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No Ordinary Day

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Today wasn’t the perfect day to begin with. I’d planned a day off to spend time with the kids on their first day of Spring Break.  Instead, most of my morning was spent working, and filing and paying taxes.  The morning was gone in a heartbeat, but, even though I had squandered this day of freedom on busy work, something made it feel like the perfect day.

I’d finished a couple loads of laundry.  Dishes were done.  The sky was crystal blue, the kids were still excited about yesterday’s news that we were headed to Fenway to see Paul McCartney in July, and six-year-old Thing2 and I were heading out to the garden as soon as I checked my email for any fires from work.  And then the day caved in.

I sat down at my desk and checked my email.  I finished repairing a database for a customer, flipping back and forth between work and webpages while I waited for things to upload.  Nothing much was happening.  The gun background check legislation was front page along with fluff pieces on Tax Day.  I wrapped up my email quickly, hoping to go spend some quality time in the garden with Thing2.  It was only as I was shutting things down that I noticed the big yellow headline on the front page of Yahoo!

By now everyone’s learned of the bombings at the Boston Marathon.  Part of me wishes I had ignored the word Boston in that yellow strip and preserved what little was still perfect about this imperfect day.  Boston was our town once upon a time.  It’s where the Big Guy and I lived when we were first married.  It’s where we explored art and culture and each other.  It’s where we got addicted to Sunday brunch at the Freedom Trail Diner (since replaced by a shi-shi bistro).  It’s where, thanks to the Big Guy and the adventures our town offered just outside the tiny backyard of our basement apartment in the North End I learned to believe in people again as I left behind a life that had long been lived in fear since an armed robbery in another place and another life.

Now, as the sun goes down, Boston is under a shadow of fear.  The Big Guy takes things in stride, but I can tell he’s numb, as am I.  We haven’t mentioned this at all to six-year-old Thing2 (We’re still going to Fenway in July, and I don’t want his joy tainted by the fear of things that we can’t control).  Twelve-year-old Thing1 is much more aware, however, and I can see the news has him upset.  Like most of New England and much of America, I’ve been glued to the internet since learning about the lives ended and torn apart on what is normally a day for a city to celebrate itself.

Ironically, the internet has, for once, been a small antidote to some of my numbness.  Fred Rogers once advised parents to tell children in times like these to look for the helpers.  Today it’s been easy to see those helpers in their Boston Police Department uniforms and fluorescent jackets and vests, running toward trouble when they should be running away.  But I’ve also seen plain, ordinary people stopping to help complete strangers in all kinds of need.  I’ve seen a shirtless runners who must be exhausted after a 26.2 mile run stopping to help a man down on his back.  I’ve seen an ordinary man shielding an injured woman with his body and trying to resuscitate her.  I’ve seen pictures of everyday people cradling other everyday people, even though they must be terrified.

Boston may go to sleep tonight under a cloud of fear, but I don’t think it’s going to live under it for long.  One thing that city taught me was that nothing is completely safe, and, while you have to be vigilant, you still have to live your life.  Chaos tried to upend the city the day today, and I’m sure fear and anger will be part of what propels the search for the deluded person or persons who thought killing and maiming innocent people was an effective way to influence a country or a city.  But the fact is that it was humanity and courage that prevailed today.  We have the pictures.  And those pictures tell me that this town that holds so many memories and lessons for me and the Big Guy will not surrender its soul or character to fear.

from our roof

Fab, Four and Going to Fenway

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Abbyroad

We don’t take many vacations anymore.  Most of our holiday time is spent at relatives’ homes, so when we find time and opportunity for a trip that involves seeing something new, it’s an event.  So it was Serendipity Sunday this afternoon when the Big Guy stumbled on the ultimate humdinger (or hum-hummer in this case) of a family summer vacation.

I can’t remember a day when at least a bar of a Beatles tune hasn’t sprung from the Big Guy’s lips or emanated from his Martin guitar.  An excellent musician, the Big Guy has most of the Beatles songbook programmed into his fingers, and our kids have grown up listening to their Dad serenade them at all times of the day with Blackbird or Ticket to Ride.  It’s no accident, obviously, that twelve-year-old Thing1 and six-year-old Thing2 are avid fans, and, aware of the possible alternative musical fixations, neither the Big Guy nor I have discouraged their affection for a band that disbanded over 40 years ago.

Living in Vermont, the only other entity that could claim that kind of loyalty from our boys is the Boston Red Sox.  There are a few Yankee fans around here, but having parents who met, married and lived in Boston, Thing1 and Thing2 were Red Sox fans before they knew what baseball was.  The irony of their afflictions (being a Red Sox fan is an affliction, condemning one to a lifetime of heartbreak) is that, until two years ago, neither of them had been to Fenway.  Ticket prices are not what they were when the Big Guy and I were living six blocks from the Green Monster, so even Thing1 has only seen it as part of a school tour.

Enter Sunday afternoon.  The Big Guy was sitting on the couch, quietly browsing the web for car parts for an ongoing project when a soft ‘Huh’ escaped his lips.  I waited a few minutes before asking ‘What?’

“The Stones are coming to Boston this summer,” he said.

“Really?” I was cautious.  We’d seen the Rolling Stones years ago at the Boston Garden, and we both want to see them again before they throw in the towel.  The kids love the Stones too, so I asked, “How much are the tickets?”  I held my breath.  They hadn’t been cheap 15 years earlier.  The Big Guy scanned through the ticketing site.

“They’re not on sale yet,” he said.

“I heard cheap seats were selling for $600 someplace in Cali-” I started, but the Big Guy cut me off.

“And Paul McCartney’s playing at Fenway!” He exclaimed.  “And the tickets are cheaper.”

It wasn’t much of a toss-up.  In the end, we quickly decided our Fabulous Four would have its first Fenway experience with one of the original Fab Four.  It’ll be old and it’ll be something completely different.

High Crimes and Restaurant Demeanors

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Bobschaos

Easter Sunday we blamed it on the candy.

We knew that, contrary to what medical experts claim, only the special sugar found in jelly beans and chocolate bunnies could have turned our normally restaurant-ready kids into the pair of unrecognizable frolicking fiends sitting next to the Big Guy and me. Twelve-year-old Thing1, normally my gentle giant, should have known better, for example, than to instigate a game of table hockey with wadded up straw wrappers for pucks and burgeoning glasses of OJ for goals. Six-year-old Thing2 definitely knew better than to lap his milk like a dog. But chalking the antics up to the candy, the Big Guy and I doled out the discipline and, once back at home, buried the incident in our subconsciouses with the rest of the childrearing-related traumas we’ve accumulated over the past twelve and a half years.

But the medical experts turned out to be right about the sugar. Another saturday and another breakfast at Bob’s (our favorite) rolled around, and we were joined once again by our children instead of the two imps who had overtaken Easter Sunday Brunch. Things seemed back to normal, so we decided to tempt fate again on Sunday. Sadly, fate took the bait.

Unlike the previous Sunday, Thing1 and Thing2 hadn’t been freebasing candy since dawn, but, for some reason, they could barely contain their giggles as we walked in the door, and we knew we might be in trouble. I haven’t had to carry one of my kids out of a restaurant or store in years, but, even though my instinct suggested we should do that right now, we thought a quick ‘ENUFF!’ would put the kibosh on any drink-spilling festivities. I should have listened to my instinct.

By the time the drinks came, they had lost every privilege we could think of. They had been sentenced to firewood stacking by the time the order was put in. The food came just as I was wondering if the Big Guy was still capable of carrying Thing1 (who’s taller than I am) back to the car. The imps fell quiet as they feasted, but not even the long list of chores they had racked up could keep the silliness from jumpstarting again as soon as they got back in the car.

I’ve come to expect a day of defiance from one or both kids here and there. Two almost consecutive episodes of abysmal restaurant demeanors, however, were beginning to shake my confidence that, after twelve and a half years of long nights and time outs and minding their manners, I had any idea of what I was doing.

As we drove home, we tried to determine the cause of the craziness and, more importantly, the corrective. By the time the Big Guy had reached the top of the driveway, we had decided that wood stacking would be followed by a full-scale room cleaning would be their penance. Despite the threat of more dire consequences – an evening of Jane Austen movies – if the jobs were not completed in short order, however, the giggles from the back seat and then the hazard zone at the near end of the hallway continued.

In the end they got their chores done (there’s nothing like the threat of hours of costume dramas and star-crossed romances to wrest order from two chaotic boys). As I listened to them giggle and clean, however, I heard two brothers who, in spite of their ability to argue over the color of the sky on a clear day, can ultimately pull together when the chips are down.

When the Big Guy and I finally peered into the bunk room, my confidence was on firmer ground. The floor was clear, the beds were made, the point had been made and we were clearly getting the hang of this parenting thing. To the back of my mind, like so much dirty laundry to be hidden until next years’ spring cleaning, I shoved the admission that this round had almost been a draw and not a victory.

But it was a victory, and I’ll add it to the little collection of trophies we’re accumulating as we shepherd our boys through their childhoods. They’re the reminders that we do have some successes – even a few important ones. The reality, though, is that I’m not sure we’ll ever completely master this game. If we do, my guess is that it we’ll hit our stride about two days after Thing2 moves out of the house.

A Rare Sighting

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Blog 4 12 2013

The older – and supposedly more mature – they get, the more opportunities Thing1 and Thing2 seem to find to argue.  They argue over who’s crossed the line in the middle of the back seat.  They argue over who’s spent more time on their computer.  If someone asked them what color of the sky on a sunny day, they would argue over that.   I’m not throwing stones here – my sister and I argued full-time right up until we moved out of our parents’ house so that they could only experience sibling un-rivalry from afar, but the crazy thing is, for Thing1 and Thing2, it wasn’t always that way..

Thing1 spend most of his fourth and fifth years begging us for a little brother, and we spent most of those years trying to at least meet him halfway (he happily ignored our warning that he could end up with a sister).  When Thing2 entered the picture, he was almost happier than we were.  Thing1didn’t just want to hold his baby brother, he wanted to read to him.  He was there to make sure Mom didn’t pick out a lame first Halloween costume, and the protectiveness didn’t stop when Thing2 got older.   From giving his little brother courage on Trick-or-Treat night to helping out with Thing2’s T-Ball team.  Nowadays, however, there are more than a few nights when we have to remind Thing1 and Thing2 that they actually love each other.  There’s even a few nights when we have to remind ourselves of it.

Thing2 has been having a tough time at school recently.  Most nights the dinner conversation turns to talk of a child who has been needling him for sometime and whose antic seem to affect Thing2 much more against the backdrop of the death of his teacher earlier this year and a subsequently more chaotic classroom.  Last night our discussion about Thing2’s experience and resulting behavior came to a head at the dinner table.

Thing1 listened quietly as we tried to get his little brother to open up and reiterate our expectations and unconditional support.  Thing2 cried and talked and cried a little more.  Dinner ended and we retreated to the couch.  Thing1 got up to clear his plate and patted his brother on the back.

“I wish I could go to school with you tomorrow,” he said in a low voice.  Thing2 squirmed in his chair, turning to bestow a smile on his brother before wrapping his arms around his waist.  It was quiet at the table for a minute then, as our boys inadvertently reminded us how they really do feel about each other.

Thing1 was still balancing his plate as the hug quickly went from sincere and sweet to a test of Thing2’s squeezing ability, and the moment was over.  They’ll find something new to argue about this morning, and they’ll forget that moment.  But it did happen.

Half-full

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My favorite stories are the ones where people come to their reward after great struggle.  Tribulation becomes a path to growth or enlightenment, helping the hero or heroine see and not just achieve the love or live they covet with fresh eyes.  My life isn’t filled with tribulation, but it is filled.

From 7AM till bedtime, I am chauffeur, cook, tutor and maid (some days).  But for two precious hours every morning before the sun rises, I am awake and off-duty.  I write.  I draw.  I bask in quiet and calm that might not be quite as appreciated without a little chaos in the background.

Quite Contrary

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I adopted my philosophy of picking my battles carefully about the time my oldest son began toddling. I was working fulltime outside our 200 year-old farmhouse that needed constant maintenance, and I gave up the dream of being SuperMom pretty quickly. Somehow, however, it never struck me as ironic that I also began gardening in earnest about that time.

We had just moved to Vermont from Germany, and most of my gardening experience was limited to growing tomatoes in containers or whatever would grow in the shady ‘yard’ that was the sole selling feature in our first basement apartment. But when we got to Vermont, the little gardening itch I’d scratched with a few potted flowers turned into a full-blown rash and, noticing that most people in our new town had gardens to mitigate grocery bills or give their families fresher food, I decided this was a battle I was going to fight – no matter how unrealistic.

The first year was actually pretty successful. I started with the Square Foot Gardening method whose claim to fame was that even someone like me who prefers pushing buttons to reading directions couldn’t screw it up. The think the garden books don’t tell you is how easily a little bit of success can inflate your head and your plans for the next year, and within 2 years I was tending a 40×40 garden. It’s battle I still can’t concede. Every spring I tell the Big Guy I’m going to trim it down, and every year dreams of a pantry stocked with dried soup makings result in more beds going in.

This spring began with the same resolution to confront my gardening addiction.

“I’m just going to plant perennial veggies in the big log,” I told the Big Guy. I made plans for a few smaller year-round salad beds, and that would be it. It took three days for that resolution to falter (although still a better track record than any of my dieting resolutions).

Six-year-old Thing2 is just discovering the church of baseball and is religious about getting the family outside for a nightly game of Catch in the Little League pre-season. In the early part of the season, Catch actually resembles a different game I call ‘Fetch’. Sunday night it was my turn to fetch, and as luck would have it, the ball had landed near the garden. I walked over, visions of the new, lower-maintenance plan in my head and noticed that the beds were all mostly ready for seeds and seedlings.

“You know,” I said, wondering who had turned in the garden so efficiently last fall (I didn’t remember doing it) and ignoring the fear that crossed the Big Guy’s face as it does whenever he senses I have a new idea, “I think I may just rotate my plan from last year.” I tossed the ball to our older son and turned to get a better look at the beds.

“What?!?” I heard the Big Guy yell the question. I looked at him and realized the loud query was the result of a plan unheard and not rejected. I repeated my idea, expecting the baritone voice of reason to set me straight. But just as it it’s a woman’s perogative to change her mind, it’s a man’s to surprise her every once in a while. “That’s a great idea,” he said, “why not plant more?

And Sometimes It’s Just a Tutu

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Most of the little bit of picking up that gets done around here gets done by yours truly.  I’m well past the ‘It’s not my job’ mentality, but every once in a while I like to use the naturally  messy petrie dish we call home as, well, a petrie dish.  My contribution to behavioral science this week consisted of observing how long a discarded sock would remain on the floor under a child’s chair before somebody – not me – was motivated to move it to the hamper.  By Saturday morning the sock under the chair was in danger of evolving into a life form, so, before we headed out to breakfast at our favorite diner, I notified the troops that we would be cleaning when we got home.  Little did I know that out of drudgery could come enlightenment.

There’s nothing like the threat of impending chores to bring out the best restaurant manners in our boys, but not even the carefully folder napkins in their laps or a moratorium on Sound Effects Theatre on the way home from breakfast were going to save them yesterday.  Before they settled onto the couch, the Big Guy and I issued marching orders.  Ignoring their declarations of exhaustion, we dispatched twelve-year-old Goliath to walk the dog and assigned six-year-old Thing2 the task of removing toys from the living room.  Our stipulation that they could not be relocated to his bunk (on it or under it) produced a rebellious frown, but he said nothing and set about his task.

The Big Guy began cleaning up green plastic Easter grass, as I tackled the kitchen.  I was loading the last plate into the dishwasher when I realized it had become very quiet.  I looked around for the boys and noted that Goliath(Thing1) had filled the wood bin and was dutifully putting away videos.  All traces of resentment had disappeared as he finished and asked, “What next?”

As I gave him another task, however, I wondered what had happened to Thing2.  Toys had disappeared from the coffee table in the living room.  Boots were no longer strewn across the floor.  But my ordinarily animated six-year-old was strangely silent.  I checked his room, but it was still an empty mess.  I searched the other end of the house until a grinning Big Guy came to get me.

“You have to see this,” he whispered.  I followed him to the kitchen, camera in hand, thinking the cats were doing something funny.  The Big Guy led me around the kitchen island to peer into our pantry where Thing2 stood on a step-stool scrubbing the counter top in a yellow tutu.

“Wow,” I exclaimed as I snapped a quick photo, “you are doing an fantastic job.”  The cleaning butterfly in our pantry looked up at both of us, a smile painted on his face.

“I cleaned the whole thing,” he said.  “And next I’m going to do the counter out there and on the other side of the room and…” and he hopped off the step-stool and flitted to his next task.

Thing2 has many alter egos.  Most of the time he’s some form of wig-wearing superhero I like to call SuperDude.  He’ll stuff his sleeves with muscles and fairy wings before leaping over a couch with a single bound as he goes forth on his mission to eliminate boredom and from our lives.  Today, however, there was just the outfit he’d worn to impress a waitress at the local diner and the yellow tutu.

Later, I wondered what had prompted such a toned-down costume and asked him who was cleaning the pantry yesterday.

“That was me mommy,” he answered.

“That wasn’t a superhero?” I asked.

“No,” he answered.

“So how did you settle on the tutu for a cleaning outfit?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me as I tried to divine my six-year-old’s fertile imagination.

“I was putting away the toys in my clothes drawer and couldn’t fit everything in,” he said.  “And I saw the tutu at the back and knew it didn’t belong there so I got it out and decided to wear it so it didn’t have to go on the floor.”

Assured by my stunned silence that his logic was sound, Thing2 turned his attention back to the TV, happily leaving me to hover between the wistful acknowledgment that he might be out-growing his alter egos and the recognition that we’ve just begun to discover our youngest son.

 

I’m Not Tired

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It’s after nine and too late to start another movie. Six-year-old Thing2’s dance has devolved from frenzied leaping and spinning into climbing onto and sliding off of the couch, but he is not tired. The Big Guy puts in the Sound of Music, fast-forwarding to the end of the intermission.

The music swells, and Thing2 twirls on the floor before climbing up to snuggle between me and his older brother who has sandwiched himself next to the Big Guy on a sofa meant to hold three thinner adults. There’s another slide-and-climb maneuver before Maria is told to go climb her mountains, but by the time she returns to the von Trapp embrace, Thing2 has settled into mine, his eyes closing for a minute.

“I’m not tired,” he breathlessly exclaims through what I could have sworn was a snore as he shakes himself alert. He explains he meant to laugh and then sneezed. There’s another slide-and-climb. Baroness von Schrader is dumping the captain about the same time Thing2 begins examining my hand that’s holding his smaller one. Then with a burst of energy, he rolls from sofa to momma, clinging to me like a baby chimp. “I’m not tired,” he mumbles as he closes his eyes and, looking more two than six, finally surrenders.

Maria is singing in the background about nothing coming from nothing, and, as I savor this moment that is becoming all-to-rare and wonder what the heck I ever did in my own wicked past to have earned it in the first place, I am anything but tired.

Friday Good

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“Be Afraid” read the headline on Good Friday afternoon, and I obeyed.  Without reading any further, I let the super-sized red letters on the headline burn themselves in to my soul.  I gave into anxiety, and I knew I had no one else to blame.  I was the one who had clicked on the link when I should have been working.  

And, once I clicked, I couldn’t tear myself away.  The bees were dying.  We’re at the brink of World War III with a tiny country on the other side of the globe, and there was plenty of pestilence to go around.  Thankfully, work inundated me with enough work again to prevent any festering of my worries, and by the time I had time to click on news again, it was time to feed the family.

Cooking for dinner seemed about as pleasant way to cap off a nine hour day as a root canal, so I decided to ring up East Arlington Takeout.  Birthed just this winter, this little restaurant stepped in to fill a void created when one of our old favorites closed down due to recession and retirement.  I dialed and a decidedly young voice answered.  I knew it had to be a daughter of one of the owners.  Despite her youth, she calmly and professionally took my order, asking the appropriate questions and let me know it would be ready in twenty minutes.

My anxiety was gone as I headed out.  I was still tense from work and lost in plans for the weakend, thought, and  I took my worries to the EAT.  I wouldn’t bring them home.  

Located in what used to be a convenience store, the takeout place consists of two halves.  One half is the kitchen and prep area.  The other half is a waiting area for customers and kids.  Near the window and door of that half sit a counter and register, but behind shelves laden with pizza boxes are a few couches and a TV where the owners’ children hangout and do homework. 

It’s not a sit-down restaurant, but it has already become a popular local hangout.  We’ve made it our go-to place on Friday nights, and I’ve started looking forward to it for more than the food.  Everytime I walk in – even on weeknights – it’s hopping. Last Friday night friends I know from both boys’ schools.  I saw people I met while working weddings once upon a time.  I saw their kids pitching in and hanging out.  I saw their kids’ friends pop in to watch TV.  And I saw a small business,at the ripe old age of three months, becoming an institution.

I think I really felt a little magic  as I got back into my car and watched the tableau through the windows framed by the dark blues of late winter dusk.  I love seeing a small business defy the odds and experts.   When you see one taking off in its first three months and building a devout following, it’s inspiring.  It’s even more inspiring when you know it’s the culmination of the dreams of moms and pops you know – not just some faceless corporation.

I pulled out of the lot feeling good about our purchase as I always do and not just because the food tastes good and got me out of cooking.  As I drove home, I though about missiles pointed at us, about cyberattacks, about dying bees, and all the other things in the world I can’t control (maybe we’ll help in the bee area this summer).  But, as the smell of a custom made italian sub permeates my car, it soothed me, reminding me of the little things I do influence.  

Signs of Spring

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We’re still getting the nightly dusting of snow, but it melts quickly these days.  White predominates in our yard, but the crocuses have begun to emerge from the ground.  And even as the cold is slow to relinquish its hegemony, it can’t prevent the longer days and, the return of the roadside egg stand as our neighbors chickens begin to produce again.

 

Of Plans, Plants, and Cigars

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Blog Plants and Cigars

I have come to believe that in many marriages there is one partner who has their head in the clouds and another who helps keep both people anchored to the ground.  Anyone who knows me knows that my head is not in clouds; it’s often in another dimension.  No one knows this better than the Big Guy, so, last night, when I casually moved the new dark green shrub to the edge of the counter as I unloaded the grocery bags, he raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask what had prompted the purchase.

The plant was just the end of a journey I had started two days ago on the first sunny afternoon since the official start of spring.  For the first time since I’d claimed my Mom-Cave at the back of the house, I minded that my cozy winter cocoon lacks a view of the impending greening of our yard.  Our house is earth-sheltered, and, while all the bedrooms and family areas look towards the forest and fields that border our yard, the bathrooms and the study are tucked into the back part of the house, which is buried under three feet of dirt.

All of this made my first thought – how could I install a window – just a tad irrational.  When I returned this dimension at five A.M. the next morning, I considered other options as I wrote.  Taking over the one unoccupied bedroom/winter laundry room isn’t feasible for the longterm (the boys are getting old enough for their own rooms).  Then I though about moving to our well-lit, but unheated, attic.  My mind churned as I mentally figured out heating and decor for the space.  The Big Guy has plans for most of that space, however, so I nixed the idea.  Then came a stroke though, sadly, not of genius.  It was the stroke I envisioned the Big Guy experiencing when I finished pitching my next plan – remodeling the upstairs and the downstairs with a workshop, study and guest-area down and family bedrooms up.

The Big Guy popped his head in as he was heading out to work, bringing me back to the ground.  I posted my posts, got the kids to school and returned to the Mom-Cave for the next 8 hours of my Work-At-Home-Job.  My 3 minute dance sessions – my latest attempt to get more movement (not exercise, just movement) – reminded me there was another advantage to working in a room without windows.  Maybe I could find a way to make it feel less claustrophobic for the summer.

I googled windowless offices.  Google gave me white offices (straight from the pages of the Neat & Childless Magazine), walls with trompe l’oeil murals, mirrors built into reclaimed windows, and plants.  I remembered the houseplant cemetery we call a forest and took closer look at the mirrors, stumbling on to a gorgeous and, most important, affordable distressed window with a mirror behind it.  I saved the page just as the Big Guy got home with the boys.

“Look at this mirror,” I said, not mentioning my other decorating ideas. “Don’t you think it would brighten up the office?”

“I guess do,” replied my husband with practiced composure. I don’t have hard scientific data on this, but it’s my suspicion that nothing strikes fear into the heart of a married man like the words, “I have an idea”.  To I decided not to reveal my endgame (however much it had shrunk), and the conversation ended.

The next afternoon, I announced I needed to get some groceries after work and headed into town.  The mirror was still in mind, but as I guided my cart through the aisles, I wandered into the nursery area.  The aroma of dozens of Easter lilies and hyacinths assaulted me. I explored, remembering the plant idea and started hunting for something that looked like it would do well in extreme shade.  A few minutes later, I emerged from a corner with a nameless plant whose directions to keep it out of sun and not overwater reassured me it might not join its predecessors in the woods as compost.

When I had the last of the groceries put away, I picked up the plant to take it to its new home in the Mom-Cave.

“What do you think?” I asked. “I just thought the room could use a little green.”  The Big Guy just nodded and got to work on the latest incarnation of his famous pasta sauce.   After +16 years of being the anchor in our marriage, he knows that a cigar may just be a cigar, but a plant is never just a plant.

 

Tis the Season

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Winter2008Master 161

We’re well into the first full week of spring and snow still covers our yard.  It’s almost time to plant peas, and my garden is a slushy mess.  The fact that Vermont’s gardening season commenced at least a week or three behind the calendars in every gardening book (even one or two written by Vermonters) once caused me consternation.   By March, I’m ready to get out of the house and start digging.  

A decade of digging later, however, I’ve learned to relax about this thing I absolutely can’t control.  My springtime serenity stems from two sources.  The first comes from observing the long-term effects of that saturating late winter snow pac.  Soggy in spring but still moist enough to prevent the need for watering well into summer, I’ve come to trust that Mother Nature knows what she’s doing.  The other source of my calm comes from discovering a spring signal far more reliable (and delicious) than a date circled on my calendar. 

The sap buckets start appearing in late January.  The large maple syrup operations set long blue tap lines that run from tree to tree and then into huge covered containers, but there are still plenty of do-it-yourselfer’s and small operators who use the old-fashioned taps and buckets that are symbolic of the season.  

We made maple syrup a few years in a row.  Our buckets were recycled milk jugs.  We collected sap for days and made exactly one gallon (you need 32 gallons of sap to make one gallon of syrup) on our old wood stove.  Our old house was drafty enough that we didn’t mind turning our kitchen into a sauna for a few days, and it was the best maple syrup we ever tasted.  

We buy our syrup now, and, even though it’s available at even the smallest producers through most of the year, picking up a gallon or two at the end of March has become as much a ritual as taking Thing2 to see Santa at the town Christmas party or planting my peas in soggy spring soil.

The steam started pouring from the sugar houses in late winter.  Even now, the nighttime temperatures are still mostly in the freezing range even as the days get warmer, and the sap still flows.  Last weekend, the first weekend in spring, the sugar houses opened their doors to tasters and tours, but it was just a date on the calendar.  For me, it won’t be until the sap slows that spring will really begin.  It’s when the sap buckets along our road come down.

 It doesn’t make the spring season any less welcome, but it does make it a little bittersweet.