She had a nickname that summed her up, cast upon her by her first grandchild, Bannie.

My Bannie was a southern grandmother.  She was not the fully-gowned, coifed and bejeweled southern grandmother of novels and movies.  She was hardworking in her little farm and kitchen, with a sweet almost gravely voice and a way of playing the piano, and the accordion, that entertained and ministered at the same time ~ a cross between ragtime and gospel, Bannie banged out self-taught songs and hymns with passion and pleasure.  I miss her terribly at times as I know I will never run across another individual like my Bannie.  Gosh, I wish you ALL could have known my grandmother. 

I use to love to walk among the watermelons, which lay in her shady front yard.  They were sweet, they were cool and they were plentiful.  They had them brought in by the truckload, not grown on their property, but they took up residence until a customer came to test Bannie’s crop.  My grandfather, Boppa, settled in near the shed as Bannie worked her magic and picked out just the right melon for you.  Oh, he would work the customers, too, but I remember Bannie the most, bending her squat roundness, much like the melon itself, and "thumping" the melon, pluck it from the rows upon rows on the ground, hold it over her shoulder in one hand, smile her sweet smile and declare the melon ripe. If you questioned it, why, take it to my grandfather and have him plug it.  He would cut a triangle deep into the melon’s flesh to pull out a sweet, juicy portion.  If you needed to have your melon cold, say, on your way to a family get together or picnic, well, that was accomplished easily as well as melons were plunged in ice water in a large cooler to float and twirl and chill.  It was heaven there.

Bannie loved.  She loved us deeply and forgivingly and we could do no wrong in Bannie’s eyes.  When we visited, she would find little items to give to us among her treasures.  Bannie never had a lot, but she gave to us every time.  As she got older, and we got wiser, we learned to take it when Bannie offered you something.  If you were reluctant, perhaps thinking she wasn’t thinking clearly or might still need it, she was going to give it to someone else when they visited.

Sweet memories of my Bannie came flooding back to me last week as I seasoned a cast iron skillet she gave me on one of my last visits, before she got sick.  I was reluctant to take it as thought she might still use it as she fried up a mean chicken, let me tell you.  I thought about her telling me it belonged to a great aunt and had been in the family for a long time. Did she really mean for me to have it?

I accepted the pan, thrilled to have a family heirloom.  I have used it for years and it is truly fantastic.  I think of my Bannie every time I pull that heavy pan out of the cabinet, and maybe that was her intent. I have also heard from a few relatives over the years that Bannie gave them an old cast iron skillet.  I heard they didn’t take it at the time and have heard they have the “family heirloom”, a skillet that belonged to a great aunt. I laugh to myself as I realize Bannie gave my skillet away 10 times over or more, and had more than one skillet to give,  but I am so glad to have it and the memories it brings, every time. 

Happy Birthday!

I am approaching a milestone birthday, turning 60 in just a few days.  I have spent the last couple weeks planning and reflecting and not posting on this blog.  I wanted to really be ready for the next decade of my life.  Being in my 60s.  Goodness.

I realize some of you are already there and may even think, c’mon, get on with it, but as I have explained in the past, I use my birthday for resolutions rather than New Year.  I take it as kind of a big deal.  More than a New Year, a birthday says a lot about you, so I think it is a better time to reflect and resolve.  I mean, everyone is having a New Year, but your birthday is you, right?

There you go.  Resolve.  Turning 60 to me is a resolution all it’s own.  Since there are different definitions of the verb resolve, I considered both.   Resolve 1.  Settle or find a solution to a problem, dispute or contentious matter.  Resolve 2. Decide firmly on a course of action.  

Anyway, I have a list of things to resolve, short list, but things are there and I have a list of things to resolve.  When making New Year’s resolutions, I think many of us leave out the first resolve ~ to settle or find a solution.  Some years, maybe we don’t have anything that would fall in to that category.  I won’t lie ~ I have a couple “contentious matters” to resolve, and I will.  

I want a clean slate going in to my sixties.  I don’t like contentious matters any more than the next guy but I also don’t like stewing.  I don’t want to stew, I don’t want you to stew, I don’t want it to stew.   Sometimes, contentious matters need to be left alone and forgotten and if that is best, I promise to myself that I will move on, I will resolve, instead of letting something get my goat or be stuck in my craw.  If it is a situation that needs personal attention, well, even though it might make me uncomfortable for the moment, I will resolve it.  

I resolve to look at situations with a more positive lens.  I know there are times when I am too negative, when I view my situations from the negative position.  I know when I am in it, I hear myself and I resolve to move out of that stance.  Going in to my sixties, I just don’t want to be there.  Have you ever met a bitter, cranky, negative, gloomy gus in their sixties? Yes, me, too and I will not be them.  I will not.
Hubs and I had a long talk the other evening, sitting on our swing, watching the lake go to sleep.  I said, without announcing it as a resolution, I want to take more pleasure, more joy out of each day.   Last year, I purchased a little crafty sign at a friend’s store that says, simply, “Take Joy”.  I resolve to take more joy out of life, more joy out of the day. This is a very personal goal for me, and it was somewhat difficult to speak about it to someone else, but saying things out loud, sharing them with someone you trust, is a good first step to resolution.  Once it is from your heart and has passed your lips, well, it is more real.  My big resolution as I turn 60 is to take joy.

Finally, along with taking joy, I resolve to give joy.  To make your day brighter if I can, to lighten your burden, to share with you our very good, very blessed life.  I will be more joyful for those I love, for those I know, for those I meet.  I will be a more joyful person for you. 

To settle a problem or two, to move out of the negative, to take joy and to give joy.  Happy 60 to me.  

These weekend days are full to overflowing.  With the great weather has come some real work in the yard and the inside of my house is showing a bit of neglect as we spend these last golden days outside. I try not to think about it as I know there are days ahead when staying inside is the only option. 

Feeling a little overwhelmed with the woods, I called my sister-in-law over to sit on the steps with me a bit and brainstorm my landscaping. She has spent more time in these woods than I and knows the history. I invited my neighbor over to sit on the steps and brainstorm a bit as she sees directly into our woods.  Both these ladies have completely different aesthetics than each other, as well as different than mine, and I wanted to hear their thoughts, ideas, answer questions, ask questions.

After walking the yard with my sister-in-law and discussing first goals, I transplanted a small Japanese Maple tree to an area to get more sun and I began planning an arbor using removed tree limbs and small trees.  I thinned out more maple saplings and fed the transplanted rhododendron starts.  Hubs has a plan for part of the area where the rhododendron had been so I began to think that over.  I started parking on this side of the house, to get a feel for making that change.

I looked at the woods and the yard with renewed vision and a slightly different mindset as the weekend drew to a close.  I've watched the sunlight move across these woods this morning and it is nothing short of spectacular.  This is already a haven, and I don't wish to overthink it or overwork it, but I will care for it, manage it and maybe concentrate a little less on transforming it too much.  Nature will take the lead, the sun will lend her voice and the woods will be the stage.   I’ll be more stage manager than stage mother!   

I'm just wild about Harry.

We are going through some changes in the yard and reviewing some plans to update the exterior of the house a bit and maybe even building an addition to our living room.  As is our way, we discuss plans, talk about timing, review the plan, change the plan, talk about timing, think about space, review the plan. You get it. We procrastinate.  We are slow to pull the trigger, as the saying goes, as we don't always see eye to eye and one of us will have one of those sit-up-in-bed from a sound sleep BRILLIANT ideas which throws a final draft of a plan talked about for weeks right out the window. We've gotten use to working this way over the years, and yes, it has delayed us from time to time.  

Currently, while the two areas of dirt I wrote about in previous posts are big topics, we have at least three other areas outside that are currently, or will be soon, undergoing some changes.   I've spent a fair amount of time over the years working in some flower beds whose plantings are coming out. In order to prepare for the upcoming remodeling, I'm planning on transplanting a lot from my current beds to the other sides of the house.  I hope I am able to save a few things that I have grown to really love over the last few years but I know there are a few that will be lost.  

One of these is a curly branched bush called Harry Lauder Walking Stick, with a biological name of something-something Contortia, or something.  I love this plant.  It is far too big for its current space and will likely not survive a transplanting. At least, not by someone who is as willy-nilly with the transplanting rules as I am, but I have to try. I may not be able manage this bush alone, not like I will be able to do with a couple azaleas and many hosta that are marked for moving.  

The main reason why I love this plant is because my mother-in-law had one.   It's still at the house and in a spot she once told me was the best place for it, protected, a bit off a path and out of the wind. She reported it was a difficult bush to get started.  I love the gnarly, curling branches, named for a vaudeville comedian who was known for his twisted walking stick. As soon as I got the opportunity, and the money, at least twenty years ago, I bought a small bush and planted it in a new flower bed.  I knew nothing about bushes, landscaping or what would grow. I only knew I wanted a Harry Lauder Walking Stick.  

I planted it too close to the house, of course, too close to the deck, too exposed to the elements.  It wasn't suppose to grow in that location, but it flourishes.  My mother-in-law and I discussed how it shouldn't be doing as well, I believe it has outgrown hers, and who knows why.  If it were two feet further out or to the left or right, it probably would not have grown like it has, but it loves that spot.  

That spot will be turned over for another use and Harry will go with it.  I'm reluctant, to say the least,  and although I will try to move it I have this feeling wherever I try will not be quite right.  I do have a place in mind and will undertake the move in the spring.  Now, hubs is practical here and says no worries, if it doesn't make it, we'll buy another and start new. 

It's not the same though.  I was young when I bought that plant and wanted to prove to my mother-in-law that I was worthy of the property, of the home that had been the home of her mother, that I could plant and tend, cultivate and grow.  My mother-in-law was impressed with my Harry and told me so.  To let him go is a big deal, a big decision and I'll spend a bit of time thinking it all through.   

Preparing for the next phase.

While I have been working on the beast, hubs has been working in another part of our yard on the other side of the house.   What’s left, for or by us both, is two big areas of dirt.  Deciding on what to do in the dirt is my new occupation and distraction.   Hubs looks at me like I’ve grown a tree stump of my own, right on top of my head, when I even mention replanting something, even grass…okay, and maybe some flowers.  And a bush.

      

I get it. It’s backbreaking to remove old, overgrown bushes and trees, their stumps and roots.  I get it.  However, I also get that we can’t just have two big patches of dirt in the yard, waiting for something, most likely undesirable, to fill it in.   That doesn't seem wise, because it will fill in, oh yes, it will fill in.

I also get that it’s not that easy as we are blessed with shade from big oak trees.  Beautiful and stately, although maybe too close to the house, and its tough to grow things.  We are also cursed with maple trees, soft maples with big fat branches that the trunk can’t seem to support, which drop those same limbs, dangerous and carefree.  Trees that have those funny little twirling helicopter seed pods that seem to grow wherever they land.  Problem: maple trees are like weeds, like parasites, and choke out every other living thing there, except maybe poison ivy.

 

I challenged hubs to a contest of sorts last week.  I bet, I said, we could pull out maple trees, at least 10, every day for a month and still have maple saplings and small trees to spare.  He didn't agree. That’s 300 trees! Now, I haven’t gone into the woods every day this week to pull out trees but the evening of this challenge I went into the woods and easily pulled up 25 maple saplings, all under 2 feet tall, from about a 10-foot square area.  Until they are about 30 inches or so tall, maple saplings can be pretty easily removed, thank goodness.Bunched up in two hands and headed for the burning pile, I shook them at hubs as I walked by, victorious and gloating, like pom poms.  Go, me!    

While bending over and yanking out these little maple trees, which I have to admit is hard on the heart, they are baby trees for crying out loud, even if they are weed-like, and it’s against my nature but has to be done, I began to compare clearing out these areas like life, like my life.  Change is afoot, and I am preparing for the next phase.  Careful planning is needed, thoughtfulness, decisiveness and even protection, because it will fill in, oh yes, it will fill in.   

The battle continues.

I didn’t write a post last week as I had missed Sunday and Monday for the holiday.  By Tuesday I was well beyond thinking about blog posts but I wanted to catch you up on one of my projects ~ the removal of the gigantic rhododendron. 

This bush, which, as you may recall, housed many a bird, bunny and cat over the years had just gotten way, way too big.  It is in a part of the yard that isn’t used much, sure, but it had been taking over that part for too long and now spanned about 25-feet across, and maybe 12-feet high.   When we were working on cleaning up the tree that fell in the storm I wanted to see how difficult it would be to snip off a branch ~ I was able to walk right into this bush, standing up and just moving branches away as I moved to the center.  That’s crazy.  We’ve talked about taking it out for the last couple of years but it wasn’t a priority.  This year was the show close, however, and after the tree fell, which changed the light and the feel of the driveway, this was the time for the boot for the rhododendron.

Last week I began cutting back the branches, working my way around and around.  Almost like I was trimming the monster instead of trying to get closer to its center root system, I snipped and pulled, snipped and pulled, taking away wheelbarrow load after load, I  snipped off branches, bigger and bigger, around and around.  I committed to working every day for at least an hour, even if it were rainy, and soon I was left with shoots, some runners, circling the big “core” of the plant. (Yes, this is about the time I had to enlist the services of my trusted assistant, hubs, to manage the big, fat, well-rooted branches) Big, branches, more than I could handle with the loppers, stood solid, taller than I and ready to remain steadfast.  The undergrowth that remained, a LOT of the runners, had been freed and feeling sunshine for the first time, the leaves turned bright and healthy, not knowing the fate that lay ahead.  Oh, raise your faces to the sun now, for in another day or so, you will be but kindling for the next big bonfire.

Funny thing about this bush is there were no bird’s nests, no bunnies scurrying about, no cats or kittens.  Not one living thing. I had expected to feel some guilt, some Audobonian remorse, but there wasn’t a creature that stirred.  Even the bees that had circled the plant on my first night had dispersed.  I had been fully prepared to battle those bees, if needed, or at least, always had a clear path to get the heck out.

As I removed the runners, and there were many, children of the mother plant that would flourish if planted and cared for, I became hesitant to totally ditch this behemoth.  How long had it been here? Maybe sixty or seventy years.  Who was I to take it out?  I contemplated what to do, began thinking of the woods and the many dogwood trees that have suffered from blight or bug and have thinned to near non-existence.  I admired the ease of pulling big, healthy, rooted shoots of Mother Rhoda and decided to transplant a few, into the woods. 

I think I moved 7, but already one looks not so much inclined to root in a new spot.  I planted a couple near my bridge, and I really hope they “take”.  I’ll tend to them this fall, and keep them well watered over the next couple months.  I’ll pile oak leaves around and maybe even a fence in case the deer decide rhododendron leaves and buds are perfect for the digestion.  I’ll care for you, so you can flourish.  I’ll care for you, so you can grow, children of the monster.