Greenhouse Dreams

In January, the greenhouse sleeps while I dream 

of sturdy basil leaves, fragrant sage, and lemony thyme. 

Pie birds sing praise of kelly-green days just over the horizon of seasons. 

Baskets of pine cones vie for attention, offering their timely 

 gift of sticky, scented sap. They demand recognition as one of 

winter's finest features. 

My greenhouse gnome is the portrait of calm patience, 

both hands folded neatly away–no work today.

His scarlet glass hat sits straight and tight with no hint of yearning for spring. 

But many days find me leaning on potting benches, 

rearranging watering cans, and browsing seed packets–

dreaming my greenhouse dreams.

Hurry, Spring!

Uncommon

An odd thing happens to me, pretty frequently—

people mistake me for someone else.

I know it's probably happening when I get that first "double-take" glance. 

 But when a perfect stranger sends a probing gaze directly into my face

and takes hesitant steps in my direction,

it's for sure—another false reunion is about to go down:

Excuse me, but did you deal cards in Vegas?

Have you ever lived in Tennessee?

Aunt Kay ... is that you?

And my favorite: 

Were you a judge, because you look exactly like the one who sent me to jail. 

I'd love to answer, "Well, yes!" just to see what would happen.

Instead, I've always tried to ease the flustered embarrassment that results from my no—

"Don't worry, it happens all the time. I'm common looking." 

It happened again at a recent writer's conference, 

but this time, the words stuck in my throat.

 We truly are unique in the Father's eyes—

created, loved, and valued.

I may be one among many that look crazily similar, 

but He knows my name.

* Photos of my Black-Eyed Susans, which really do seem 

to look exactly the same.

Basking in Sunshine

These hosta emerge as purple nubs in early spring.  

I noticed them studding the wet ground weeks ago.

Then while I wasn't watching ... all this!

It's one of my favorite plants because of the leaf texture. 

Deep veins with a seersucker surface make it unique. 

Seersucker—WHAT? I know. Is that a weird word or what? 

SIDE NOTES:
* I keep all (most) of my plastic plant tags as a sort of catalog of perennials I've purchased over the years. There are  definite patterns: blue and purple flowering plants, sturdy beats frufru, and hydrangeas must be had! Tip: If you buy from a garden superstore and your plant dies, you can usually return it if you have the tag. Just dump the dead plant in an old store container, stick that plastic tag back in the dirt, and slug it off to the store for a replacement.
* Cowbirds invaded my feeders this year. I usually grind my teeth about spring starlings, but this year—COWBIRDS are the birdseed gluttons. But I did spot a pair of rose-breasted grosbeaks at the feeder two days in a row! I tried to talk the lovely couple into staying longer, but they said my feeder attracted too much riff-raff. Dang cowbirds!
* Speaking of riff-raffy gluttons ... I'm listening to a library audiobook called Made to Crave. After six months of intensive study at The Lord's Table, it's making a lot of sense. God is revealing new parts of my heart and helping me see just how grateful I can be for His finished work on that cross!I highly recommend both books.
* Back to spring gardening: I usually swoop through garden centers at this time of year, on the hunt for new plants or crazy bargains. But yesterday my mom and I took a Mother's Day jaunt and wandered through a local greenhouse, savoring the color combinations and vast array of plant varieties. It was fun to recall what aunts or uncles favored which old-fashioned annuals: Great-Grandpa loved zinnias, Uncle Mike loved cockscomb ... remember when your cousin pushed you into the cactus bed at the conservatory? 
Yes. Yes, I do.  During our greenhouse stroll, I had a couple close calls—I almost fell (keeled over backward) into a huge display of geraniums as I admired the colors and lost my footing. And I found out just how far it is to the half-person bathroom in the check-out area—VERY far, especially if you're trying not to laugh or drag one leg behind you. 
* I'll only be forty-nine for four more months. Oh, man. I'm twenty-five on the inside! Which reminds me of Wanda. Have you heard her poem? Here it is.  

Ladder to Nowhere

As I drive along, I notice unusual things in yards. 

The men in my life do not appreciate this—they say I'm swerving, but of course, I'm not. 

If you happen to be gawking along with me, you know there's lots to see.

For example, not far from here, an entire (plastic) holy family huddles on the front porch of a small white cottage. I'm sure someone intended to put them back in the shed until next year, but they just haven't gotten around to it. 

In another yard, there's a life-size bear figure, standing tall and menacing. The owners may think it's hidden behind that pampas grass, but people with excellent observation skills will notice these things. They also have a fake white pony, frozen mid-trot, not far from the bear—is there a story in the mind of the yard decorator?

Perhaps my favorite oddity is in the yard of a pink Cape Cod home, set high on a hill. A yeti statue strides through the side yard, perhaps on its way to the next meeting of the RUFO Society. 

And what about this ladder? 

It's propped against a tree with no apparent purpose at all.

I may have an overactive imagination, as some say, but doesn't this spark your

sense of wonder? A room full of first graders would be bursting with ideas about 

the mystery of this ladder to nowhere.

*******

Here's mine—a Story Snapshot called (what else?) 

"The Ladder to Nowhere"

     Benji walked around the ladder to better see it from all sides. His fingers, sticky with the evidence of three s'mores, brushed rounded wooden edges and skimmed embedded, crusty nails. It was almost too dark to really inspect the mysterious ladder now that the sun was going down. He thought about calling J.D., but then everyone would follow, and he might get in trouble for wandering too far from camp. "Don't leave the circle of firelight," the scout leaders kept repeating. But they were only moms anyway, not real scoutmasters like he used to have in Indiana. 

     Bracing his hands on the side rails, he put his weight the bottom rung with one sneaker. Was it strong enough to hold his weight? He climbed six more rungs without taking a breath—still safe! From this perch, Benji peered up, up, up through the gloom, but the tree's neighbors huddled too close, blocking any final fingers of sunlight. If he was going to get to the top, he'd have to be fast ...

Just a Little Pun

I know. 

I'd like to apologize ...

... but I can't pass on sharing a good pun.

Whoever crafted these homemade Halloween decorations got a huge laugh out of me. 

It might have been the best part of the over-priced pumpkin patch.

Wearable Worth

Me in my favorite blue granny dress posing in front of the climbing roses.

I was about five years old, and might be a little hard to see ... but I'm glowing. 
dress proud

I couldn't find a definition - maybe it's a Kentucky phrase? 

But I'll bet I you know what I'm talking about. 

That particular feeling when you slip that special garment over your head. 

When you look in the mirror and know for sure - you're awesome!

I saw my own boys do the same - not with dresses, of course.

But they each had a piece of clothing which they prized over every other.

 A favorite shirt that was softer than any other,  

a hat, cocked just so, which gave an extra shot of cool,

and the jump-higher, run-faster shorts that saved the day.

How easily we are satisfied with outward garments when
 the worth we have in God's eyes is infinitely greater!

His view of our value is long lasting - 
wearable in every hour,

no matter what we have on our bodies.

Proof verses here.
Post them, tuck them, savor them.
Carry them, whisper them, shout them.

Wear your true worth wherever you go!

* Many thanks to my My Wonderful Aunt for sending these photos via email.
Thank God for the history-keeping aunts among us!

Triple Kiss Optional

We were Methodist when I was a little girl.

I have to confess that I'm drawn to stained glass, pews and hymnbooks.

There's something in me that perks up at lit candles, swaying robes and liturgy.

The Apostle's Creed, for example, seems like a balm to my soul, and I remember

as a kid really listening, head cocked and eyes squinting,  

and later fervently reciting with the adults 

the list of exactly what we were all willing to go the mat over. 

The camaraderie found in group recitation is very powerfully applied 

within the context of the teachings of the Church, I believe.

In any case, I miss those things.

Especially on 'high church' days like Easter.

(a single tuft of sunlit grass)

Now I'm wishing I had taught my family to use the Easter morning greeting:

"Christ is Risen!" 

and the response

"Truly, He is Risen!"

The triple kiss not required, but enjoyable.

So I'll send it out to you, and I'll include a messy triple kiss 

both before AND after the greeting:

***

Christ is Risen!

***

more Apostle's Creed
here,
here,
and here.
Just one more here.
And Oh My Word - this!

Cats

I have a love - hate relationship with CATS.

Doesn't everyone?

When I was a little girl, a favorite activity on a trip to the family farm involved barn kittens. Climbing around in the loft of the calf barn to find their clever hiding spot, managing to catch one and hold on long enough to tame it. Oh So Sweet Babies! - after they had finished hissing and spitting, and had become 'tame', of course. Warm and groggy after being lavished with hours childish love, they were content to lay flat out in the crook of an arm. I always arrived back at the house in time for dinner with my eyes red and itchy, and every scratch a welt.

 So allergic but completely happy! 

My childhood best friend had cats at her house. I did not love them. They were elusive phantom-ish cats - never allowing themselves to be caught and loved but leaving enough dander around to cause my itching eyes to swell shut. It was pretty embarrassing to be the only girl at the pajama party with weeping eye blisters. 

What? You didn't know that eyes can blister? 

 It's not pretty,  folks.

As a teenager, my family kept outside cats. I did love them and defended them from my brothers  who collaborated with my boyfriend to discover if cats really walk backward when their ears are taped down. By then I'd learned to have (a little) better self-discipline and found that I could manage my allergy and still snuggle my cat if I washed my hands immediately afterward and changed my clothes. 

It was worth it, Whiskers!

One of my dearest friends in high school (and to this day) had cats. We called her pets the Demon Cats, and they earned the title. They attacked at dinner, after our vulnerable legs had been tucked under a tablecloth.  When you least expected it, after you thought you might be safe, maybe as you raised a forkful of Aunt Shirley's luscious chicken dumplings to your mouth, a tiny furry rocket would race from a hiding place and launch to your leg, all claws extended, hang on for a frantic ride and deliver a final spiteful bite before racing away.  Aluminum dining table chairs were flipped over backward and we would lay gasping and bleeding like carp on a dock.  My friend declared that her cats were only 'that way' around us. 

I think they were  just un-tamed barn cats. 

(photos of my cousin's cats just before Christmas this year) 

Spam and Me

It's funny how I've enjoyed the blog's spam folder lately. Or maybe it's just ODD. Yes, that's probably it.

But you know what? There's always something waiting for me in the spam folder, and I really like that.  

This is what happens when you turn off the word verification. 

At first I was annoyed by all that spam. 

But like most annoying things, it can be funny --- if you choose to see it that way. 

And now Spam and me, we're just like that. 

At least MOST of the time. But we'll come back to that.

Here's a Spam sample for you:

- Hi there, just wanted to mention, I enjoyed this blog post. It was funny. Keep on posting! 

Check out my blog :: ottawa airport shuttle service 

This one was fun - it actually sounds like someone may have read the post. 

Until that subtle plug for shuttle service gives it away.

- jordan 8 retro sale I unquestionably like your website, I can a you man as a remainder a friend jordan retro 13 ? Looking saucy to your befall my website thumbjordan 6 retro sale 

I like the 'looking saucy' part of that one, but for the most part, and this is just the way of Spam  - it makes no sense at all. It's endearing don't you think? And somehow very...European.

- Keep this going please, great job! Also see my webpage: rainbow titanium ring 

Who knows when you might want a titanium ring, after all? 

The next four years might demand one, after all. Great idea, Spam!

But this one threw me for a loop:

- ceгtainly likе youг website hoωeѵег you have tο tеst the ѕpеlling on quite а few of уour poѕts. Α numbеr of them aгe rife with spеlling problems anԁ I in finding it very botheгsome tο inform thе realіtу on thе otheг hand Ι ωill surely come baсk agaіn. Feel free to surf my website

Criticizing my spelling???

Spam! That really hurt!

It's still hurting!

Even if it might be true...

Dream (almost) Come True

If you've read for a while, or if you know me well, you know that I've 

always wanted to hand feed chickadees. 

Look here and here for some history.

I have no idea where this nature geek-ish desire came from - I just go with it. 

aaaannnnndddd...

It finally happened!

Sort Of

This is a perfect example of :

Things Don't Turn Out The Way You Think They Will

I thought my experience would be like this amazing video.

But that's not how it went. 

You see this poor, confused bird got stuck in our greenhouse.

After beating himself senseless against the glass, 

My Husband scooped up the exhausted and stunned bird and brought him to me.

I love how he tries to help me accomplish my life-goals!

I ran for some seed, hoping he would eat from my hand, but he never even noticed it. 

He's squinting at me in this photo, trying to figure out what sort of tree I might be

while I try to convince him with baby talk that I'm actually his new BFF.

He flew away after he heard a buddy from a nearby tree chirp, 

"Hey, Stupid! You're in a human hand! 

You're in a HAND!"

Speaking BAT

Late summer nights are edged with a bit of magic, don't you agree?

All you gardening folks with datura (witches' weeds) just opening when the sun goes down - 

I've been watching your now-mature bushes do their thing as I'm driving by in the evenings.

And my moonflowers are finally strutting their stuff out on my front teepee.

Their huge round blooms seem to almost glow in the dark! They send their thick fragrance wafting around in the mysterious darkness of the front yard - it's romantic, all right!

When I'm up in the night, if there's any moon at all, I pull the drapes all the way open on the french doors in our bedroom, climb back in bed and wait to see if I can spy any nighttime critters en route to rob my greenhouse. 

And one night this summer, as evening came into our yard, I discovered ---

 I SPEAK BAT

I was talking to the dog who was romping through the zebra grass, not really talking to the bats. My Youngest would be quick to remind that it was the waving that started it all, and that's true. 

They just work so hard, flying floppily over our small acre, gobbling up pesky bugs!

 So I greeted the first little brown bat of the evening with a friendly wave, and we imagined that it seemed like he had seen us. As if the bat had dipped its wings, so to speak, in return greeting.

Hey, we're out in the country - the only possible witness is the spinster neighbor, and I'm pretty sure she's seen me do much crazier things than wave to bats.

It became plain that I speak bat  as I was calling to the dog in my special dog voice. 

You can probably imagine what that sounds like. 

The bat I had been waving to earlier swooped dramatically toward our perch on an old stump. We ducked, clutched each other's arms and ... tried it again. 

This time the bat swooped low enough to clear us from the stump, and it was proof positive ---

I DO SPEAK BAT.

Cottage Garden Party.

Get a Whiff

This morning while deadheading the marigolds, 

I remembered that I used to do this. 

Now, this is the first year that I've grown marigolds of my own. Over 20 years gardening and I've never chosen to grow marigolds for myself. But this year --- well, they were a bargain and I needed some filler in my flower tubs. Pulling off those heads wasn't really when it happened. It was the smell when I opened the seed casing to check for mature seeds. That

citrus sour tang (Do you know it? Go sniff an old marigold bloom, quick!) 

was so strong! It made me recall that I'd done this very thing before as a child. 

Now how weird is that?

Every rare now and then, I experience a flood of memories about my paternal

 grandparents' home after stumbling across a certain house smell. 
(Do you know what I mean by house smell?) 

I might come across that unique aroma in an antique store or maybe at a home where dinner's just been cleared away. All of a sudden, ballooning open in my mind's eye - Grandma's house!  I'm able to recall little details which had slipped from memory, or so I thought. The snack drawer kept just for us kids, a tiny bathroom off the kitchen with lights that flicker on soooo slowly, basement stairs leading to damp darkness, ash trays with bean-bag bottoms, and the  shake-your-fat-off  belted 'exercise' machine. 

Rainstorms and dreamsicles, baby necks and diaper wipes, face powder and fresh linen, new lumber and dogfood, wooden closets and cedar chests, little boy sweat and baking cookies, crayons and new blacktop, cafeterias and gymnasiums, manure and silage - these are bits of my memory, with a story attached to every one. 

What things trigger your memories? 

Facial Issues

OK - I admit that I make faces. I think in recent  years, I've gained some control over my Grocery Shopping Faces.  

Still, I slip sometimes. Recently about the price of a dozen eggs at Easter. 

(scornful lip curling, 'pfpfpft', backward jerk of the head) 

There was that amazing find on lunchmeat at Meijer - really nice sliced roast 

beef for $1.99 a pound. 

(Open mouthed smile, all teeth showing, slight leaping skip - yes, I was embarrassed about that one, too.) 

ANYway, I'm getting better at controlling my outward expressions. 

or believed I was until this post began

***

However, I'm learning that I have other problems to conquer. 

I just discovered that I have an Ironing Frown. 

(jaw slightly to one side, biting lower lip, one eye twitching) 

This might have something to do with a BoyMan trying to explain to me -

(as if frightened at the woeful inadequacy my 21st century knowledge about shirts)

"that's the style of the shirt"

Lovely Girl Date - you're welcome - the shirt got ironed.

(HUGE eye roll, shaking head, lips pursed to one side)

this is getting worse and worse

***

This admission comes hot on the heels of realizing just yesterday morning that there also seems to be a Weeding Squint.

(eye squint, mouth hanging open - my goodness, poor practices for gardening, right?) 

Much of the time, that's due to expecting something with scales to pop out from the winter piles of dead leaves. I think this makes a squinty grimace somewhat justified. I mean just think of what could flop out from under the lavender bush. 

(stretched out and flat bottom lip, only lower teeth showing, eye roll heavenward)

***

I've been pointing out for years that My Wonderful Man has a 
Pumping Gas Scowl.

(head slightly bowed, eyes partially closed as in pain, substantial brows drawn to a uni-brow-ish touch)

Of course, it's deeper now that gas is $4 a gallon - hard not to scowl about that. But he does deny it.  Here in the latter half of our 40's, I think we need to face the truth about our facial issues. 

And I am his Helper Wife. 

(hard wink with grin and one thumb up)

it is hopeless

Plastic and Eyebrows

I found Swa-nie in a STORE CLOSING clearance sale.

Husband had left me on my own to wander the gardening area. I was searching for something in which to make a new home for the hens-and-chicks that had overflown their old, scaling clay pot.

I met him in the paint aisle with her under my arm.

"She's one of us!"

But he scoffed aloud, throwing out insulting words like CHEAP and FLIMSY and PLASTIC.

When we got home, he tried to rally the Man Troops against Swa-nie and me, calling for a vote. Only one, I think, of the boys entered into the game, also voting against. I think he said something about

porch decorations for the geriatric.

I declared them to be Plastic Prejudiced and took our new girl outside.

I'm not exactly sure why Swa-nie made it into the cart, or why she appealed to me. I've also been guilty of always snubbing cheap, flimsy, plastic garden accessories.

But, true confession --- it has alot to do with wooden swans, which I've always admired (coveted).

And eyebrows.

Is it just me, or are our eyebrows wearing away as we get older?

And don't try to pretend it's not true - I've been fretting over mine, just a bit (!), while looking at my other more mature friends, only to discover that I'm not the only one with fading eyebrows!

Is it the result of constant furrowing?

Too much quizzical lifting?

Anxiety induced over-rubbing?

Or just another component of unexplainable middle-aged breakdown?

Whatever the cause, in the spirit of camaraderie, Swa-nie is one of us

- those with the eyebrows fading fast.