If, on the way home from a blind date, your date says something along the lines of “I think the thing that makes you MOST attractive is your proficient vocabulary”–the same year as a conversation similar to this–it may be time to work on your beauty regiment.
In addition to, you know – the usual – I’ve been working here and there in the garden. Here are a few snippets from green side …
Annoying sorts. I have long maintained that garden centers are a good place to be, for gardeners are a happy lot. Except perhaps when you’re in a hurry. The other day, for instance, I ran in to purchase some rose food and potting soil. That’s all I needed. Two things. Unbeknownst to me, however, it would take me 45 minutes to check-out. Forty. Five. First off, the woman in front of me insisted on buying ten stones – of which they could not find the proper five-digit number. Four people and a half an hour later, they were victorious. For my turn, I was informed the potting soil was outside; I needed only to pay, pull in back, and put said soil in the trunk. Well I paid, got in my car, drove over to where the potting soil was suppose to be, and it was nowhere to be found. I reparked. Got out of the car, grabbed a cart, wheeled it to the back of the garden center, only to find an empty shelf where my potting soil should have been. So I threw the closest in price onto the cart, wheeled it back to the cashier, where I was promptly informed that I would need to go inside to customer service for any sort of cash back. At that point, what was a dollar? To end it all, on the way out some old lady whacked the side of my cart, “We’ll just following this one out and take her cart when she’s done.” Suddenly, I knew what Alice must have felt like when the flowers turned on her …
Dill-thief. Each year we purchase a new herb for our herb garden. This year we opted for dill. I mean, how much fun would that be? Fresh dill! We finally got it planted. It seemed happy in it’s new home, surrounded by rosmary, sage, and thyme. All was good. Until Tuesday night. Tuesday night some rodant got a hankering for dill. It ate our whole plant – right down to nubs. Wretched varmet!
Evil feline. Speaking of wretched varmets, I’m currently watering flowers for my aunt and uncle while they are on vacation. I’m also feeding their cat. Their cat is evil – as in the fru-its of the de-vil. I know this. And I usually steer clear. But she seemed so pitiful yesterday. She looked so little in that big house all by her lonesome. So when she came up to be and rubbed around my legs, I gave her pets. She purred, rubbed around my fingers for more. Then – out of nowhere – she grabbed my hand, bit it, and hissed. Like any rational adult, I simply walked away, leaving her to her snit … then, when she was sitting in the screened porch, watching me water the flowers, I sprayed her a good one. It’s probably not right the glee that filled my heart … but, as we all know, it is the little things …
I dreamt about my grampa last night. I guess it only fitting, being memorial day weekend and all.
My grandpa died in 1992; I still miss him.
He was the type of person who would go back and tell the chef he loved the meal–just to let him know.
He was big on family. More often than not you could find him behind a camera or camcorder, making memories; we were always in front, shooing him way.
He made his own wine; some of which was really, really bad. He’d just shrug and laugh and try again the next year.
He was a complete and total nut–much to the exasperation of my grandmother. We still relive some of his better schticks; they still make us laugh.
He was a gentleman. He did not believe in crossing lines, taking over, or pretending to know it all. I still remember him sitting me down–not long before he died–and telling me, for my sake, to forgive my father. He went on to say he believed I would, in my own time. He didn’t scold, or talk down.
He loved adventure. I love the black and white photo of a young man, in leather chaps, standing next to his prized Indian. Of course, he seemed just as happy driving a boat of a Buick cross country to visit family.
He was a hard worker. While many of us would rejoice in any reason to get out of work, he continued even when cancer had taken over. He worked until he simply could not work any longer.
When he died, his hospice nurse asked to sing at his funeral. She sang–a little shrill and a little off-key–“The Wind Beneath my Wings.” The funeral home was beyond capacity. Grown men, dressed in military finery, stood in back, wiping away tears. The man who usually played taps at the graveside had to bow out; he wouldn’t be able to get through it, he said. Not for Vern.
Anyone who knew my grandpa could understand. None of us quite wanted to admit lights out for a man such as he.
He touched lives wherever he went–with concern in those baby blues, with that ornery smile, with a quiet dignity.
Often times I think it highly unfair he was taken so soon. He never got to know the spouses of his grandkids; he never got to know his great-grands–including the one who is his splitting image or the one named in his honor. Nor will they get to know him.
I guess it’s up to those of us who did know him, to be a mirror.
Maybe that’s what memorial day is all about. Thinking of all those who have come into our lives and left a footprint that will never fade. We know the traits that have touched our own lives. What better memorial than turning around and passing them on …
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Aaaaah, today is a good day – if for no other reason that on this day, in 1830, a man by the name of H.D. Hyde patented a little thing called the fountain pen. The mere thought of that particular writing utensil makes me a verklempt … let us take a moment …
There’s just something about writing with a fountain pen that is exilerating. Today’s pens are a bit more dependable; they’re less likely to explode – which is always a plus. Ink barrels may serve a hinderance – especially for those like me who are accident prone. Still, an ink smudge or two on my fingers is more good than bad. Suddenly, like writers of old, I bear the mark of my trade on my very being. Even if you don’t consider yourself a writer, you just may change your mind after writing a few lines with such a splendid instrument …