When I arrived in Maine to view the house I’d found while sifting through properties on the Internet, I already knew it came with a good sized yard. That was the most important piece of criteria outside of being able to walk to town. I wanted enough of a yard to plant a good sized vegetable garden. The idea of an enclosed garden with raised beds, and perhaps an arch with a gate to give it a bit of old fashioned charm appealed to me. Years of flipping through the pages of Fine Gardening, Sunset, and Martha Stewart’s Living made just as much an impact as living in a house for nearly 20 years which had little or no yard at all. Surely .41 acre would be enough, wouldn’t it?
Tag: Gardening
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Loving magazines & Martha Stewart
A few people around Bloggsville have been going through their magazines for a variety of reasons. No, don’t run and hide. It’s not another meme. But I’m always fascinated when people are on the same wavelength — especially if it isn’t meme driven.I’ve been thinking about magazines quite a bit because I’ve gotten to the point where as much as I now have the time to enjoy them (they used to be a decadent distraction in my life I’d indulge myself with) I don’t. Most of my subscriptions have been for cooking magazines, and because much of the content is available on the Internet now, I’m feeling guilty about the paper stuffed in my mailbox each month.
I’m also feeling a bit uncomfortable about the problem I have throwing magazines away. Of course, they’re recycled in the end, but that isn’t the problem. It’s having to go through each one more time to see if I need to: 1) save the whole edition; 2) tag specific sections; 3) tear out recipes to try; or 4) just get rid of it. And they just sit. Waiting for me. Waiting in baskets, on tables, on bathroom counters, and in stacks mixed with catalogues and mail.
For years when each school year ended and I actually had a week or two before special project work began (for school, not my leisure) I’d sit down with my magazines and have quite a bit of fun watching old movies and wallowing in the possibilities that each magazine contained. It was a cathartic process that helped me mentally conclude one year, and sort of erase my hard drive to prepare for the next.The process helped me plan projects that needed to be done around the house, too. It helped me think about things to organize, get togethers with family to celebrate birthdays, decorations to make for special seasons, and dreams to put on a list of things to do some day when there was more time, less work, more energy, and more money. Ahhh…dreams…
Many of the projects involved gardening because we had quite a large piece of property. There was never a dull moment deciding what type of garden to put where, which seeds to plant or what perennial to become emotionally attached to. Seriously. It’s easier to think of organizing a small piece of the planet instead of the pressing grind of aspects of life that seem beyond our control. The promise of food to cook, a garden to take care of, and a house to decorate and organize has always been my idea of heaven. Truly.
So it’s no wonder that I am someone who loves Martha. Yes, The Martha. My family lovingly refers to her as Moth-rah. I think the MoH came up with that one, but I’m not exactly sure. I know what you’re thinking, but yanno? I just don’t care. I don’t care that she was in jail. I don’t care that it’s been said she’s not a nice person. I just don’t care. And for those people who do? Get the hell over it. Because Martha helped me get through some very difficult years. She’s seen me through a new marriage, raise two boys into adulthood and a third into a teen, has inspired me to create two beautiful homes, and fill them with the aroma of something delicious to eat. She’s helped create many days with memories of working with my mom in our yard, planting, clipping, and admiring our hard work. Martha is the reason I was able to hang on to remnants of a life long desire to create anything and everything connected to what the MoH calls “fluffing my nest.” If Martha ran for president, I’d vote for her and I’m not kidding.It all started with her Weddings book, given to me by an old friend before the MoH and I were married… Or was it her Entertaining book?
I have nearly every Martha Stewart Living magazine published. Really. I don’t know how I missed out on the beginning, but my collection goes back to Number 4: Autumn of 1991. That was before the RT was born. You know I’m not the only one who keeps them, right? It’s kind of the same for those who save National Geographic. Every time I decide I’m going to throw them out, I just don’t get around to it. Or can’t bring myself to do it. Anguish at the thought. I have given some to my middle son for school related projects, and he’s *Martha lovers, please cover your eyes…* cut out some of the photos, but he’s returned the magazines. He gets it.I used to watch her old television show, but it’s been years. And I’m not sure why I don’t watch the new one. I could DVR it, but never think about it. Maybe it’s because all those other people are on now, and it isn’t just Martha and her obsessive compulsive drive on the most minute detail I could spend an entire half hour of time fascinated with. Totally.
When I was very young, my idea of a good time *everyone groans and settles in for yet another maudlin trip down morose memory lane* was to go through the Sears catalogue and make lists of furniture I’d purchase for my some day house. I was fascinated with color and texture, with shape and design. The idea of putting it all together perfectly to suit a mood or a personality or lifestyle is like being able to put together a gigantic puzzle. It’s the same with gardening and cooking.
Ironically, I don’t get the same satisfaction performing the same ritual with fashion. It just doesn’t interest me. It never has. *Oh, really, dear? We couldn’t help but notice…* But the clothes in my closet are organized by colors. That counts, don’t you think? *Yes, as a sign of someone with one foot firmly planted in looney land…*
I miss having my head in the world that kept me from going stark-raving mad with stress from work. And I value more than I can ever say, what I’ve learned from digging in and trying new things, and for having family and friends who’ve indulged me my wannabe obsessions.
They’ve graced me with comments of, “Martha Does Live Here,” and I’ve taken them as a compliment, knowing full well, that Martha’s businesses run due to the creativity and drive of an enormous number of very talented people. So I supposed I should say they saved me. But without Martha, they wouldn’t have had the same opportunity.
At this point in life, if I regret anything — any one thing — painfully, it would be that I did not gain my education in a world filled with textiles and color, design and shape. That I did not choose to immerse myself in an environment organized with samples and cuttings, layouts and portfolios. That I chose instead to keep those passions as hobbies or distractions instead of a livelihood. *very, very heavy sigh*
Okay, so that’s more than one. But still.
It’s that time of year, and the first in so very, very long that I will be able to immerse myself in all the what ifs and begin to wonder instead…
…How.
Thanks Martha.
Love,
Kelly
p.s. I’m sorry I don’t even have a Jack-o-lantern on my porch this year. I guess I didn’t rally the guys hard enough. Does it count that we have a few on the dining table with some autumn colored flowers? Just checking.
p.p.s. I’m a NaBloPoMo-Ho (see pink lips above) and that all starts tomorrow. I’m going to focus my writing on letters to people. Which people? Well, you’ll just have to wait and see. If you’re interested, send me some ideas of what you’d like me to blather on about. Or would like to challenge me to write about. Keep it clean, though. Okay?
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Go ahead. Lock me up.
I spent half of yesterday thinking it was today.
Pathetic. Does that mean I’m wishing my life away, that I’m becoming forgetful, or that time flies when I’m having so much fun I can hardly see straight?
I vote for the last one.
So much loveliness.
I could be under house arrest and be thoroughly entertained.
You know.
Like Martha.
She probably loved it.
But I’ll bet her house was shiny.
Organized.
And had labels on shelves.
A crudless keyboard.
But I have an azalea that blooms all year long.
Amazing, isn’t it?
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Macro Views: Avoidance
I have no energy today. No “get up and go.” It all got up and went. I’m not sure what has sucked it out of me, but I’m non-existent. Evaporated.
When I’m like this, I struggle to find humor in anything. I’m flat. Everything feels heavy and in need of microanalysis. Things that shouldn’t matter, matter. I don’t dare read the newspaper or I will find myself sobbing at my inability to help some poor soul in a country whose name I can’t pronounce. When I realize a funk is upon me, it’s too late. I can’t do anything to correct it. I meander. I drift from one task to another, my heart not rising to any worthwhile occasion. I clean up my email in box, filing and deleting. I give a weak effort at collecting a few things from the RT’s room while he’s away for the week, knowing I should thoroughly clean the entire place, but rationalize not doing it because it’s his room. Not mine.
The patio and sunlight are a magnet, and I want to be outside so the soft breeze can soothe me–or distract me from constructive activity. I take hold of my pruners and move from plant to plant, dead heading, snipping the spent blooms to encourage another round. They fall to the flagstones as I cut and scatter around the base of each pot. It’s quiet, contemplative work.
As my eyes focus on minute characteristics of my small garden and its population of tiny insects, my mind works to hone in on what is troubling me, because I know something is.
It’s a game of sorts to decide how easily to acknowledge that I know what it is. Do I admit it to myself? Or do I immerse myself in the possibilities, all the while chastising myself for having anything at all worthwhile to be preoccupied with.
My camera usually comes out because it’s a good excuse to play with the macro setting which often finds objects I can’t see — even with my glasses on.
Some of what I find is lovely, even though few would admit to thinking a bug is beautiful. What I see in the images sparks a bit of wonder, curiosity, and effectively deters me from thinking about myself and whatever was on my mind.
I could use this time to sort through what’s troubling me, but I don’t have to. There isn’t a deadline, no one is waiting, and nothing will happen if I fail to pinpoint the annoyance. If I acknowledge what’s bothering me, I may have to rise to the occasion and take care of it. I don’t want to take care of it. My “Take Care of It” window is closed. I’m only now realizing that it may not ever open again and that I’ll just crouch behind the counter in the dark, waiting quietly for whomever knocks to go away.
Because I have to immediately see what I’ve aimed my tiny Canon at, I end up back at my monitor loading and examining the images. I turn up the volume on one of my play lists and begin my writing, thinking…and avoidance. Fiona Apple or Liz Story’s Night Sky Essays and “Valse d’Amelie” are perfect accompaniments to my thoughts, but today, they’re only encouraging my dreary mood. As is Elton John’s “Belfast.”
I’m a laborious writer. I don’t have difficulty deciding what to write, or being motivated to write. I edit as I write, then review paragraphs and the entire text many, many times. I rarely write in a free thinking manner. Every comma, sentence fragment, run on, ellipsis or series of dashed phrases are thought about. Mulled over. Ridiculously.
The editing works wonders today because time passes, the songs on the play list change, and my sadness has shifted into an edgy kind of irritability. I’m annoyed. At least I’ll get something done now.
Hell, even the insects on the patio are being productive.
I’m lower on the food chain than a bug, not getting anything done.
But I’ll be out in that ocean today at 5PM, burning calories, and working my sore muscles, pretending like I want to have a different body than I do. One that I didn’t want when I had it. One that I didn’t want anyone to notice. Ever.
We’re supposed to want that, right?
Thinness.
Is that one of the rules?
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Comfort Food and Snail Orgies
He arrived home last night in good spirits after a few days of reciprocity with his cousin, microscopic military figurines in hand, battle rule books, and two bags of stiff, muddy clothes which were casualties of a serious paint ball massacre at the OK Corral. I got to hear about the whole thing.
“No blind firing or the ref will nail you, and there were these sissies hiding behind the church.”
I had to ask him about “the sissies” because I haven’t heard him use this particular word before.
“Because they were all huddled together acting all Wah. Yah know?” he answered.
“But how old were they?” I continued, thinking it was probably the first time they were out playing paint ball, and know that it really hurts to get hit by those gelatinous globs, so don’t blame the sissies.
“Like my age,” he tells me with a look of “old enough to not be afraid of getting hit with paint balls.”
Well okay. Actually, I’m thinking that nerd-like closet commandos are a force to be reckoned with, and the sissies were expecting G.I. Joe instead.
To put the finishing touch on his soon to be over Spring Break, the RT cooked dinner for the Master of the House, who dragged himself in from the tax mines at about 9:00 last night. The menu? Kraft macaroni and cheese with sliced weenies served in big plastic bowls. Mmm…
“What do you call it? You know,” the MoH mumbled between shovel fulls.
“Comfort food?” I supplied.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he said, scraping up the last pieces, spoon clacking against the microwave scorched bowl. I thought about the notion of comfort food and pictured that it was more like Baked Ziti with Meatballs, or Cornish Hens stuffed with Wild Rice, but clearly, I am wrong. They went to bed with their bellies full and sappy smiles on their faces.
Life is good.
But not for the snails and sadly, it’s their kind of day today. That’s because I finally bought some snail candy. I figured they needed a treat after they murdered all but two of the coleus I planted. Perhaps you remember the ones it took so long for me to plant.
Going, going…GONE! I busted all of those carry-your-house-on-your-back slime bags yesterday after I found their hiding place. They were down between all the leaves, close to the water having a big party–17 of them!
Yes, I absolutely know that if I’m going to put defenseless plants in the ground, that I better put some snail food down, too. But it’s so tiresome knowing things and sometimes, you just want to give all the rules the big fat finger. It’s so freeing, don’t you think? But the glee is fleeting, because, well, your plants are gone and you’re left standing in your yard with your big fat finger in the air and an even bigger sign around your neck that states, “LOSER.” Your baby plants are down to the nubbins’ or worse–not even there.
So today, the Sluggo is gone, and so are the snails. They took their food and left to die in the dark moist cracks of my neighbors’ yards. Hopefully, they went to snail heaven with sappy smiles on their faces, too.
Wait. Do snails have faces?
Well if they did, they don’t now. And don’t even go thinking they’re cute, either.
Are they even on the food chain? I mean, come on.
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Grey days and Flying Snails
I’d forgotten how peaceful it is on grey days in Paradise. I used to love this weather when I was working because it was cool, and I could wear sweaters and jackets that helped me dupe myself into thinking I looked thin, or perhaps, thinner. Warm, sunny days meant no jacket and blouses whose buttons bulged at the bust or trouser waistbands that cut in painfully at the waist, revealing a rather unnatural indentation through any knit top I wore, more noticeable from the rear than from the front. I won’t discuss exposed arms protruding from sleeveless shells. Yes, grey days have their merit.
But it has been extremely grey for days now, causing me to think about all the perky people in the world who thrive on sunshine. I’m beginning to see why they enjoy it now that I don’t have to wear anything but pajamas, sweats, and yoga pants. I’ve thought about all the college kids who come here for spring break to relax and party, and know they’re probably fairly pissed off about all this June Gloom business in March.
Even though my only intention in going outside this morning was to gather up the brown cuttings I had left in piles a week ago, I soon found myself reaching through the plants with the hand rake to straighten things up a bit. I love doing that. It’s so satisfying making all that dirt look so clean, but there’s a drawback when you are supposed to be “cleaning up.” The patio was again covered with brown, moist leaves, spent blooms, and snails that had been dragged from their hiding places and were now helter-skelter making a run for it. One by one, I hijacked the slimy plant wreckers in mid-flight and threw them over the wall where, at some point, a car would put them out of their cracked misery. Exactly what part of the food chain are they anyway unless someone like me exposes their soft, mushy parts to organisms looking for a snack? One of these days, some unfortunate walker is going to get whacked in the head and I’m going to have to run and hide.
I could hear the woman next door, upstairs on the phone. From her vantage point, I knew she could see everything on my patio and was probably thinking I was nuts raking in the mud in my pajamas and chucking snails in the road. She has gardeners that do her patio. Thank goodness the RT scooped the poop yesterday. Ever the cool one when I’ve been caught, I paused to take hold of my coffee and acted like I was sizing up the situation (which was sort of true because I still haven’t planted those flowers I bought on Saturday). I moved toward the door so I could slink back in the house, leaving yet another mess outside to turn brown waiting to be picked up next week. Such a tiresome cycle of inefficiency. But as I made it inside, I saw my new pair of Fiskars sitting near the door, and knew I’d have to go back out again. What difference did it make anyway? I’d already gotten rid of all the snails and it wasn’t like I was slinging dog turds.
The Fiskars were a vast improvement on the pruners I’d been using for the past year. But that’s usually the case when you are in the habit of leaving them outside to get rusty each year and then throw them away. Unruly vines of honeysuckle, woody begonia stems, and dead lavender sprigs soon joined the mess scattered across the flagstones, but things quickly began to look better. A dove called mournfully nearby, most likely waiting for me to go back in the house so she could drink from the fountain. Nearly finished, I scraped and swept the pungent cuttings into a large black bag and tied it off to take to the trash.
I’m waiting for the day that I see a neighbor peering through their blinds to wonder what it is I carry out from such a small garden in those huge, plastic bags.